A few days after each minder had talked in secret with John, they confirmed that their families had received an initial transfer of £1,000 for ‘goodwill’. Only then did John tell them what he expected in return.
John’s style was different. It was his manner, the polite way in which he talked to them and treated them with respect that ultimately won them over. Poulson respected no one, and won no one’s respect. They merely feared and hated him. John never raised his voice and he was a good listener. He kept a low profile towards the prison officers, who regarded him as someone who would never cause them trouble.
Initially David tried to talk him out of challenging Poulson’s supremacy. He was, John had swiftly realised, ideal second‑in‑command material. The army had taught David discipline, caution and pride in a job well done. But he was no initiator of daring plans. John, on the other hand, was.
‘I want you to keep everyone calm after I’ve gone in, no matter what happens,’ he instructed David before he went to the meet in Poulson’s cell. The minders let him in.
‘I’d like to talk to you in private,’ he said to Poulson, who sat smoking in a smuggled in armchair.
‘Sure.’ He waved his hand and the minders left the cell, shutting the door behind them. ‘Is this about Jackson’s job?’
‘No,’ John said. ‘I won’t be taking it. In fact I think the time has come for you to ask for a transfer from Reading. I think you should say there has recently been a serious threat to your safety.’
Poulson looked at him, frowning. ‘What are you on about? No one threatens me.’ He obviously did not understand.
Unruffled John sat down opposite him. ‘But they do. I am. Now do as I say and your family will receive two grand within a few days. If you don’t, you’ll have both your former minders and my men to deal with. You must understand, we all want you out of this prison. Now.’
John rose and opened the door. Outside were the three minders and four of John’s own hand picked men. Behind them were many more prisoners assembled by David as a show of strength. John closed the door.
‘So what’s it going to be? Take my advice and go to the Governor now, this minute, and ask for a transfer or I swear you’ll be carried out within the next twenty‑four hours. You can’t survive here with all of us against you. Come on – decide. The screws will be here soon.’
Poulson’s face was livid with rage. He lunged clumsily at John and got hold of his shirt, trying to get his hands round his throat. John didn’t hesitate. He knew that standing up to Poulson in this encounter was crucial to his assuming prominence in the prison. This was no innocent victim for whom he need to feel pity but a hardened killer who would claim him as another victim given the chance.
He palmed the specially sharpened ten‑inch knitting needle he had concealed up his sleeve into Poulson’s side, aiming for the liver.
Poulson screamed, let go of John and pressed both hands to his ribs. John calmly retrieved the needle, pulled the handmade handle off and threw both out of the window.
When the Governor arrived on the scene, ten minutes later, John was already back in his cell and order had been restored. Poulson was rushed to a civilian hospital, where he remained for two weeks before being transferred to Wandsworth.
John was henceforth undisputed boss of the prison. He was popular, respected and also feared.
The prison regime changed after John had taken over. There was seldom any trouble as a quiet word from one of his men would sort out the most hardened criminal. Occasionally they would have to use threats or force to back up John’s authority, but this was part of prison life to ensure their own survival.
Three young robbers were the first to challenge John’s position. They arrived wearing similar jeans, denim jackets and white sports shoes, and the noise they made was horrendous. They played their radios as loudly as possible and used constant bad language. Eventually, when polite requests to them to mend their ways had been ineffective, John called them to his cell. They swaggered in.
‘I just wanted a quiet word with you.’ He lay on his bed, looking up at them. ‘Just to say I think you’re obnoxious and loudmouthed. You’re upsetting the smooth‑running of the whole place.’
‘That’s your problem, mate,’ the ringleader sneered. ‘Who are you, anyway? Just another old lag like the rest of them.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ John said calmly. ‘And remember, there are only three of you and there are hundreds of old lags, as you call us, who’ve had enough. Regard this as your last warning.’
The ringleader stood over him. ‘You threatening us?’
John felt that the situation could get out of hand. He swung his legs off the bed and sat up.
‘Yes. Next time there’s the least problem, I can guarantee you’ll have me to deal with. Look outside the door.’
One of them opened the cell door and saw six men standing glaring threateningly at them.
The youth who seemed to be in charge jumped, putting his shoulder to the door. It locked automatically.
‘I think it’s you who have us to deal with now, pop,’ one of them said. ‘We’ll see who’s in charge of this prison, you old fart.’
Getting up from the bed, John was hit hard in the stomach. Bending forward in pain, he was hit by a fist in his face. When he was on the floor they kicked him continuously. He tried to cover his face, only to be hurt by further kicks. Finally he tasted blood.
The door was flung open by a prison officer. ‘What’s going on here? Are you all right?’ he asked John.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he said, holding one hand to his bruised face. ‘I fell and my friends helped me.’
The officer understood that he wanted to deal with the situation himself and walked away.
‘Don’t touch them,’ John said to the men outside his cell. ‘Let them go.’
They troublemakers swaggered out of the cell and down the landing shouting abuse. They knew the news would spread like wild fire through the prison. If nothing else they would have gained respect. No one would dare boss them around now.
At six o’clock the next morning, music blasted out of their cell, louder than before.
John had instructed three of his men, whom he had picked for their complete loyalty to him, to do what he wanted.
He looked at his watch then lay back on his bunk and started to read a newspaper.
When the queue for breakfast was at its longest, the men in line heard a penetrating scream from the third floor landing. All heads turned upward. Something small and oozing blood plopped on to the floor at the front of the queue.
At first there was total silence in the whole wing, a commotion started as the men jostled forward to look; then they fell back, one vomiting , others near to fainting with disgust and fear.
Whistles blew. The siren was switched on. Warders from all the other wings came rushing in and locked the connecting doors. The officers started hurriedly ushering the prisoners back to their cells, slamming and locking every cell door.
The severed penis was scooped up with a dustpan and dropped into a white plastic bucket. Shortly afterwards an ambulance, sirens blaring, was speeding out of the prison gates.
* * *
Once he had established control again over the prison’s inhabitants, John acquired lists of cons who could be useful to him. He also obtained as much information as he could on cannabis, the prices it fetched and its possible sources. In the library, where he had a coveted job, he copied maps of Scotland, Wales, Cornwall and south‑west England.
He learned what sort of building was suitable for the storage of unprocessed hemp; studied its legal importation when used for ropemaking, then realised this was not the same variety used in the manufacture of narcotics. For a while he considered growing a strain of Moroccan hemp in a remote area of Wales, but the climate wasn’t right and the scope for expansion limited.
Working on another idea, he studied the strength, durability and buoyancy of various pl
astics and sent off for information about all sorts of electronic equipment. He found all this so fascinating that for months he did nothing but research.
When he had two months left to serve, he decided to start recruiting. His first task was to appoint an operation’s man. He needed a person he could trust, who also had management skills and was used to handling a team.
Former Captain Kennedy was the obvious man. ‘What’s in it for me?’ his cell mate asked.
A thirty grand tax‑free salary, a car and every reasonable expense paid, plus a share in the profits, in common with every other member of our team.’
David was shocked by the amount offered, but stayed straight‑backed and poker‑faced. ‘Have you thought about the competition in this line of business?’
John nodded. ‘Up till now the market has been totally dominated by drug users. Those who buy more than they use themselves turn into dealers. From these some larger organisations have evolved, but none run along the lines I’ve outlined. If we can ensure a regular supply at the right price, we should be able to operate without any problem. Organised crime in Britain hasn’t shown any interest in drugs – yet. If we get in on the ground floor now, we’ll clean up. The worst scenario would be the legalisation of soft drugs, but that isn’t likely.’
David hesitated, torn between his scruples and the lure of easy money. ‘How much say will I have in the daily running?’
‘If you do something I don’t agree with, I’ll let you know and we’ll discuss it. Otherwise, a free hand. We’ll choose the rest of the team together.’
The two men looked at each other in silence. They had built up a mutual respect over the months they had shared a cell, although David still did not know John’s real identity. John decided the time had come to reveal it and the source of his founding. David listened carefully.
‘I understand,’ David said slowly. ‘But I have no job prospects. I crave responsibility and I need money. What more can I say? I accept your offer.’
* * *
A list of the names and addresses of likely candidates for the hemp‑smuggling scheme, selected by John and David, was delivered to Arthur Black. He checked them all out and reported back to John, via the ex‑prisoner, that everybody on the list was kosher. John and David then set up meetings with each of the candidates.
David requested William Webster for his personal assistant, to which John had no objection. Webster was twenty‑five years old and had a business management degree from the London School of Economics. The other prisoners called him ‘Brains’ because of his similarity to the Thunderbird puppet. His ambitious scheme for an investment fund had failed spectacularly. Webster had been declared criminally bankrupt and sentenced to four years.
John wanted Ray Immerman to join the team. Chairman of his own insurance company, he was in prison for having defrauded thousands of investors. He was a big man of fifty, who managed to weigh in at more than twenty‑two stone even on prison food. His huge frame, coupled with his white hair and neat beard, created the impression of a solid, trustworthy man.
The next man chosen was Shastri, an Indian who had turned to crime very young, specialising in forged passports for which there was a great demand among his and the Pakistani community. His three‑year sentence had shamed his parents, and his wife had divorced him. His sister Ramona, a few years older than him, was apparently an unusual and influential woman. She had been involved in the passport business but was never brought to court as Shastri had taken full responsibility. They worked as a team. Shastri agreed to join John if a place could also be found for Ramona.
Francis Morell was one of the most popular inmates at Reading, always first with a joke to break down any tension. He arranged concerts and shows with an enthusiasm which never flagged, even if these events never attracted a wide audience. He was tall, strongly built and good looking, advantages which should have ensured him a successful life. But he had been imprisoned three times for theft.
Six others younger men were also selected from among the ex‑student, drug using community. They would be familiar with the scene on the street and would speak the language.
All were up for release before Friday, 30th July, the day of John’s own release. He told them they would be contacted soon after this. Until then each of them would receive £100 a week from their date of release. If they told anyone about this arrangement, there would be serious repercussions.
* * *
At last the day of release arrived for John. All in all he considered his prison term a worthwhile experience and a triumph of foresight and planning. He had done his time; the time had not done him.
Catherine was waiting in her yellow Sunbeam Alpine outside the prison. It had rained all night but now the sun was shining. John came out wearing a blue denim shirt and matching jeans and carrying his belongings in brown parcels like other prisoners being released at the same time.
She glanced in the rear‑view mirror. It was too late to do anything about her looks, she thought, but wished now she had not gained even more weight while she brooded endlessly over their separation. As he came up to her, she got swiftly out of the car. They kissed awkwardly, their first contact in months.
‘Let me drive,’ John said after a moment. ‘See if I can remember how.’ He climbed into the driver’s seat and then took her hands. ‘I’m glad you’re here. It’s wonderful to see you again.’
‘For me too. I still love you so much. Despite everything.’
They talked very little on the drive home, although he never let go of her hand, trapping it beneath his on the leather‑covered steering wheel. Catherine cried quietly, so happy to be reunited with him.
When they entered Doles Wood, near Salisbury, he stopped the car. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’
The grass was still wet underfoot as they walked into the trees. In the green darkness, so fresh and sweet‑smelling after the stale prison air, John stopped, took her in his arms and kissed her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth. Catherine was confused; this was not what she had anticipated. She had made everything ready in the bedroom, vases of flowers and champagne waiting in the fridge. She wanted to tell him this, but he was past listening.
She felt his hands on her breasts then moving up and down her back, pressing her urgently against him. Then he gripped her hips harshly with both hands. She tried to relax but he was squeezing her so hard that it hurt. He sank to his knees and lifted her skirt, tucking it neatly into her belt. Slowly he peeled off her panties, rolling them lingeringly over her thighs as if he had all the time in the world. She stepped out of them, having no choice, but feeling tense and embarrassed at being exposed like this so close to the road. He kissed her inner thighs, stopping for a moment to smell her. Then she felt his tongue between her legs. Her belly and breasts became firm with tension. She grabbed handfuls of his hair, closed her eyes and started to tremble as an orgasm shuddered through her. John’s tongue kept searching and several smaller climaxes were wrenched from her. Finally his hand touched her while he licked her wet inner thigh.
After what seemed an eternity, he rose and kissed her open mouth. She could feel how large and hard he was through his jeans.
Gently he pushed her down on the wet grass and rolled on top of her. She cried out when he entered her and threw back her head. His movements were slow but forceful. He came with a great shudder which slowly ceased.
They lay still for a long time. She didn’t care any more if someone walked down the road and saw them, her with her skirt round her waist and John with his jeans round his ankles.
‘You look incredibly beautiful, like a full‑blown rose after rain,’ he said, raising himself on one elbow and looking down on her. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
‘Then promise you’ll become a normal respectable businessman?’
Slowly he rolled off her and lay on his back. He stretched his arms over his head.
‘Funny you should say that,’ he answered her lazily, ‘that’s ex
actly what I plan to do!’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
_________________________
Holte, Denmark, Monday, 30th September 1968
‘Erick, I have an urgent message for you,’ his secretary whispered in his ear one morning when he was in the middle of a sales debriefing with his area managers.
‘Can’t it wait?’ he asked, irritated at being interrupted.
‘No way!’ his secretary hissed. ‘Absolutely not.’
He excused himself and followed his secretary into the corridor.
‘Whatever is it? Couldn’t it have waited half an hour?’
‘Per Densby wants to talk to you,’ the secretary said triumphantly. ‘He’s actually sitting in your office right now.’
In his impatience, it took Erick a few seconds to realise exactly who she was talking about. Then it registered. Per Densby Chairman of the Danish Stock Exchange and also the owner of the largest stockbroking firm in Denmark.
‘How long has he been waiting? Have you given him coffee?’ Erick hotfooted it towards his office then stopped. ‘But are you sure he wants me? Not Aage Madsen or Jan?’
‘He was adamant. It had to be you.’
Per Densby, a small, portly man in his early‑sixties, was sitting in front of Erick’s desk, drinking his coffee. He rose as Erick entered.
‘I hope I haven’t interrupted anything important,’ he said courteously, ‘but as I live fifteen minutes from here, I thought I might catch you before the start of business. I didn’t know how early that was!’
Erick shook hands and indicated to Densby to resume his seat. ‘You are most welcome.’
Per Densby clasped his hands and leaned forward, suddenly businesslike. ‘Mr Elgberg, what I am going to tell you must remain our secret until we know if it can be taken further. I feel, after having investigated both you and your company, that you will give me an honest answer.’