*
The media circus stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The Old Bailey trial judge deferred any decision regarding the estreatment of the bail sureties. I might have been abducted, he said, and therefore could not be termed an absconder. My main duty was to ensure that my family knew for certain that I was unharmed. Dai was not keen on my using his telephone for any purpose, and I assumed that most of my family’s telephones were tapped as a result of the nation-wide search for me. Through circuitous and complex manoeuvres involving conversations with my sister in Wales, I was able to have clandestine meetings with Rosie, Myfanwy, and my parents while I continued perfecting my disguise. After about two months, I looked very different and felt no fear walking the streets. Each morning, I would buy a few newspapers and have a coffee at a dock-workers’ café. One hot early July morning, I was at the newsagent’s and saw a Daily Mirror front-page headline, THE LONG SILENCE OF MR MYSTERY. Underneath was a photograph of me. I bought a copy. The report stated that Thames Valley Police had called off the search for me and that my disappearance had been the subject of discussion in the Houses of Parliament. Another blaze of publicity followed in the Daily Mirror’s wake.
‘You need another name and more disguise,’ said Dai. ‘Everyone’s talking about you on the Tube. I’m not calling you Howard any more. And I’m not calling you Mr Mystery either.’
‘Call me Albi,’ I said, partly in deference to my old friend Albert Hancock and partly because it was an anagram of bail.
‘All right,’ said Dai. ‘Why don’t you get yourself a pair of glasses?’
‘From whom?’
‘I think they’re called opticians, Albi.’
‘But there’s nothing wrong with my eyes, Dai. They won’t give me a pair.’
‘You walk into a dentist; he’ll say you’ve got bad teeth. You walk into an optician, and he’ll say you need glasses. That’s the way they make money. Anyway, I read the other day that the stuff you keep smoking causes long sight. Why don’t you smoke a load and go to an optician?’
Dai had probably read one of those absurd scare stories of marijuana causing just about everything from sterility to nymphomania. But there might be something to it. I knew marijuana had some effect on intraocular pressure. I smoked several joints and had my eyes tested. I needed glasses, and a special pair was made. They dramatically changed my appearance, but made things rather blurry, except when I was stoned.
Intermittent press speculation on my whereabouts continued for over a month. The FBI feared for my life. A West Country man, of whom I’d never heard, confessed to murdering me and burying me beneath a motorway bridge near Bristol.
‘You’ll have to go, Albi. This is driving me, Jane, and Sian nuts.’
‘Okay, Dai. I’m sorry. I never thought I’d be staying here this long, and I never thought all this madness would happen.’
‘Why don’t you leave the country?’
‘I haven’t got a passport, Dai. I don’t know where to start.’
‘Take mine.’
Normally, Dai and I looked a bit like each other. We were tall, dark, blue-eyed, clean-shaven, and heavily featured. Now, with my moustache and stoned glasses, we didn’t, but the photograph could easily be changed; the Foreign and Commonwealth Office embossed stamp covered just a minute part of the corner. Its absence on the replacement photograph would not be noticed. Dai gave me his driving licence as well. He was anxious that nothing hold me up.
I decided to go to Italy. There were two main reasons. A large Winnebago motorised caravan lay in a camping site in Genova. I had bought it a year previously for Eric to use, had he landed the Lebanese in Italy rather than made it available to Greek sponge fishermen. Living in it appealed to me. Also, my sister was about to start a teaching course in Padova, so I had an easy way of keeping in touch with the family. Apart from the Winnebago, my assets were about £5,000 cash. Everything else had gone. While I was on bail, Ernie had sent someone to Amsterdam to try to get the $100,000 and the Peter Hughes passport from the safedeposit box in Algemene Bank Nederland, but the cupboard was bare. The authorities had got there first. The guy Ernie had sent, Burton Moldese, apparently had some Los Angeles Mafia connections, and I’m sure that this is what gave rise to the Daily Mirror’s Mafia theory. Ernie would lend me some money, I was sure, particularly if, as seemed increasingly likely, there would be no estreatment of bail sureties. I had a mailing address for Ernie, but was unsure how he would have reacted to all the weird publicity. I’d contact him when everything was settled.
Remembering McCann’s advice, I didn’t fly directly to Italy. I took a ferry to Denmark and caught a flight from Copenhagen to Genova. The passport stood up. The Winnebago started first time, and I cruised around the camping sites of the Italian Riviera. I stopped wearing my glasses and began a period of debauched promiscuity, driving up and down Italian roads picking up female hitchhikers. The Winnebago had a kitchen, sitting room, shower, loud stereo, and comfortably slept six. I would usually pick up just one hitch-hiker, but occasionally as many as fifteen or sixteen. From Como to Napoli, the autostradas became my home. I had to pay for petrol, but dope, sex, food, and drink seemed to be free.
Rosie brought out Myfanwy to see me for a couple of weeks. They had now sold the Yarnton cottage and, together with Julian Peto and his family, had bought a large house at Northleigh, outside Oxford. I kept in touch with Rosie through Fanny Hill. In September, I called Rosie at Fanny’s and mentioned that my parents were hoping to come out to see me. It later emerged that this conversation had been overheard on another extension by Raymond Carr, Master of St Anthony’s College, who was still having an affair with Fanny. It is not certain that Raymond Carr passed on this information to the authorities, but it is likely. My parents did come out and shared with my sister and me a two-week holiday touring Northern Italy in the Winnebago.
After they left, I hung around at a camp site in Padova. My sister came to see me in a panic. The Daily Mirror were trying to interview her. They knew I was in Italy and knew my parents had been to see me. I had to assume the authorities also knew. Where could I go now? I had almost no money. The police would not be looking for me in England. That would be the last place they’d expect to find me, and there I could find at least a floor to sleep on.
On October 28th, 1974, I drove the Winnebago to the Genova campsite I had collected it from three months earlier. I put yet another photograph in Dai’s passport and booked a seat on a British Caledonian flight to Gatwick.
On arrival at Genova airport, I had several glasses of grappa before passing uneventfully through the passport check, and settled down to some serious drinking in the departure lounge. At the duty-free shop, I bought some cigarettes and a few bottles of sambuca negra. During the flight I ordered several more drinks and even began drinking from the sambuca negra bottles. Newspapers were distributed, and I took a copy of the Daily Mirror. On the front page was a photograph of me under a blazing headline HE’S ALIVE. The article was several pages long and stated that Mr Mystery was living as a guest of the Mafia in Padova. Mr Mystery’s hideout was known only to the Mafia and my sister. Mr Mystery was living undercover as a student, shielded and protected by Mafia gangsters. The aeroplane was full of people reading this exclusive. Ably assisted by the sambuca negra, I was again losing touch with reality. By the time we disembarked, I was giggling uncontrollably and cannot even remember any confrontation with Immigration or Customs. I followed the passengers through to Gatwick railway station and got on a train to Victoria. I was still drinking sambuca negra when the train arrived. I took a Tube to Paddington and, following my drunken homing instinct, took a train to Oxford, arriving about 9 p.m. I walked from Oxford railway station to the police station in St Aldate’s. When I got there I was extremely confused. I could not bring myself to believe that the last six months had actually happened. I wanted to rewind my life back to when I was signing on for bail in Oxford. I had understood everything until then. A policeman walked out of
the station. I asked him how I could get a bus to Northleigh. He said it was too late. I would have to take a taxi. I went into a telephone box to call Rosie at Northleigh. No reply. I walked to Leckford Road, where I had last been seen by the sane world. The pub around the corner, the Victoria Arms, one that I and friends of mine had often frequented, was still there. I walked in. There was a deathly silence. Almost everyone recognised me. Julian Peto was there and exploded into helpless laughter. I asked where Rosie was. She and Myfanwy were at a party, to which he was now going himself. Rosie and Myfanwy had left by the time we arrived. I drank some punch and smoked some joints. Julian and I drove to Northleigh. Rosie was in a state of shock. Chief Superintendent Philip Fairweather of the Thames Valley Police, the man in charge of investigating my disappearance, had just left. Rosie put me to bed. The next morning’s news reported that Mohammed Ali had regained the world heavyweight championship from George Foreman and that an Old Bailey judge had decided not to forfeit any money from those who had stood bail for me, despite the police’s knowing my whereabouts in Italy. Police inquiries were at an end. It was not in the ‘public interest’ to disclose where I was. But I was alive. At least I had stopped being a dead spy.
Judy Lane, now all of nineteen, was paying a social visit to Northleigh. We hadn’t forgotten each other, and I did not have to be persuaded to accept her kind offer of accommodation at her flat in Brighton. Judy had five brothers and sisters. At that point, I had only met Patrick, who for the last year had been living in self-imposed exile in the Dordogne, growing snails. Judy’s mother had recently died from cancer, and her father had a new young girl-friend. All her brothers and sisters lived away from home or in boarding-school. The former family flat in Brighton was at Judy’s disposal. Judy and I have been together ever since.
Again, the media furore died as quickly as it had begun. I felt safe in Judy’s flat, and I began to contact old business friends including Johnny Martin, Anthony Woodhead, and Jarvis. With their help, I managed to sell the Winnebago and procure the release of the few thousand pounds I had deposited in the Swiss Bank Corporation the year before. I wrote to Ernie giving him Judy’s phone number. The telephone rang in the middle of the night.
‘Albi, it’s for you,’ said Judy.
‘How you doin’? I thought you’d disappeared on me for good. So what’s been happening? What you been doing?’
‘Sorry, Ernie. With all the reports in the press about me, I thought you wouldn’t want to know.’
‘I never saw any of that. You’d be small fry here. Look, my girl-friend, Patty, is coming over to see you. She’ll explain what I’ve got together these days. You need some money for living? She’ll have $10,000 for you.’
Anthony Woodhead had procured a London penthouse flat overlooking Regent’s Park at an extremely low rental. I unofficially rented it from him, and Judy and I took up residence there. Patty arrived and gave me Ernie’s particulars and the codes we should use when talking over the phone. Ernie had a connection in New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport who could clear through US Customs any consignment from anywhere, provided it was smell-proof and came in on Alitalia. The fee was 25% of the American wholesale price. Ernie had an old Brotherhood of Eternal Love associate, Robert Crimball, who was able to export Thai sticks from Bangkok. His fee was 35% of the American wholesale price. 40% was available for middlemen. A couple of 1,000-kilo loads had already been successfully imported and sold. Did I know anyone in any dope-producing country other than Thailand who, for some money in advance and lots more afterwards, could export dope by air freight? If so, I could become extremely rich.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime offer, but I didn’t know anyone who could do what was required. I had completely lost touch with Mohammed Durrani, Lebanese Sam, and Lebanese Joe. No one had any ideas except Jarvis. One of his friends had lived in Nepal for seven years. His name was John Denbigh, and he was known as Old John. Jarvis arranged a meeting for the three of us at his flat.
Old John was a very tall, mature, masculine version of Mick Jagger. He was dressed like a Hell’s Angel and adorned with necklaces, chains, beads, amulets, and semi-precious stones. He was a walking bust. But Old John had never smoked a joint, and he bought and repaired stoves to make a living. His words were full of wisdom, but if one stopped concentrating on them for just one second, he seemed incoherent. Otherwise, his wisdom would seem to profoundly by-pass all forms of convention and platitude. Old John’s street sense was second to none; the streets of Fulham had given him that, as well as his accent. He was a keen soccer player and cricketer. His father had been educated at Oxford University. Old John had absolute integrity and honesty. No one could wish for a better, closer, or more trusted friend.
Jarvis rolled joints and made cups of tea. Old John smoked Tom Thumb cigars and drank whisky. We discussed the Welsh and English rugby teams. Wales had just slaughtered England 20–4 at Cardiff Arms Park. After an hour, I managed to bring up Nepal.
‘You must have had an interesting time there, John.’
‘Interesting, yes, and they are superb people, the Nepalese, I promise you.’
‘Do you get many foreigners going there these days?’
‘Well, the thing is there was this Englishman who told me he had nine talents. I told him I just had one: I could throw him out of the window. And he went and painted the outside of his house with religion, and then went to live outside the house. Madness.’
I just about followed that one and took it to mean that Old John had a certain contempt for expatriate communities in the East. I had to get more to the point.
‘Did Customs here give you a hard time when you came back?’
‘Hard? No, not hard. I heard one of them say, “Stop that cunt. I’m going to take him apart,” and he came up to me and said “Excuse me, sir,” and I said, “Sir? No. Don’t call me sir. My name is Cunt. Please call me Cunt.” That dealt with him. Then the other one said, “Can I see your passport?” and I said, “It’s not my passport, it’s yours,” and gave it to him. He asked what I did in Nepal. I told him I was a barman. Vodka and lime. What would you like? He asked if I smoked any funny tobacco. I asked if he meant Kinabis, and he said it didn’t matter. Then I caught a bus to Fulham.’
I had to come straight to the point.
‘Can you send stuff out from Nepal by air, John?’
‘Ooh! No. No. I can’t do anything like that. No. No. No. Now, I know a man. He knows a man who might know.’
‘How much would it cost?’
‘Well, money is the thing, and they always do things for a fair and honest price, I promise you.’
‘What’s a fair price, John?’
‘You will tell me, I’m quite sure.’
‘What will you want out of it, John?’
‘If I help you do business, I’m sure you will give me a drink.’
‘A drink?’
‘Yes. If a man does something for you, you give him a drink. Please, if everything goes well, give me a drink.’
‘Can you check that the quality will be all right?’
‘I only smoke Tom Thumb, but I know a man who has a knife.’
I took this as a yes.
‘Can you make it smell-proof?’
‘Not if God made it smell.’
‘Do you know a man who can?’
‘No. But if you do, let him come and do it, or give me instructions.’
‘How much can they send?’
‘I should think it depends on when you want to do it by.’
‘Well, John, the Americans will want to do a ton as soon as possible.’
‘Now I was in America once, and the thing is that Americans will always want more, and there is no end to their madness. Lovely people, for sure, but you have to keep them in line. When my visa ran out, the Immigration asked me why I wanted to extend it, and I said it was because I hadn’t run out of money. He stamped it and said, “Have a nice day.” So, if the Americans ask for a ton tomorrow, say you will do half a t
on when Wales win the Triple Crown. That will deal with their madness, and everyone can get on with their lives. It saves all that tidding.’
‘Tidding?’
‘Talking Imaginary Deals.’
Accurately conveying the contents of my conversation with Old John to Ernie wasn’t easy. I told Ernie hashish could be exported from Nepal for about the same price as Robert Crimball charged in Bangkok, but 500 kilos was the most they could do at one time, and someone would have to be sent out to ensure the consignment was smell-proof. Ernie sent his right-hand man, Tom Sunde, with money, instructions, and smell-proof know-how. Tom came to London first before going to Kathmandu to meet Old John. He had been authorised by Ernie to keep nothing from me regarding the intricacies of the New York scam.