The Guv'nor (26 page)

He said, ‘Don't matter, it's nothing.'

‘Forget nothing, has somebody given you a pull?'

‘Sort of. One of them geezers pinched me chest and said, “Show us your tit,” and I can't do nothing.'

‘No, but I can,' I said. ‘What is he, a fucking poof?'

I went out to this lot and shouted at them, ‘Who's pinched the big fella's tit?' Full of piss, they all think it's funny. I said, ‘Tell you what I can do. I can smash the lot of you to pieces and put you in
hospital. Then tomorrow when Old Bill wants a statement you'll all put your hands up and say, “We took a diabolical liberty and Lenny belted us, but he was in order.” Like fuck you would. No, you worthless cunts would say you was having a quiet drink when this animal started knocking you around for nothing. Then I'm up in court and the judge is going to say, “McLean, you are a very dangerous man, you must do five years in prison.”

‘That's why I hate you straight mugs because I have to live my life round people like you. You lot start trouble with your pissed-up mouths and then people like me get fives, sevens and tens for doing our job. You're of no value, any of you, so leave the drinks and fuck off – you're barred.'

That's what we're up against all the time. Any other time they wouldn't have got the lecture, they'd have got hurt, but I didn't want any trouble with Albert being there. They don't know how lucky they were.

Wherever you are now, Albert mate, take it away. With that degree you'll never look back.

A lot of work I get offered is evicting squatters from properties, and it's the one area of my business where I've had the least aggravation. Give myself a gee, I do look a bit menacing so nobody argues, especially as the people I'm up against are usually straights taking advantage of an empty place. I'm not talking about chucking women and kids out of little terraces, that's not my game. I leave all that to the bullies.

What I got involved in was clearing out office blocks or big stores where a lot of money was at stake. I'll give you some idea. A businessman pal of mine, from Chislehurst, came to see me with a problem. Jim's not one of those who's always on your ear'ole for favours, but he knows I'm there if he ever has a bit of trouble and he insists on paying well for any help. He's grafted well over the years and good luck to him, he's now got loads of money and all the best gear. But Jim's not one of them yuppie gits, he's one of your own.

It seemed that he'd just sunk a quarter of a million into buying a big store over in Woodford. When he sent his people down to sort the place out, ready for him to open a big travel agency, they couldn't do nothing because there was already a firm in the place and they were selling swag gear, making fortunes and paying no rent or rates.

Now, Jimmy's a businessman. He's got his credibility and a reputation to think of, so he couldn't go all outrageous and cause a
ruck, he had to be diplomatic. He spoke to the people squatting in his gaff, and they told him to fuck off and come back with a court order. Everybody knows the scam. That's where I came in.

Lots of people think we go in mob-handed, smashing the place up and belting the squatters, but we don't. It breaks my heart sometimes, but we have to go a bit steady. I got hold of Graham, a carpenter who does a bit of work with me, and we went down to Woodford. Graham's a very big man but doesn't have a lot to say for himself. All you get out of him are two words, ‘safe' and ‘sweet', and that suits me because it lets me get on with things without listening to a load of rabbit.

We went in and I told Graham to start changing the locks. Half a minute and the prat who was running the show was on our ear'ole screaming and doing his nut. ‘What's going on, what do you think you're doing?'

‘Doing, pal?' I said. ‘We're doing a bit of maintenance for the leaseholder.'

He went red in the face. ‘He can't do that, I'm a legal squatter, he's got to go through the courts.'

Cheeky git, legal squatter, what does that mean? I've marked his card. ‘You can be locked in or locked out, make up your mind, but these locks are being changed.'

He disappeared, then ten minutes later he was back with Old Bill. This mug wants it both ways. He wants to break the law on one hand by thieving somebody else's property, then he wants the law to back him up. He came unstuck though, like they all do. I showed the coppers all the papers saying my pal owns the place and told them we were just changing the locks. They asked the squatter, ‘Has this man assaulted or threatened you in any way?' What can he say?

‘Well, no, not exactly, but look at the size of the two of them, they're very menacing.'

‘Sorry, sir, how people look is not our concern, this is a civil action and nothing to do with us.' So they took off.

I can verbal this twat now. ‘Up yours, you c**t,' I said. ‘Now when you turn up in the morning, all your gear is going to be lying out in the road. How does that grab you?' Nine times out of ten they pack up there and then and leave. The odd few try to stick it out but in the end it comes to the same thing. I've done hundreds of these evictions and never had to belt anybody. That particular job pulled in ten large because we were dealing with a very valuable property, but normally it can be done for £5,000.

I got a call from some bloke who'd heard I was good at this game – bit of a toff by the sound of his voice. ‘I have a problem with some gypsies parked on my land and I'll pay you well to take some heavies and get rid of them.'

He picked the wrong bloke. ‘Oh yeah, are they pinching your chickens and burning your fences?'

‘No, not exactly, but they look a bit untidy.'

‘Bit untidy! Look, pal, I don't know who put my name up, but if I find out he's likely to get a good belting because everybody knows I don't take liberties with people trying to get a living the best they can.' I must have frightened him because down went the phone and I never heard anymore.

It's true what I said – I've got nothing against gypsies. I know

I've fought a lot of them over the years but that was business. I've got a lot of respect for most of them, and they've got the same for me.

In fact, a very good friend of mine is a well-known gypsy, and he gets bundles of respect from everybody in the community. He knows if he wants anything done, he's only got to pick the phone up. Once, his nephew, Dave, was getting a lot of aggravation from a gang of tearaways out in the country where he lived. He asked me to step in, so I got Big Graham and a fella called Mick and followed him down to this pub where the trouble was.

We were outside and I said, ‘Right, how do you want to play it?'

He pulled a bayonet out of his belt and said, ‘I know you don't use a tool, Len, but I'm going to be right beside you with this.'

I had to give him ten out of ten – is he game or what? He was 65 years old and ready to go to work. Now that's what I call fucking game because we're not up against schoolkids here. I said, ‘Put that away, you won't need it. You've had your day … put your feet up and let us handle it – that's what you're paying us for.' He wouldn't let it go, though, so I said, ‘You've got my respect for joining in but don't get under my feet when it goes off.'

We were all sitting in the pub, and after about an hour a crowd of these tearaways came in. Nothing was said. They were looking at us from one end and we were scowling at them from ours. I was thinking, ‘Somebody's going to move in a minute.' I went to the bar to get some drinks in for my people and a lemonade for myself, and the landlord said, ‘This one's paid for, mate,' and he nodded towards this group down the bar. I didn't even look at them, I just went back to our table, told the others, and sat and waited. The clock ticked round but we could sit there all day.

Eventually, the landlord came over to the gypsy, whispered in his ear, and went back behind the bar. My mate had a menacing look on his face, he looked down at the tearaways and all he does is raise his hand. That's all. Then he said to us, ‘Nice result, they want to shake hands with Dave, so we can fuck off now.' He was a good
money-getter
, so three large to him is like three bob to a lot of people. Good wages for a Sunday drink.

I worked a bit harder the next time he called me, but not that much. He does a lot of buying and selling quality cars, so he did a deal with a guy in Hertfordshire to send a parcel of Mercs, Rolls and Bentleys abroad. He did his end and then got rumped for the lot. How the guy thought he was going to get away with a stroke like that I don't know. All I can think is that he didn't know the gypsy very well. I was pulled in as usual, so I picked up Graham on the way and arrived at this big farm. It was a lovely place, horses everywhere, so we knew he wasn't short of a few quid. I asked a farmworker where I could find his governor and he told me he was down in a big caravan he used as an office. We found him. First off, we were both polite. It probably wouldn't last, but there was no need for unpleasantness until we found out the lie of the land.

He gave us nothing but promises and a load of bollocks. I was still polite, though. I put it to him. ‘If you don't come up with the money, we're going to work our way right through your farm, and just so you know we're not fucking about, your office will do for starters.' He thought I was pulling his pisser until Graham grabbed hold of him and I set fire to his office. It went up in flames. A couple of his workers came running, but they must have known their governor better than we did because they looked at us, saw Graham holding the boss, and buggered off without saying a word.

Graham wasn't holding him back, he was holding him up, because his legs turned to jelly. He was puffing and panting like he was going to have a heart attack, but he managed to say, ‘That's enough. I'll sort it. No more.' I patted him on the back, said, ‘Have a nice day,' and we were away. My pal's end was worth about half a million and it was delivered with apologies two days later.

I said to Val, ‘Sweetheart, how's the old bank balance doing?'

She stuck her head in her little notebook and said, ‘Could be better, why, do you need some cash?' I spread the £20,000 on the table and said, ‘See this … I've just had a nice little earner, so bung ten in the bank and me and you are going to have a lovely holiday
with this other bundle. The kids are well big enough to look after themselves, so it's just you and me. Give us a kiss and I'll take you on a second honeymoon.' And I chased her all round the kitchen.

It was a lovely holiday, too. No aggravation – all that was hundreds of miles away. Sun, sea, sand. Lovely. It doesn't half go quick when you're enjoying yourself, though. The first week you make your mind up that you want to buy a little villa and stay for ever, but after that it goes downhill a little bit every day.

I'm not knocking it, though; at least I wasn't getting any mugs trying to take me on. We went into a restaurant one night for a bit of dinner and while we were waiting to order, I had a look round. I clocked a face that looked sort of familiar and I said to Val, ‘See that old geezer over there? It's Lonnie Donnegan. I'm going over to shake his hand.'

I went over and introduced myself and he asked us to join him and his wife. What a lovely evening we had. He talked about the skiffle days and I made him laugh when I told him that he'd been our idol and how we sang all his songs in our group. He'd given all that up and just lives quietly in Spain writing songs and music. Smashing bloke, who gave us a lot of pleasure back in the old days.

Anyway, come the last day I've had enough of the blazing sun and I'm not sorry to be going home. Me and Val took a last walk down the market before packing up when a voice behind me said, ‘Wanna fight?' I shot round and there was Ronnie Knight laughing all over his face.

We slipped into a bar for a coffee and he said, ‘How do you like Fuengerola, Len?'

I said, ‘It's beautiful, a wonderful place, but two weeks is enough. I can't wait to get home.'

‘Imagine how I feel, then. I've been stuck out here for years, and I'd give a million pounds to get on the plane with you.' I felt so sorry for him. He looked the business. Handsome, smartly dressed, and as brown as a berry, but inside all he wanted to do was go home, and I don't suppose he ever could.

Before we left him, he said to me, ‘Do you remember the first time we met? I forget who you was fighting but me, like a mug, put all my money on the other fella. Cost me bundles.'

I've got to give Ronnie a lot of respect, because he's a man who's had a lot of shit thrown at him. He was always a good friend to loads of the chaps. If they were in trouble he'd try and help them out. But because of his club, he mixed with a lot of tasty people and I think that gave Old Bill the hump.

His last words to me were, ‘Anyway, mate, look after yourself and don't be surprised if I'm knocking on your door soon for a cup of tea.' I thought he was having a laugh, but I think even then he had it in his head to come home, give himself up to the law and prove his innocence. It turns out he was wrongly advised. He came back looking for an acquittal on handling money for the Security Express robbery, and walked straight into a seven. Seven at 60 – what a fucking knock back. But he swallowed it like the good man he is and just got on with it. Four years went by before he turned up for that cup of tea. It was one Saturday when he was out for the day on home leave. And did we have a good laugh. I was sorry to see him leave knowing he was going back to Send Prison, but, God willing, by the time this book is on the shelves it'll be all behind him. He'll be a free man and we can get together again.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

W
as I glad to get home to the East End and have a nice cup of tea! I had a bit of a sleep in the chair, woke up at about nine, had some dinner, then I was back in the armchair in front of the TV. Nothing worth watching. Val had the washing machine going already – she can't sit down for five minutes, but you know what women are like. ‘Val, babe,' I shouted through, ‘I'm going to shoot round the club and pick up my wages. Might as well be in my bin as theirs.' So I was off.

On the way to the Hippodrome, I called in on a few people to catch up on a bit of business, so by the time I got to the club it was about one o'clock. The place was swinging, as usual, so I ducked out of the way and slipped up to have a chat with the boys. I told them all about my holiday, picked up my bit of scratch from the office, and I decided to call it a night.

John was walking down the stairs with me when up came Robert Lopez and one of the lighting blokes, Nathan, to tell us there was a bit of aggro. ‘Fucking hell, nothing changes and I'm not even back at work yet.'

Nathan said, ‘We've got a streaker on the dance floor.'

John said, ‘You go the front way, Len, I'll come round by the back.'

‘Go on then, John,' I said, ‘Let's get this over quick, I want to get home.'

Me and Robert get down to the dance floor sharpish, and there was this geezer stark bollock naked, pissing and wanking in front of all the young girls. Dirty slag. We went to get hold of him and he did a little dance and ran up the stairs. That's all I need. I was tired, it had been a long day, and I was ready for bed. Still, better tidy this up.
By the time we caught up with him he was by the main entrance, still flashing his dick about and embarrassing a group of young girls sitting on the sofa.

He was standing by a store cupboard, so I nipped over quick, shoved him inside and Robert followed me in. This geezer was full of drugs or beer, and was acting like a lunatic. His eyes were staring and he started banging all round the cupboard and throwing himself at me. I put my hands up, caught him by both arms, and held him to calm him down. He went hysterical, screaming a load of nonsense and fighting against me. So I let one of his arms go and backhanded him across the jaw. He stopped struggling and looked at me like he'd just woken up.

‘Now you dirty c**t,' I said, ‘are you going to behave yourself or do you want some more?' He gave a bit of a nod so I let go of him slowly in case he was ready for the off again, but the slap in the face had knocked the fight out of him and he just stood there. What a fucking state to get in.

‘Robert, for Christ's sake, get his strides and cover him up, he's not a pretty sight.' Somebody flung in a T-shirt and a pair of trousers and we dressed him. That's all we had, so it would have to do. It was June so he wouldn't freeze to death. I took him to the side door, opened up, and told him to fuck off and not to show up here again.

I said to Robert, ‘Look at me, that mug spat blood on my shirt and he's ripped my jacket. I'm going to collar Mick about this and get a bit of exes. I'll talk to him tomorrow. I'm knackered, I'm off home.'

I fell into bed at about four o'clock. I cuddled up to my Val and said, ‘Sweetheart, it's hard to believe we were in Spain this morning … what a day,' but she was asleep.

At eight o'clock the next morning, the phone went. It was Mick Theo, a pal of mine. Good stuff. This bloke was Mr Universe one year. He said, ‘Len, you know that nutcase you straightened up last night down the club … well, he's dead.'

He should have been a diplomat, that Mick, he knows how to break news gently.

‘Bit early to get me out of bed, mate, and too late for April fool – what's the game?' I joked.

‘No, I'm serious, he's stone dead.'

I couldn't believe it; nobody dies from a back-hander. My nut was racing. I put the phone down and went up to Val. I woke her up and said, ‘Doll, we've got trouble.'

She sat up. ‘What do you mean?' She could see it was serious.

‘Looks like I've killed somebody. I slapped a drugged-up lunatic last night and Mick's just told me he's heard the bloke's dead.'

Val just covered her face and cried and cried.

I gave her a cuddle. ‘Listen, I'll have to face it. I'm too old to go flying round the country calling in favours. If I done it I'll stand up for it, but me and you will face it together.'

I made a few quiet enquiries and found that nobody had died near the club, but some bloke had died further west. No problem. Mick's got it all wrong. Had me going for a bit, though. I don't know why, because I've belted hundreds of blokes over the years, and I mean really belted, and as far as I know none of them died, let alone with a bit of a slap. I was so relieved I think I burst into song.

I went back to work and I felt great. The holiday had done me good and the little scare made me appreciate life – bit like when you find a lump on your body and the doctor says it's not cancer, it's a boil. Then Old Bill turned up at the club some days later and things started to unwind. They were back-tracking on the guy who'd died, trying to find out where he'd been all Saturday evening. One of the coppers asked me if there had been a naked man in the club the other night. Well, it was no good saying no, so I said, ‘Yeah, I've still got his shoes and bits and pieces of clothes.' That's all right.

Then they spoke to Conrad, one of the managers. Talk about silly as arseholes. Instead of telling them that the guy was here, but there was no trouble or anything, he gave them the full SP about his being restrained and all that.

Coppers aren't always stupid so they put two and two together and started quizzing the other people who worked there. It was no good me looking for support from most of that lot, because they were straights and wanted to look after their own arses. All the law had was Lenny this, Lenny that. I could see myself getting deeper and deeper in the shit. Once my name is mentioned down the nick, some bright spark's going to be squealing Lenny McLean, King of the Bouncers, Guv'nor, Hardest Man in London, fucking animal – we've got ourselves a result here.

Anyway, days passed and nothing happened, so perhaps they found out that the fella died of a heart attack or something. Val was in bed and I was sitting in the kitchen talking to Ronnie Joyce. He came round early to see if I wanted to go to visit our pal Ritchie Anderson, who was being held in Brixton on a section 18 and attempted murder. It seems that Ritchie had just started to cross the road when a carload of drunks had come speeding round the corner
and knocked him down. He wasn't hurt, but he was fucking mad. If they had known what was good for them they would've kept going, but they stopped and he slipped into them with a knife and got himself nicked.

So Ronnie and me were talking about Ritchie and working out the best time to go and visit him. Then I heard a bit of a noise out front. I shot through to the front room, looked out the window, and I saw the law all over the place. The whole street was blocked off and the place was crawling with coppers. Ron came through from the kitchen, had a look and said, ‘What you been up to, Len, no tax on your motor?'

I said, ‘No, mate, this is serious. I think I've killed a guy and so does Old Bill – too late to go over the wall.'

Then the bell rang. Here I go. I opened up and two plainclothes officers pushed in. I blocked their way. ‘Hold up, what's your fucking game?' Then they flashed warrant cards.

‘DI Cater and DI Prunty,' Cater says, ‘Leonard McLean, I'm charging you with the murder of Gary Humphries. You have the right to remain silent …' and all that stuff you've seen on the telly.

I said, ‘Who's he? Never heard of him.'

‘No,' Prunty said, ‘I don't expect you asked his name while you were beating him up. Now get the clothes you were wearing Saturday.'

He called up a uniform and told him to follow me upstairs. ‘No you don't,' I said. ‘Nobody goes into my bedroom when my wife's in bed except me, so make your mind up. Any of you try it and I'll unload the three of you before you can call up your mob out there.' They saw reason.

I went up, dug out the clothes, and told Val I'd been lifted. She was crying but I told her to be strong. ‘We've got plenty of dough in the bank so you'll be all right, but first off get hold of Ralph Haeems, our brief, and get him to work.'

Soon after, I was in Vine Street and banged up waiting for the interviews to start. After a couple of hours, I was told my brief had turned up so they'd be seeing me in five minutes. I thought, ‘
Good-oh
. Ralph's here and he'll sort this lot out double quick.'

I was taken to the interview room and there were a couple of uniforms, Prunty, Cater and a fella I didn't know. It turned out Ralph was too busy, so he sent this South African solicitor instead.

DI Cater read the charge out. ‘Unlawful killing of Gary Humphries.'

I said, ‘Hold up, I never killed him.'

Prunty said, ‘If you didn't kill him, why is he down the mortuary right now?'

‘All I did was give him a back-hander and he deserved that for pissing and wanking over young girls, but I never meant to kill him.'

Cater chipped in, ‘Whatever he deserved, McLean, it certainly wasn't one of your right-handers.'

‘Piss off,' I said. ‘I don't want to talk to you, you've got me hung already. It must be in the blood because you're the same as your old man.' His father had been involved in getting the Krays put away.

He had me flung back in the cell. I was lying on the wooden bench and I felt like my guts had been ripped out. Murder. That means I'm looking at life. The judge is going to look at me, hear all about my past and decide that I'm too dangerous to be left on the streets. ‘This man makes his living with his fists, he's a street-fighter, a minder and an animal, so I'd better give him a rec. of twenty-five years – keep him away from decent people.'

The police cell didn't worry me at all. It was summer, hot and the place was stinking of piss and vomit because of the drunks held the night before. If I'd been banged up for anything else but murder I wouldn't give a bollocks, but a charge like that drains the life out of you. I was 40 years old. I might be drawing my pension the next time I'm on the outside.

I couldn't think about it so I got up and did sit-ups and press-ups on that filthy floor, then I did a bit of shadow boxing until the adrenalin flowed through me and I felt like I was on a high. ‘Come on, Cater, try me now.'

He does. As soon as I was back upstairs, some other CID bloke said, ‘I know you from some business about 20 years ago. Wasn't it you that smashed and belted the life out of some man and nearly killed him? What are you, a psychopath? Is that what you do every time somebody upsets you?'

On the outside, I would have knocked him down for talking to me like that. He knew it and was trying to goad me into flaring up, but I kept calm.

‘Yeah, all right, I did do him, but we're pals now, that's all in the past.' They all looked at each other, then the penny dropped. I'd forgotten all about the tape recorder.

‘Oh yeah, I bet you lot think you're the dog's bollocks now I've dropped myself in it. Fuck you, I'm not saying no more.'

Three hours later they gave up. Every time they asked a question
I did an impersonation of John Wayne or Michael Caine. They were doing their nut, but that's all they got out of me.

I was doing press-ups again back in the cell. A cozzer opened up and said, ‘Come on, your wife's here.' I walked out and I could see Val at the bottom of the corridor. As we walked towards each other I could see tears running down her face. As I got hold of her in my arms she started crying loudly, so I kissed and cuddled her to try and calm her down. I said, ‘Listen, Val, listen to me. You and me are one, don't matter what happens. I love you and they can't take that away from us. Be strong for the kids and be strong for me. I know it's hard but don't give these slags in here any satisfaction.'

Then she was taken out. I was shattered, I'd never seen her so upset. I can take anything for myself, but it tore at my insides to see my lovely Val all broken up.

Cater had a beauty waiting for me the next time he pulled me upstairs. ‘You going to stop fucking about and come across for this one, Lenny?' I just growled at him and said nothing. ‘OK then, try this. What would you say if I tell you we've got Robert Lopez pulled in?'

‘No,' I said. ‘You've got to be joking – that kid's got nothing to do with this and you fucking well know it.'

He just gave me a cold look. ‘I'm going to get a result, so if you don't open up I'm going to pick up that phone and have him charged with murder, because one of you killed Humphries.'

He'd got my nuts in the grinder. Robert is a nice quiet bloke. I know he's a minder but he's not a bit aggressive and when I was straightening up the streaker he never laid a finger on him. He'd never been in trouble before so I could imagine what he was feeling like, being banged up for the first time. ‘OK. If you drop everything against Robert I'll put my hand up. I chinned the bloke, it's down to me.'