Subject: Cryptome, Romeo Spy autobiography
|
|  Yüklə 0.5 Mb.
|
| Before he left Williamson did get a couple of scalps, but the case were absurdly trivial. Two uniformed constables at Peckham, Paul Watson and David Lovett, were tried at the Old Bailey for having claimed to have arrested Michael Perry in September 1969 on suspicion of having stolen a van. In fact four other officers had made the arrest, but in those days it was routine in a straightforward case for a nominee to take the case to court, especially when a guilty plea was likely. However, in Perry’s case, which went to trial in May 1970, it emerged during cross-examination that Watson and Lovett had not been the officers who had taken Perry into custody, so they were themselves arrested. The judge, Mr Justice Neil McKinnon, gave them a conditional discharge and recommended the two men, who had excellent records and were described as ‘absolutely dedicated’ to the job, should be allowed to stay on the force, but a disciplinary tribunal held a few days later required them to resign, a sure sign of the new climate in the Met.
This, however, was not the end of the matter, for in May 1970 Lambert was suddenly removed from the enquiry by Virgo, told to take early retirement on medical grounds and replaced by DCS Alfred ‘Bill’ Moody, whom I had known as a sergeant at Croydon. I would have described myself as an acquaintance rather than a friend, and the only social events we met at were connected with boxing, for we were both ‘pugs’, which tended to blur the disparity in our ranks. I had been the light heavyweight champion of all three services, and Moody had won the Met’s middleweight title. Lambert’s sudden removal from the scene had been prompted by a mysterious, unannounced visit to Tintagel House by the DAC, Dick Chitty, where there had been a furious row with Lambert, who had threatened to throw his senior out of his office. Lambert had been under incredible strain and had been appointed to the investigation more by accident than design. His marriage had collapsed and he was personally very distressed at having to investigate men he knew and liked, so he had seized the opportunity of a full pension after twenty-four years’ service, having submitted a claim that he had been handicapped by severe depression. He went on permanent sick leave in September 1970 and was out of the force by March the following year. Naturally, I was dismayed by this development because of what I knew about Moody, who had exploited his membership of the Freemasons to manoeuvre himself into the Obscene Publications Squad (OPS), a notorious centre of corruption at the Yard known as ‘the Dirty Squad’. Often called ‘Punchy’ because of his renown for suddenly hitting people in the face without warning, Moody had moved to the OPS as a Detective Inspector through his membership of the same Freemasonry lodge as the two Ernies, and had taken two detective constables, Mike Smith and Ernie Culver, with him from Croydon. At the Yard, the OPS was famed for adding £20 to the weekly wages of every member of the Squad, with an additional bonus of up to £100 each Friday, money known as the ‘whack’ which came from pay-outs made by the very pornographers the OPS was intended to put out of business. Some of the officers who went to the OPS were corrupt already, but some people believed that the very nature of the work, spending hours watching the most appalling, degrading filth, was highly corrosive. Certainly I had one good friend who worked on the Dirty Squad and found his home life transformed. Previously strong-minded, he had been profoundly affected by the material he had been obliged to handle, and had himself acquired some of the bizarre perversions he had witnessed, which resulted in his wife, repelled by his behaviour, walking out on him. One of the cellars at Scotland Yard had been converted into a viewing room, almost a private cinema, and here friends of the OPS team could watch the latest seizures. I had been a very occasional visitor, drawn by curiosity but acutely aware of the very addictive nature of the filth which included the most horrifying ‘snuff’ movies, child pornography and other material treasured by the aficionados. In theory Moody’s job had been to stamp out pornography, or at least suppress its distribution and availability so it did not fall into the path of people who did not want it. In reality he controlled the trade in a way which enriched himself, his squad and his superiors at the Yard. As a shareholder with porn merchants like Silver, Mason and Humphreys, he had a vested interest in eliminating out the non-paying opposition. He would have argued that that newcomers to the market (in which the demand was insatiable) often displayed a degree of recklessness that threatened the entire racket. For instance, some of those trying to establish themselves sent direct-mail shots to potential customers, exercises which inevitably led to complaints, and an opportunity for the OPS to visit a new studio or shop and drive them out of business, unless of course they could be taken aboard, in return for a percentage of the takings. Incredibly, huge sums of cash were counted openly on OPS desks when Moody’s men were dividing up the weekly payments. Such stories came my way from Ernie Culver who saw these events first-hand, and may have been responsible for an invitation for me to join the OPS. This I had turned down because there was a chance I would be asked to join Ken Drury on the Flying Squad, which was rather more my style. When word circulated that I had declined the OPS there was widespread disbelief, for such a posting was usually followed by a new car, then a new house, and certainly plenty of smart clothes and expensive Italian shoes. For Moody, who had never been on a Special Operations training course, to be assigned Lambert’s role was very disquieting, and strongly suggested that there was influence being exerted from a senior level. There were thirty DCSs at the Yard at that time, and I had drawn the one I knew to have the most to hide. Although not ostentatiously corrupt, he owned two sports cars, a Triumph and a Lancia, the latter bought from another notorious Soho pornographer, George Vinn. When Moody took over Lambert’s office at Tintagel House he also installed DS Cyril Jones, who had worked with him in the OPS, and in 1976 was to be sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment for corruption. Some might think that if a corrupt officer was appointed to investigate an allegation of corruption he would be inclined to protect his own, but on the contrary I knew in my bones that such a person would deliberately sacrifice some of his own kind in order to divert suspicion from himself, not unlike the old story of the poacher-turned-gamekeeper. My gut instinct was not far wrong. One of my close neighbours, with whom I occasionally shared my dog-walks, was an old friend who had been assigned to the enquiry, and he told me that he was very, very worried. This coincided with similar reports I heard from other friends who had their contacts on the team and had heard that the attitude towards me was changing. There was also another reason why I had ever reason to fear Superintendent Moody, who was later to be convicted of corruption and sentenced to twelve years’ imprisonment, for he had a strong but undisclosed link to Michael Perry. Some months earlier Perry and Roy Brooks, a wealthy Peckham street trader, had been identified by an informant in Nuneaton named Kirtin as having participated in a local shop-breaking. Kirtin had been a London criminal who had moved to Nuneaton when he had married a local girl, and when he had been cut out of his proceeds of the robbery, he had offered the police the names of his co-conspirators. Based on Kirtin’s information, the Warwickshire police had gone looking for Brooks and Perry, but when they had failed to find them, an official request to question them had been passed to DI Jim Sylvester. He in turn assigned Ian Harley and a young local DC named Hill to make the arrest, but after they had been arrested Brooks threw soup over a police officer in the cells and escaped. When I heard about this incident I could not help chuckling, for Brooks was a well-known character on the manor and the idea that he could have waltzed out of the custody area after assaulting a uniformed gaoler was absurd. I never found out the real story, but doubtless money had changed hands and the tale of the escape had been circulated as a cover. Perry, however, was arrested, to be taken to Nuneaton for further questioning by the Warwickshire detectives. My only connection was that by chance Ian Harley had asked me to take over the case that very afternoon because he wanted to go to his daughter’s birthday party. Unfortunately, when the bumpkins came down to see Perry I learned they really had no evidence apart from the word of Kirtin, the informant. Harley was never my partner, and at that time my ‘CID aide’ was a young Welsh officer, Taffy Holmes, who was, years later, to be appointed master of his lodge, and commit suicide during the investigation into the notorious underworld kingpin and murderer Kenneth Noye. I explain this only to demonstrate that my connection with Harley was far from close, and on that particular afternoon I had been doing him a favour by helping out the men from Warwickshire and seeing them off safely with their prisoner. When the Warwickshire police arrived, and they disclosed the weakness of their case, I explained that their plan to confront Perry in the cells and extract a confession from him would never work as he was a hardened criminal. Instead, I suggested the detectives pretend they possessed much more evidence, perhaps some fingerprints, and behave as though Perry had been charged. This was a standard tactic in the Met but seemed quite novel to the bumpkins who had assumed Perry would crack as soon as they challenged him. I played a small part in this harmless deception by telling Perry confidentially that he was to be taken up to Nuneaton because there was strong evidence against him, and I recommended he plead guilty to a lesser offence under the Theft Act. Perry listened to the advice and, so it seemed to me, was persuaded that I was doing him a favour. Of course, the reverse was the truth. Perry was taken up to Warwickshire where he soon forgot my advice and denied everything because, as I subsequently learned, he had been tipped off already by Ian Harley, when he had been brought in to the police station. As a result, Perry was released and was quickly back in circulation in Peckham. During the course of those investigations Brooks produced an alibi for the time of the robbery by a man described as a pillar of the community and a Justice of the Peace in Peckham. Actually this seedy man was a JP and a criminal, Frank Holbert, known as ‘Frankie the Barber’, who also happened to work on the side for Moody as his bagman, collecting contributions from Bernie Silver, the king of West End pornographers, and his competitor John Mason. Frankie was a classic intermediary, a part often played by publicans and bookmakers who acted as middlemen between the police and criminals, trusted by both sides. Although he had no criminal convictions (which would have disqualified him from sitting on the bench) he had plenty of contacts and often held money while a deal was being transacted. Frequently this involved a bribe ensure a bail application went unopposed, when the criminal would only authorise Frankie to release his money once the police had kept their side of the bargain. It was an arrangement that suited all concerned, and was a daily occurrence throughout London. If some unforeseen event took place, such as an unhelpful judge intervening, the disappointed party would be entitled to a refund, and Frankie would simply return the cash, albeit with his commission deducted. He also acted as a ‘cut-out’, passing wads of notes from criminals to particular officers, which avoided the necessity of a detective having to meet someone who might be under surveillance. There were, of course, plenty of others in the same ‘middling game’, among them ‘Peg-leg’ Birchmore and ‘Red-faced’ Tommy in Southwalk, but in Peckham it was Frankie who was the bridge between the underworld and the rest. How he was ever appointed to the bench was a mystery, but doubtless it was another Masonic fix assisted by bent coppers. In his role as a police bagman Frankie had also operated in the West End where he had gathered a good deal of evidence against Moody, so when the Nuneaton burglary looked like getting serious Wally Virgo had despatched Moody to conduct the interview with the supposedly respectable Peckham JP for the Warwick’s police, and then travel to Nuneaton and speak to the officers involved in the case. This was really the turning-point for the investigation because, as Moody must have realised, Frankie represented the weakest link in the chain, and if he was questioned by any of Williamson’s men he would be bound to implicate others. He had given a bogus alibi to Brooks, and he had also signed the search warrant for the premises where the stolen cigarettes had been found. A proportion of these, of course, had wound up with the police for resale, and there were plenty of other matters to worry Moody if Frankie thought he was in danger of being stripped of his status and maybe even banged up for perverting the course of justice. He would be bound to say almost anything to stay out of prison, and the general view at the Yard, and in my own sergeant’s unit at Camberwell was that he would crack if Williamson got hold of him. Accordingly, Moody verified the Brooks alibi and proceeded to undermine the information from Kirtin who was, after all, only interested in a reward. In spite of the fact that Moody assaulted one of the Nuneaton policemen, which was the subject of a complaint to the Met at Chief Constable level, Moody succeeded in stopping the case against Perry’s co-conspirator, and the case was dropped. Not surprisingly, I had strong reservations about the wisdom of allowing either Virgo or Moody’s OPS men anywhere near any case that involved Perry, although I was encouraged when I was passed a message through Mike Smith, whom I had known at Croydon, offering ‘fraternal greetings’ and the news that Lambert had been removed because a decision had been taken that the Times staff should be ‘dropped out’, and Lambert had been unwilling to take the hint. The canteen gossip was that Lord Thomson’s first experiment with high-profile journalism, intended to attract new readers to a title with falling circulation figures and a reputation for dull reporting, had proved a disaster and the newspaper simply could not afford to lose a potentially hideously expensive libel action, nor be seen to withdraw the allegations of corruption at the heart of the Met. Moody’s supposedly changed attitude was a strange development and I talked it over with Robson at a lunch at his club, the Royal Automobile Club, in Pall Mall. On this occasion we simply met for drinks and then sat down to lunch, but the RAC had a certain reputation at the Yard, where senior officers were known to like the swimming pool and steam bath. It was just a short stroll across Green Park, and men dressed only in a towel have little opportunity to conceal a listening device. It was an ideal venue for holding sensitive discussions, but my conversation with Robson required no such precautions. Robson had served in the Royal Navy during the war, had commanded a Motor Torpedo Boat, and was an experienced Regional Crime Squad officer, but he was worried by leaks he had heard from inside Moody’s enquiry. There was talk that the Times staff had all been re-interviewed by his men, rumours of pressure from Callaghan, who for years had been the Police Federation’s influential Parliamentary adviser, to help his son-in-law Peter Jay, and even speculation that some new evidence had been found concerning Robson, supposedly from a colleague who had been put under pressure to make allegations against him. Only later was he to discover that it was his trusted partner, ‘Bomber’ Harris, who had been persuaded to turn against him and make a highly incriminating witness statement. The problem with such news was that we were all vulnerable to allegations of minor corruption which to a degree was endemic across London, and certainly not restricted to the Yard. Most CID offices maintained a ‘share-out’ regime in which profits from various unofficial enterprises were distributed according to a well-established protocol which reflected seniority. The protection worked in two directions, with subordinates ensuring that any cash went up the ladder to senior management onside, as well as passing it around at lower level to maintain cohesion. I later heard that a young probationer detective constable named Munro had approached Moody and claimed that I had been responsible for supervising the CID office’s share-out in Camberwell. Fortunately he was not backed by anybody else at Camberwell and when word spread of his allegations he became the subject of threats, and even a beating, and was transferred elsewhere. Finally, when Moody himself faced criminal conspiracy charges in 1977, it was the same Munro who gave evidence against him and he was sentenced to twelve years’ imprisonment. Virgo also received the same sentence, but his solicitor was the impressive Victor Lissack, and the conviction was quashed on appeal in March 1978. In most cases corrupt officers took elaborate measures to cover themselves, and invariably appointed an intermediary, often a pub landlord, to hold any illicit payments until a deal had been completed. The proposition that I would have engaged in taking small sums from Perry seemed to me to be quite laughable when I was well aware that the going rate for a ‘bung’ to somebody of my rank and standing was at least a ‘monkey’, or £500. The truth was that almost every CID officer had seen examples of corruption, maybe participated in a ‘whack’ or at least turned a blind eye to what others were doing. Grotesque as this may sound now, it was a way of life in those days in which the underworld enjoyed an easy working relationship with the forces of law and order. The West End’s clubs, clip-joints, blue movie cinemas, striptease bars and drinking dens were making vast profits and the owners, more subtle than the earlier generation of Maltese hoodlums and street-fighters who had dominated Soho since the war, were altogether more pragmatic and knew how vulnerable the poorly paid coppers were. The notorious Messina brothers had been replaced by ‘Big Frank’ Mifsud and his partner Bernie Silver who were on their way to establishing a monopoly on peddling vice in Soho, and by 1968 owned two thirds of the clubs in the area. Similarly, the pornographers pursued a lucrative trade but needed to ensure some continuity of supply, and paying off the police was regarded by them as an entirely acceptable cost of conducting their business. An indication of the extent to which the CID tolerated corruption can be seen from the disastrous decision of the Old Harrovian ACC, Peter Brodie, to give evidence for the defendants in what became known as ‘the Detectives’ Trial’. This ensured the disapproval of the new Commissioner, (Sir) Robert Mark, who took over in April 1972 and had been brought down to the capital to clean up the force, and described Brodie’s CID as ‘the most routinely corrupt organisation in London’. He was quite right, but I was not keen to be the first to pay the price, especially when I appeared to be the quarry of a man who demonstrably was one of the most corrupt of the lot. Initially the news on the jungle drums was quite encouraging, and it seemed that Lambert, acting on advice from Richard du Cann QC, had recommended that no charges should be brought against me and six others, but that Robson and Harris should be prosecuted. We were to be returned to our duties, which would have amounted to a complete clearance, but then I heard of a conference held at the Home Office, attended by Moody and John Matthew QC, chaired by the Assistant DPP, a former barrister who had been placed in charge of supervising any prosecutions, at which a statement from Ian Harley had been produced, and this had served to draw attention away from him, and focus on me. Suddenly the fiasco over Perry’s arrest and interrogation in Nuneaton had not been the result of a casual, indiscreet remark from Harley to his prisoner, but an example of corruption, with Perry claiming that he had paid me for having got him off the Nuneaton charges. I was incredulous at this turn of events because I had played no part in the decision, taken in Warwickshire, to free Perry. On the contrary, if anyone had exercised improper influence over the case it had been Moody who had been so keen to protect Frankie the Barber! Even worse, I had heard whispers about the Assistant DPP who had a reputation as a paedophile and regular visitor to a dirty book shop in Spring Street, Paddington, and certainly had attended several of the regular, Friday night film shows screened by the Dirty Squad in their second floor offices at the Yard. Clearly he had had enjoyed a close relationship with Moody, and when Harley passed the blame for the Nuneaton episode on to me, I began to worry for the first time. According to the whispers, Matthew and the Assistant DPP had recommended that I should go to trial, even though all the others at the crucial meeting had expressed the view that there was insufficient evidence to justify bringing any charges. However, it had been a hostile report from Moody that had persuaded the ADPP, and he in turn had convinced Matthew. But how could someone like Matthew be turned around by Moody? While the ADPP’s interest in hardcore porn was well-known in the Yard, Matthew’s wish for a closer relationship with the police was also a fact. He had often invited senior officers to his home and, knowing Moody, I thought it likely that he would have let him know that he had often been spotted in some of London’s more notorious homosexual clubs. A man like Moody would not have not ignored such an opportunity to apply pressure on someone when the leverage was in his grasp. Whatever the explanation for Matthew’s conversion, I soon I heard that people who had already signed statements clearing me were being re-interviewed, and encouraged or pressured to make new statements casting suspicion on me. Some original statements were being destroyed altogether, and with Moody in control I feared the worst. New detectives, drawn from outside forces, were deployed in south London to review my past cases to see if they could smell any corruption, and among the villains the word went around that anything against Symonds would prove beneficial, Naturally this kind of incentive inspired plenty of offers from assistance, including a few from some old lags on remand awaiting trial. Far from having been fitted up by squads on which I had worked, these were criminals who had benefited from having dozens of crimes overlooked entirely in return for a guilty plea. One man I recall was facing only one charge, with a further forty ‘taken into account’, yet he was now willing to make a statement implying that there was something improper in the 'TICs'. According to his tale, I had been drunk in Camberwell High Road one evening in November 1969 and had solicited £5 from him. The story was complete nonsense, but the fabricator was rewarded with probation when he should have been facing two years inside. I also heard that Moody had altered a statement made by Perry to prove ‘an intention of threat’. Quite simply, for any charge against me to stick, Perry had to demonstrate a direct threat from me, and this was achieved by the insertion of a single word, ‘if’, in manuscript into Perry’s original statement. I was to get copies of both versions, and I was told that the amendment had been added by Moody, in front of others, in the DPP’s office. So how could Moody get away with such behaviour? One answer might be the widespread belief that he had possession of a list, compiled by the dirty bookshops and porn parlours, of their regular customers and the subscribers to some of the filthier magazines. Whether true or not, many believed that Moody exercised influence far beyond the Yard because of his knowledge of the personal proclivities of the highest in the land. |