The Underworld Captain: From Gangland Goodfella To Army Officer

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Captain Alexander Shannon has been a member of HM Armed Forces since 1983. He took part in the Falklands conflict, completed six tours of Northern Ireland and also served in Bosnia. He has risen through the ranks to become a captain and currently works as a Permanent Staff Administration Officer.

  David Leslie has worked for the News of the World since 1970 and has focused on the Glasgow crime scene since 1990. He is also the author of the bestselling Crimelord, about Tam McGraw, as well as The Happy Dust Gang; Mummy, Take Me Home; The Hate Factory and The Gangster’s Wife.

  THE UNDERWORLD CAPTAIN

  FROM GLASGOW GOODFELLA TO ARMY OFFICER

  Captain Alexander Shannon with David Leslie

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licenced or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781845969998

  Version 1.0

  www.mainstreampublishing.com

  Copyright © Alexander Shannon and David Leslie, 2011

  All rights reserved

  The moral rights of the authors have been asserted

  First published in Great Britain in 2011 by

  MAINSTREAM PUBLISHING COMPANY

  (EDINBURGH) LTD

  7 Albany Street

  Edinburgh EH1 3UG

  ISBN 9781845967673

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any other means without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast

  All picture section images courtesy of the authors except where otherwise stated

  The author has made every effort to clear all copyright permissions, but where this has not been possible and amendments are required, the publisher will be pleased to make any necessary arrangements at the earliest opportunity

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  PROLOGUE

  Peering into the night through a late autumn drizzle flecked with the first scattering of snow, the soldier watched and listened.

  In the distance, he could see the dull orange glow of street lamps reflecting on damp roofs. Now and then a harsher light would show as a door was opened, perhaps for a cat to go about its stealthy business. It was the task of the soldier to track details such as that.

  The night-sight glasses that let his eyes wander through windows and into homes were constantly misting over and he was irritated by the necessity to clear them. Even his slightest movement, like drying the glass, could betray him, putting not just his life at risk but also those of his colleagues.

  He focused on a single dwelling huddled among the drab rows. Days ago, he had pointed out to those with him how the angle of its television aerial set it apart from others and had shown how a link in its drainpipe differed from those of neighbouring buildings. What his superiors had ordered him to keep to himself was that the house was the base of a man suspected of being a terrorist killer. The fewer who knew that, the better and safer for all.

  Now and again, he was tempted to steer his sights to the home of a young and buxom brunette who lived three doors to the left and whose bedroom blinds seemed rarely closed. He wondered if his fellow soldiers had at times succumbed to a similar curiosity. Thinking about her drew his mind to his own troubles. A marriage in danger of falling apart. Family members seemingly forever at odds with the police and others who were intent on bringing them violent harm. Friends who had died. And then there was he himself.

  To his credit, he had achieved so much, despite growing up amidst poverty, an unsettled education and long spells in children’s homes. Those from such backgrounds often spent most of their lives in conflict with the better off in society, who wanted to restrict men like the soldier to their own class. Those from humble origins were traditionally allowed a step on the bottom rung of the promotion ladder, but not encouraged to climb. The soldier had taken all this in his stride and had been determined. And he had succeeded.

  Now, the very society that so often despised his kind was depending on him for protection – even the mere ability to walk streets in safety.

  Many just like the soldier had died at the hands of self-styled patriots who shot from darkness, blew up innocent families and funded their evil by milking the fruits of the very trades they purported to despise.

  He realised his mind was beginning to wander.

  Suddenly, he was jerked into awareness. A light shone, a door banged, a dog barked and through the increasingly thick dusting of snowflakes he saw the glow of a cigarette. He was sure his quarry had no inkling of where those who were watching him lay, but at the same time the soldier was careful to mask his movements. After glancing at his watch to check what time the man had appeared, he was almost disappointed to see the cigarette being extinguished and the smoker returning indoors.

  He was certain, though, he had seen his man. Now, he would carry on watching, waiting for his target to disappear on one of his occasional sorties or to welcome late-night visitors. If he moved out, then the soldier would need to get word to others further afield but equally alert.

  For now, he went back to waiting. He could feel the snow brush his blackened face. Somewhere only a foot or two away a rat scurried across a sleeping colleague. The soldier had faced bombs and bullets with near disdain, but a childhood often spent watching rats creep over his own bedding and that of his brothers and sisters had left him with a violent disgust for these rodents that seemed to stalk humans.

  He could hear the gentle breathing of his friends as they contorted their bodies in the tiny, damp space open to the sky and its snowflakes, desperately trying to find the sleep for which they so longed. At least the air would dilute the appalling smell of men encased in an outdoor nest for days.

  Inches to his right, a man whispered a request for the time, but it was hours before the next watch began. Until then, the soldier was alone with his thoughts. He knew he was too disciplined to sleep when it was not his turn to do so, but c
oncentration was often a problem, overcoming the boredom of staring for hours into the unknown.

  His safety and that of the men around him was his responsibility alone and going over and over a checklist in his mind helped keep him on his mental toes, but what all too often caused his thoughts to drift off was the knowledge that the streets he watched, and the men, women and children, animals even, living in them, were a mirror of his own past.

  There were times as he was watching during the day when he felt he knew even the content of conversations held hundreds of metres away. He had never been in any of these homes but was sure he could see the cheap furniture, worn carpets and marked walls. Within those walls, there would be drunken rows, blows, tears, the cries of children, despair.

  He had fought his way out of hopelessness, but as the hours passed he wondered if he was being sucked back. The soldier’s thoughts took him to a place that had been his home and which was forever calling him back, somewhere that held many secrets, his own among them.

  * * *

  Glasgow, the Dear Green Place, sitting astride the River Clyde. A home to heroes and villains: heroes who had shown bravery in arenas the world over, and villains whose deeds had made them heroes in the eyes of some. Sadly, the city’s reputation was too often based on the exploits of those concerned with crime rather than courage.

  Much of the violence so prevalent in Glasgow was blamed on religious differences. The reality was that religion was but a secondary cause – money lay at the heart of most of the trouble, with alcohol a frequent trigger.

  Yet the city had also produced its share of those whose selflessness was beyond challenge. The Highland Light Infantry was the city’s regiment, leaving tales of courage and honour wherever its colours flew. Then the story of the 16th (Service) Battalion (2nd Glasgow), better known as the Boys’ Brigade, Glasgow Battalion, was the stuff of real-life adventure yarns, inspiring many young men to take the King’s shilling. At the Battle of the Ancre during the Somme offensive in November 1916 about 60 soldiers from ‘D’ Company were cut off behind enemy lines and surrounded by hordes of well-armed German troops. All efforts to relieve them failed, but despite suffering a horrific bombardment they refused to surrender. Finally, when enemy troops stormed their trench, they found just fifteen alive, all of them wounded, three of whom would die soon after.

  Countless other acts of bravery had received public recognition. The very first Victoria Cross to be awarded to a soldier went to a Glaswegian, Major John Simpson Knox, who had run away from humble origins and lied about his age to join the Scots Fusilier Guards at the age of only 14. Throughout Glasgow lie the graves of others who have received this highest of honours. Private George Rodgers, of the Highland Light Infantry, won the VC during the Indian Mutiny in 1858. A year earlier Gunner Hugh McInnes had joined the illustrious ranks of its recipients at the Relief of Lucknow. His remains are in St Peter’s RC Cemetery on London Road. Private John McDermond was another VC winner during the Crimea. Like so many others, he came from humble beginnings and when he died his grave remained unmarked in Paisley. The soldier had often wandered into St Kentigerns unaware he was passing within feet of the grave of Sergeant Robert Downie, formally recognised for his courage at the Somme in 1916 with a VC.

  Such men had been willing to give their lives to preserve their friends, but while heroism abounded, it was Glasgow’s vicious gangland that gave rise to the real headlines. These same cemeteries also marked the end of life’s journey for some from the underworld whose deeds attracted much greater publicity but less acclaim.

  So many young men were faced with the choice, even before leaving school, of whether to pursue a legitimate career or to take the path into crime. The soldier had opted for the former by joining the army, but his service career was inextricably entangled with the criminal world. He would face courts, risk imprisonment, be suspected of involvement in terrifying gangland murders and set out to kill and maim outside of the army Rules of Engagement, which gave service personnel protection from prosecution. His skills as a soldier would attract assassination offers, which, had he accepted, would have made him wealthy. The fact that he refused put his own life at risk, but at the end of the day a love that so many had doubted would last had set him on an honourable course.

  Yet so many of his peers, members of his own family even, had become criminals. Most entered the underworld not through a deliberate choice but because they simply grew into it – relatives were gangsters and so offspring naturally drifted into gangland, largely because they knew no different and believed it was their destiny from birth.

  Glasgow had seen its share of men placed on pedestals because they killed, robbed and hurt. The book No Mean City describes in frightening detail the cruelty of an individual known as the Razor King, who slashed rivals almost for fun. It was based on a real-life individual and while the story could not be blamed for the prevalence of knife and razor carrying, it did nothing to discourage those who did. The Razor King ended up lonely and poor, but few remembered that.

  Patrick Carraher then swaggered his way through the streets of the city, slashing and gouging all who stood in his path. Cronies fawned to his every whim. He escaped the gallows when skilful defence by a lawyer saw one murder charge fall by the wayside, but years later a second left him dangling from the end of a rope in Barlinnie prison.

  At the time the soldier had enlisted in the army, Glasgow was effectively under the control of a handful of powerful men who made their own laws and dictated how the lives of thousands of others would run. Many of these men were faceless, known only to a few. They had slipped out of Glasgow and headed to the great cities of England from where they ran highly lucrative criminal empires. One who remained on his home territory was Arthur Thompson, known as the Godfather, a revered, almost idolised, figure who posed as a legitimate businessman while running a series of rackets from a sprawling home known locally as the Ponderosa.

  An arm’s length from Thompson was Thomas ‘the Licensee’ McGraw, an at times shadowy man who ran a successful safe-cracking gang known as the Barlanark Team before graduating into the hugely profitable world of the drug smuggler. McGraw was seen as the logical successor to the Godfather.

  Known to both, at one time as an associate, if not friend, was Paul Ferris, born less than three years before the soldier. Ferris would never claim to want to usurp Thompson or McGraw, but his involvement with Thompson in particular, and the aftermath of the association, would have a near devastating effect on the soldier and on the lives of many others. Ferris was likeable, intelligent and forward-thinking. He was also loyal, an attribute that was to deprive him of years of liberty.

  * * *

  As the soldier was watching his terrorist quarry, Ferris was the subject of an intensive police surveillance operation. Yet while one could be said to be the gamekeeper and the other the poacher, both were targets. Each knew there were those who had vowed to have them killed and each took precautions to stay alive. Both would experience the dangers and disloyalties of Glasgow gangland. They would suffer in their differing ways from the treachery of a Judas whose love of gold led to betrayal and murder. That Judas would flit in and out of the life of the soldier with devastating effect.

  This, then, was the Glasgow the soldier knew so well. But as the years rolled by he would often wonder whether its very reputation was a blight on a career in which he mingled with the lowest to the highest, often doubting if either could be trusted.

  CHAPTER ONE

  My name is Alexander Shannon. Friends call me Alex, while to most of my family and closest friends I am Ally. I was born in Rottenrow Hospital, Glasgow, on 16 February 1966. It’s the same hospital where the Moors murderer Ian Brady was born in 1938. Like me, he came from a poor family.

  All of us have at some stage in our lives tried recalling our very earliest memories. Mine are of growing up in old tenement buildings in Cowcaddens before we moved to the relative comfort of newer houses in Wellfield Street, Springburn, in th
e northern part of Glasgow. I say ‘newer’ because here we had inside toilets, a real luxury for many families even at this time. Our home faced the Edgefauld Flats, at the bottom of a hill, where a Benefits Agency building now stands.

  It’s of my time in Springburn that I have my clearest memories because it was here that I started school at what was St Aloysius. The school stands to this day, a Grade-A listed building, and there must be thousands of former pupils who pass it and cast their minds back to those first days at the beginning of the 1970s. Many of my fondest and happiest times came during this period of youthful innocence, free of the cares that overshadow the lives of parents, especially as there was so much poverty around and it was often a real struggle for survival. I was determined to keep the memories of these happy times stored so I could bring them out occasionally when things seemed black. They are all the more special for spanning just a few short years. Little did I know, it would not be long before the course of my life changed dramatically.

  For a short time, I went to Garscube nursery school. I had no way of knowing it at the time, but it would play an unusual role in later years when my brothers and I were stockpiling weapons for an ongoing feud with some of the rival Springburn Mob, as we called them. We had been offered a double-barrelled shotgun but before buying it wanted to test it out. We did this by firing it on the side door of the school. It wasn’t the brightest thing to do because it was ten o’clock one Saturday night. The row was horrendous. In seconds, everybody was at their windows, peering out, wondering what was going on. We just carried on walking, as if the loud bang was nothing to do with us.

  I remember turning up for one of my early days at school wearing my Sunday best, which for me, in those days when money was short, was Wellington boots, a duffle coat and shorts. Some of my new mates mocked me, just to make me feel at home. Among them were the McGovern brothers: Steven, Tony and Tommy. They would remain friends for life, albeit at times from a distance, and then during some difficult periods in the early 1990s that would test our resolve and friendship.