The Underworld Captain: From Gangland Goodfella To Army Officer Page 14
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Towards the end of the tour I was informed I had been chosen to go on Pre-Selection for my Section Commanders’ Battle Course, which was to begin as soon as we returned. I was up for it because completing this course successfully would enable me to carry out a long-held ambition to train recruits. I was also conscious of there being a good many hurdles to climb and there would be strong competition for places on the actual course; fifteen of the best lance corporals and corporals in the regiment would compete for just three vacancies.
After a tough four weeks, I was told I had made it into that top three. Now, I would be expected to spend three months at Brecon Barracks, headquarters of the army in Wales. I had been back from Belfast for seven weeks, had spent four of those in the pre-selection contest and now had to tell Angie I would be going off once more.
I knew she was being put under pressure and realise it must have been very lonely for her at times. She had Thomas to look after and not long after I came home from Northern Ireland we discovered she was expecting our second child. The main driving force for me at this stage was financial. Each step up in the ranks meant a consequent increase in pay. At the same time, I suppose the professional soldier in me wanted to lead others rather than be led. There was a price to pay if this ambition was to be realised. It wasn’t just that I went on course after course, but I had to be able to pass them. The army is no different from any big business in the respect that rarely do you get a second bite at the cherry. But I missed Angie as much as she missed me; she was the rock upon which I leaned and on whom I relied. There were many times when she must have felt down and exhausted, yet she would put her own cares to one side to pick me up when fatigue left me feeling low.
The Battle Course was one of the toughest in the army. Only selection for the coveted 22 SAS is harder and I found myself alongside 12 members of 22 SAS.
This SAS company has an astonishing record, having been involved in covert reconnaissance and surveillance operations in many parts of the world. It took part in the raid on Pebble Island during the Falklands campaign and was involved in Operation Flavius in Gibraltar; everyone knew a mere rumour that the SAS was in town was enough to send shivers down the spines of the Provos, while its most highly publicised operation – ending the siege at the Iranian Embassy in London in 1980 – had been seen by millions live on television. Being with these soldiers and talking to them candidly helped me to understand the regiment better. Despite the aura surrounding it, I came to realise that there are no differences between infantry regiments in the army, whether Paratroopers, Guards, the Scottish Division or Special Air Service for the simple reason that all Junior and Senior NCOs are trained to the same high level. The British Army was then, and still is, the best in the world. The only difference between soldiers is their level of leadership, capability and ability.
The course went really well for me. I loved learning about tactics, live firing and pushing myself to the limit to gain extreme fitness. I was testing myself against the best of the best and doing well. However, my old Glasgow temper almost brought a premature end to my ambitions when I came close to being thrown off for fighting with another guy in my section.
We were doing a realistic exercise in woodland and he was supposed to turn up for sentry duty at two in the morning but was half an hour late. I wasn’t happy about this and told him so. One thing led to another and after a fairly short debate he ended up with a burst nose. I thought no one knew what had transpired, but of course word reached the ears of the platoon commander, who was given a briefing on the incident. Next morning he hauled both of us in front of him and grilled us on the previous night’s activities. Much to his credit, the other soldier said we had simply clashed into each other due to the lack of ambient light in the woods. He was grilled pretty fiercely over the details but stuck to his story, with the result that the officer accepted his version; however, it was pretty obvious the officer had suspicions as to what had really happened and he warned me that from that moment on he would be watching me closely and if I did anything wrong in the remaining three weeks of the course I would immediately be sent back to Germany. It was a lucky escape this time, but as my career developed the Brecons would serve up more unpleasant surprises for me.
The warning acted as a spur and I kept my nose clean. When the course ended, I was told I had a very strong pass and so I was feeling good as I headed back to Germany to rejoin Thomas and now four months pregnant Angie. After the stresses of Northern Ireland, the challenge of making it through pre-selection and then the Battle Course itself, I felt I needed quality time at home, but the lure of the football pitch tempted me out.
I had settled back into the old soccer routine of ‘have boots, will play anywhere’. During the pre-season, Hibernian stayed at our camp for a couple of weeks and I was lucky enough to play a series of games against them. It was a great thrill to challenge Scottish Premier Division stars, but – no offence, Hibs – so many times during those games I wished the opponents had been Rangers.
I kept the memory of that incident with Fleck in Germany in the back of my mind. What I didn’t realise at the time was there would come a night when he would regret making a fool of me. The old saying ‘everything comes to he who waits’ was spot on about a year later. During the four and a half years I spent in Germany, Angie and I would return to Glasgow at least twice each year and on each occasion stay with her sister Lizzie and mum Margaret in the St George’s Cross area. I knew Angie enjoyed being with her family and did not mind the fact that I liked to meet up with and spend time with my brothers. Whenever we could Tam, Pawny and I would head out into the city centre or around some of our old haunts for a few drinks, but Angie and Thomas were always the most important people in my life and I would try to be home for ten o’clock, so I could spend some time with them before Thomas went off to sleep.
One night when I was back in Glasgow, Pawny and I were at the dancing in the Savoy and who should be there but Fleck with another footballer. There was a whole gang of us, including a big crowd from the Milton area, many of them associates of the Lyons family. My good pal George Redmond was with us and there must have been about 40 of us. It was like some underworld reunion. I noticed Robert Fleck chatting in the corner to the other player and when he spotted me he came over.
‘Oh, aye. How’s it going?’ he asked.
Pawny knew about the incident in Germany and before I could say anything had jumped up and told him, ‘You better get away from here or I’ll end up shooting you.’ He was kidding, of course, but Fleck didn’t know that. ‘My brother tried to speak to you in Germany and you just fobbed him off and you think because you’re some kind of football player you’re some kind of star, get yourself away. Beat it.’
Everybody was staring at him. There were some hard-looking guys with us and it must have been pretty scary. He and his friend left the Savoy immediately and didn’t come back.
Back in Germany, on St Valentine’s Day 1989, my second child, a daughter Danielle, was born. It felt as if life was good for us all. I was waiting to be promoted to corporal and was hoping for a posting to train recruits in Edinburgh in the near future.
Clouds were forming on the horizon, however.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As I had hoped, my posting back to Scotland came through and in August 1989 we returned home. It was to be a two-year deployment and I would be based at Glencorse Barracks. I was over the moon at getting this new job, but it turned out to be a double-edged sword.
Before leaving Germany, I had been assured I would have a dual role, initially to trial, deliver and instruct recruits on current communications systems being used in the army, then revert back to being an infantry tactics and weapons instructor, a task I had wanted to do ever since joining the forces. However, as is so often the case, things never go to plan and as a result I was left in the training wing with too much time on my hands and every weekend off. I was soon travelling through to Glasgow during the week and mos
t weekends going out drinking or just visiting family and friends.
By now, Pawny and Tam had really made a reputation for themselves – no mean feat, considering the number of tough up-and-coming crews operating in and around the city. They had been accused of an armed robbery in Glasgow, a charge that was ultimately dismissed through lack of evidence, but news filtered 400 miles south to a former resident of the city now living in the capital and directing operations from there. He was always on the lookout to recruit good men and had invited Tam and Pawny to meet up with him. From there, they were told the head of another team with major gangland links had asked for an introduction. The one-time Glaswegian had vouched for the brothers, and now Tam in particular was effectively being interviewed by the leader of this team, a stranger, as a prospective foot soldier. But Tam was his own man.
He had listened carefully and politely as the stranger ran through Tam’s recent past in the course of which stabbings, shootings and robberies were mentioned, but then said, ‘Look, wait a minute. I’ve come all the way to fucking London and I’ve only met you today. I’ve never met you before, but you know all about me, what I’ve done in the past couple of months and all the rest of it. What the fuck are you all about?’ The stranger realised his mistake. He had been prying into Tam’s background without asking consent and, while it was frequently done, it was generally done discreetly – you didn’t tell someone you had been checking up on him. Not wishing to further offend this hard-looking man from the east end of a city he had never visited, he held up his hands in apology. ‘I understand why you are upset, maybe we should just leave it at that.’ It had been a case of the Glaswegian forgetting his roots, assuming he could just pass over someone he believed would be useful to one of his cronies. It was not the done thing.
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Tam Shannon was still violent and was a bit of a loose cannon, while police suspected Pawny of being the most prolific drug dealer in Scotland. This was a time when drugs were really swamping the schemes and clubs. A group who became known as the Happy Dust Gang had pioneered a thriving trade in cocaine from Europe until an informer caused their demise in the early 1980s. The leaders had been jailed, but their success had not gone unnoticed and there were plenty of others ready and willing to take over the mantle of the supplier, despite the prospect of a long prison sentence.
As time went on, more routes were opened up. More money was invested by businessmen who ensured their own security by staying away from Glasgow and paying others to take risks. Ever increasing quantities of heroin were finding their way into the veins of the young, causing premature death and misery. Ecstasy tablets were changing hands for up to £20 a time, while temazepams, better known as yellow jellies, may have been less potent but their price tag was cheaper. Some felt the move to harder drugs was partially the fault of the police, who had used considerable resources to track down those smuggling in less destructive drugs such as hash usually hidden in cars driven from Spain. An example of that was the arrest of Pawny late one afternoon.
Almost certainly through a tip-off from an informer keen to remove competition, the police believed that Pawny had established a very straightforward supply route. He would fly to London, do his deal and return, carrying a substantial amount of drugs, sometimes heroin, sometimes cocaine, sometimes pills, sometimes hashish. And so they placed in position a very expensive surveillance operation. Pawny was watched. When he flew to London, it was noted. When he returned, he was followed to see whom he met. He usually simply went home or visited another family member. It was decided that on his return from his next trek south, he would be arrested. Police waited to see whom he met when he arrived at the Glasgow airport terminal, wondering if it might be a courier who would take whatever package he had on to dealers. They were surprised to see him drive off alone and assumed the bag at his side contained drugs. As he headed onto the Kingston Bridge, amongst the rush-hour traffic, chaos ensued. It was suddenly blocked off and onlookers noticed a helicopter hovering overhead. Armed men shouting, ‘Police,’ ran from unmarked cars and arrested him; however, a search of his person and property revealed nothing incriminating.
As he sat in a comfortable coach heading back from London to Glasgow, Tam had no inkling of the drama unfolding many miles to the north. He could allow himself an occasional smile. In the locker above him was a holdall containing a selection of drugs. He and Pawny operated a simple routine. They would travel south separately, Pawny by air, Tam in a coach or train, then they would meet up in London once Pawny had concluded his business and Tam would return home with whatever his brother had bought.
Alex knew his brothers’ business. He was not part of their activities, but as they would be there for him should he need help, he was just as fiercely loyal to them, even at immense risk to himself. While he was based at Glencorse Barracks, he found himself becoming increasingly heavily involved with them, a development that was slowly beginning to concern Angie. After leaving Germany, she and Alex had set up home in Lasswade, Midlothian, close to Rosslyn Chapel, the inspiration for the film The Da Vinci Code. They had moved there on the recommendation of a friend, but Angie was a Glasgow girl and she felt increasingly out of place and gradually depression began setting in. Alex’s excursions into Glasgow, with their potential for trouble, were becoming more frequent and adding to her worry. Her moods only lifted when Alex suggested he might leave the army, as he was becoming more and more disillusioned at what he saw as a lack of progress up the ladder.
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Tam and I used to go out all the time and were looked on by the majority of people as two of the main troublemakers, when in truth this was not the case. I was something of a dark horse, with those outside our immediate circle wondering what I did for a living. I simply wanted to enjoy myself with my brothers. In many of the pubs and clubs we frequented, drugs and drink were not only in abundance but also free because we found ourselves mingling with the main crooks of the time. Money was no object. We were still good friends with the McGoverns, who were making a name for themselves as a force to be reckoned with.
Once, I went with Pawny and one of his mates to a rave at Ferguslie Park in Paisley. It had been set up in a huge tent by the McGoverns and Grant McIntosh, known as ‘Mr Paisley’ because he was said to control the town. Grant was friendly and generous.
As we stood at the back of the marquee, I noticed a large group of individuals all dressed in suits and black overcoats heading straight towards us. I wondered what was happening, but by this time Pawny, alert as ever, had noticed something was up and could see it was Tony and Tommy McGovern with their crew. As soon as they reached us, Tony stuck out his hand and asked how I was getting on. He invited me to meet up with him, Tommy and their brother Steven for a few drinks in the forthcoming weeks. I was happy to agree, but thought, ‘There’s more to this than meets the eye.’ It was true, I was good friends with the McGoverns, but for them to have me, Tam and Pawny on board would have made a formidable team. Tony joked to Pawny, ‘Are you still running about daft trying to shoot everyone? You and Tommy would be brilliant together.’ And that was a fact.
The next occasion on which I saw the McGoverns was a tragic one. By 1989, drugs had taken Steven’s life. He had been a great friend of Pawny and after the funeral Tony asked us back to the Eagle Lodge in Sandyhills for something to eat with the rest of the immediate family. We were deeply moved by this kind gesture and by the warmth with which we were welcomed and made to feel part of the family. Sometimes, even now, Pawny will make a pilgrimage to Steven’s grave to lay a few flowers and have a word with his friend.
Around this sad time my best mate, Mick Kenna from Posso, appeared at the High Court in Glasgow for two attempted murders and was sentenced to seven years. During my time at home, the pair of us had had some good nights out. I had often visited him in the house he shared with his girlfriend, but then a couple of weeks after he was jailed I was at the dancing with Tam and a crowd from Maryhill when I noticed her seemingly out with
some guy. She didn’t seem bothered by the fact we’d spotted her, so I went over and had it out with her in front of the stranger. I soon figured out from his accent that he was a Scouser up in Glasgow for the weekend. She was left in no doubt that I felt Mick deserved better. When the Scouser intervened, an argument started between us. At that, Tam came over and told me to leave it, that we’d get him outside. I knew what Tam meant – we would wait until they left and teach him a lesson – so I agreed. When we went outside, though, the pair of them were nowhere in sight. Thinking they’d probably worked out what we were up to and had done a runner, we decided to go and get a bag of chips round the corner.
As I walked into the chippy, I lifted my head just in time to be caught square on the jaw with a set of knuckledusters. It was a tremendous blow and just about knocked me out. By the time I orientated myself, Tam already had the perpetrator – the Scouser, of course – in a neck lock. Others joined in and from nowhere a knife appeared. Within seconds, the Scouser’s legs and behind were saturated in blood. Still he would not go down. You had to hand it to him, he was a real go-ahead with no fear. Even when he was thrown through the chip shop window, covered in blood from head to toe, he wouldn’t give up. Instead, he got to his feet, picked up a piece of smashed glass about a metre square and tried to attack me and Tam with it. By now, it was time to go. Somebody had called the police, who were appearing from all over, and so we made a fast exit.
None of us knew then that the fight was going to have very serious repercussions the following day, but we soon realised that when friends told us the Liverpudlian was a well-known gangster who had been up in Glasgow for the weekend to do business with a heavy team from Blackhill, Paul Ferris’s home territory. We had already had a few run-ins with this crew because their main player spent a lot of time in Posso and at one time William Lobban had given him a hiding in a square-go. It was claimed that during this fight the guy had set his Alsatian dog on Lobban and when it started ripping at his legs, Tam had stabbed it. So, as you can imagine, this player was not at all keen on us.