The Guv'nor (27 page)

I just signed my life away, but at least I'd done it like a man. Now I've got to look after my own neck.

The next time Val came in, I told her about the cozzer who had remembered the fight 20 years before, and that I'd dropped a ricket on tape. ‘Go and see John Nash, Babe, and ask him to have a quiet word with the fella.'

On her next visit, she told me that John had squared it off. He'd gone to Jimmy and he'd told John, ‘I ain't got no grievance with Len. It's all in the past. If they want me at the Bailey I'll go up and deny we ever had a fight and say that me and Len are pals who go back
years.' Ten out of ten, mate. I didn't need you in the end, but you were there for me. Good luck wherever you are.

Then I found out all the details of that Saturday night that changed my life. Remember, I was sitting there convinced I'd killed a man. But when Martin Lee put me in the picture it started to look a bit different. Martin was the brief who worked under Ralph Haeems. He was really on the ball and what he'd done was to dig out all the facts about the movements of Gary Humphries that night.

It turned out he wasn't on drugs as I'd thought, but he should have been. He'd not long been released from a mental hospital and, being a bit spaced out, he hadn't been taking his medication. After a couple of weeks he'd had a breakdown. Who knows what was in his head? He went to the Hippodrome and had a fight with one of the DJs, who punched him in the face and chucked him off the stage. Then his gear came off, and that's when I got involved.

Even if I'd known his state of mind, I don't think I could have handled it any different. I've already explained what went on. I didn't beat him up, I just gave him a backhander, dressed him and put him out. Then I found out what happened afterwards.

He left the club and, within a few yards, bumped straight into a special constable. Because he didn't have any shoes on he was stopped and questioned. He said some big bloke in the club had beaten him up, but the only damage the copper could see was a slightly cut lip. He was talking normally and wasn't injured, so he let him walk away. If he wanted to go barefoot that was up to him.

All these incidents were like bits of a jigsaw that night. Nobody got the real picture until afterwards, when they were all put together.

From the club he went into a café and tried to get himself something to eat, but because of the way he looked and the fact that he didn't have any money, he was fucked off. Again, he was able to speak coherently, but perhaps the knock back over the grub did his head in, because he took his gear off again, and ran in and out of the traffic, naked, and making a right nuisance of himself.

Eventually, he ran in front of a fire engine, which stopped and took him to Soho Fire Station, where they called an ambulance. While he was being helped aboard he decided he didn't want to go, had a scuffle, broke away, and ran off. At this point, Old Bill was looking for him. When they found him he was in Tottenham Court Road, dodging the traffic and banging on cars. After a very violent struggle with a number of coppers, he was overpowered. The law had to put a bit of effort into holding him down because he was like a maniac.
They got him to hospital and a few hours later he died. Dead, according to Old Bill, from a broken jaw that Lenny McLean gave him in the club four hours before.

Don't think for one minute that I'm giving you a load of flannel to cover myself. What I've told you is fact.

What do you think? Did I kill him? Did I beat him to death? Four hours doing a marathon round London, fighting all the way. Is that a dying man? The law seemed to think so, or were they covering themselves? At worst, I should have been threatened with a section 18 and bailed.

But no. Somebody thought it was about time I was taken off the streets and two weeks later I was nicked and in front of the magistrate.

While I was waiting for the prison bus in the cell downstairs, my brief tried to cheer me up.

‘If things start to look a bit iffy, Len,' Martin said, ‘you might have to put your hand up to manslaughter. In your case, that could mean ten years, but at least it would save you getting double on a recommendation.'

I gave him the old cross-eye and said, ‘I thought you was supposed to be fucking well cheering me up.'

When he looked a bit hurt at that, I give a laugh and slapped him on the back. ‘Only kidding, son,' then I did my John Wayne, ‘a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.' I gave him a hug, the cell door shut with a bang, and I was on my own.

Lying on my bunk, I thought about having to put myself forward for a ten stretch. British justice is the finest in the world, unless you get caught up on the wrong side of it. Here's me innocent, but to save getting lifed off I've got say I'm guilty. Funny thing is, I'd go along with it. Get ten years, do six or seven, yeah, I could handle that. Then I thought about Martin's last words. ‘I can't promise you anything, so don't get your hopes up … I think someone's got it in for you.'

Brixton. Going into prison didn't worry me a bit. I'm a strong man and a very proud man, and wherever I go people give me a wide berth. Even the screws, because they know if I start I'm a
ten-man
job. Most blokes are more worried about the other cons and screws than they are of being shut away. Same as the kids I mentioned, going into approved school for the first time. They hear all about queers and poofters when they're outside, and that frightens them more than anything. But let me just say not so much of that goes on. If it does, it's by consent – none of all that rape in the
showers bollocks they like to put in films. None of that worried me – don't forget, I'm 6ft 3in and 20 stone plus, and I'm like a time bomb waiting to go off.

Normally, murderers or alleged murderers go into the hospital wing first, so they can check out if you're a lunatic or not. My reputation said I was, so I was put in A Section straight away. This is a prison inside a prison specially built for holding killers,
drug-dealers
, IRA and the very violent. You go through about four thick iron doors to your cell, and there are cameras everywhere watching you. Unlike cells in the nicks outside, you do get a bit of privacy on the toilet because there's a sort of half-shutter and the camera can only see your feet or head. They unlock the doors for meals and a half-hour walk round, but the rest of the time is spent behind your door. Ordinary prisoners can't speak to you if you come into contact with them in case your influence makes them worse than they already are. You can only speak to other A Section inmates, and that's all right because you're all in the same boat looking at long sentences. The only thing I can say in favour of A Section is that it's cleaner than the main wings and there's only one to a cell.

While I was out on my half-hour walk I used to fuck about with the screws, picking them up and dancing around and giving them what they thought was friendly aggravation. But it wasn't and they hated it.

‘McLean, you'll get us the sack, this is all on camera you know.'

I said, ‘All right, if you unlock me for an hour a day so's I can visit Frankie in the next cell, I'll leave you alone.'

So that's what they did – not bad as screws go really. Sometimes they'd do it the other way round and Frankie Simms would come in to me. I remember one afternoon when the two of us went through all my legal papers for about three hours. When we were finished, Frankie said ‘How about going through mine, now?' I just lay on his bed, closed my eyes and said, ‘Sorry mate, too fucking tired.' He went a bit cross-eyed until he saw me laughing.

One afternoon I was lying on the bed and the heat was killing me. It was the beginning of July and I was sweating cobs. There was a bang on the door. I looked up and Frank was eyeballing me through my spy-hole.

‘Len,' he said, ‘I'm just making a bit of stew on the quiet. How many dumplings do you want?'

‘Dumplings! Are you joking? I don't want no fucking dumplings. I'm lying here thinking about the next 25 years that I've got to spend
in prison, it's a hundred degrees, and you're talking about dumplings.'

‘Go on, Len, keep your strength up.'

‘Fuck's sake, Frank! All right then, make me six.' An hour later the screws let him in and he had a paint tin filled with stew. I just said, ‘Hope you washed that tin out first,' when the door slammed shut and the lever came along.

‘What's going on, mate? Why we banged up?'

Frank said, ‘Look through the spy-hole.' I had a butchers and there were four Nazi-looking screws going past and in the middle of them was this pasty kid of about 21.

‘See that c**t?' Frank said. ‘He's the slag that ripped all the insides out of a nine-month-old baby. He's banged up 24 hours a day, gets his tea and meals in his cell, and only gets out for a visit. Screws can't risk us getting hold of him.'

‘Frank,' I said, ‘we got to hurt this nonce. Why don't we get hold of the cleaners and get them to do him with boiling water?'

‘Len, we tried that, they don't want to know – that's why they're cleaners, screws trust them.' I never did get the chance to rip that bastard's throat out, but one of the others got to him and that horrible little beast was well obliged.

Funnily enough, Frank was still inside when Ronnie Knight was put away. They palled up together and, unless Frankie had changed, which I doubt, he would have kept Ronnie laughing all day long. He's a comedian, a live wire and a good man to serve your time with. I bet Ronnie was sorry to be left behind when Frank completed his term a few months ago.

Talking about that scum, that baby killer, reminds me of the time a lovely lady came down the club to see me one night early in 1993. She was really upset because her seven-year-old nephew had just been murdered by some low-life pervert, stuck in a sack and dumped in a lift. I was choked for her and the boy's parents, but what can you say to take away the pain? I got her a brandy, gave her a cuddle, and told her the law would have the slag in five minutes. Give Old Bill their due, they did.

A year later, while I was working on this book, Geraldine Walpole came to see me again. She'd just come from the court after seeing a piece of filth by the name of Colin Hatch getting lifed off for killing the boy. She said, ‘Lenny, as he stood in the dock he was grinning all over his face.'

I said to her, ‘Let me make a phonecall and we'll get him sorted, get the smile knocked off his face.'

Her eyes filled up when she said, ‘Thanks for the offer, Lenny,
you're a good friend, but after the trial the family were taken into a back room and warned about taking reprisals. The police said that, if anything happens to that man, we would be the first ones they would question. So, as much as we'd all like to see him suffer for what he did, we can't go against the law. And I wouldn't want you to get into trouble either.'

‘All right, Geraldine,' I said, ‘I won't get involved, but let me put your mind at rest. I've been inside, I know what goes on, and you can be sure that there is nowhere in the system that he can be safe. Every day of his sentence he'll have to look over his shoulder. He won't get what's due to him once, he won't get it twice, he'll get it every time a screw turns his back. His life will be hell on earth and, after a bit, he's going to start thinking about doing what the law couldn't – topping himself.'

With that thought on her mind she told me she felt a lot better. Some people might think that it's wicked to think like that. All I can say to them is, don't judge anybody unless you've walked in their shoes.

After a month, the Home Office decided I could come off A Section. By this time, I was well settled and I was palled up with Frankie, so I asked them to leave me where I was. No, can't do that, you've got to go where you're told. I said, ‘Well I want to see the Governor.' Can't do that either – see the PO. After being given the run-around, I got to the chief PO and I told him, ‘Look, I've got a bit of a name. You put me on A Wing and all the likely lads are going to try and have a pop so they can make a name for themselves. Let me mark your card. Any of them try it on I'm going to paralyse them, throw them right off the tops. On the other hand, you look after me and you'll save your blokes a lot of aggravation.'

He looked at me and said, ‘You go where I decide you'll go. Threats do not sway my decision. But you behave yourself, keep that temper under control and I'll put you on the ones.' Lovely – I've got a nice easy job.

While I was in A Section I got chatting to an Irish fella. I asked him what he was in for and he told me he had been involved with bombs and that sort of caper. Now unless a con's a child killer or molester, you have to leave everything outside. You don't judge them and they don't judge you, otherwise you'd be belting every fucker behind the door.

I asked him what bird he was expecting and he said, ‘Len, at least 30 years, but I can't do it. My people are working on it.'

I said, ‘Good luck whatever happens.'

At about one o'clock on the Sunday afternoon, I was just getting myself some tea – ‘Bang up … Bang up … Bang up!' Screws were running wild and everybody was slung in the cells. Then we heard what sounded like a car backfiring, then the same again, and I heard somebody shouting, ‘They've got guns.'

That was at one o'clock. Then it was three o'clock … then six o'clock. We were still locked in and we were getting the hump. By eight o'clock everybody was going mad, banging on the doors, screaming and shouting.

We'd had no dinner, it was hot, and we'd all got the hump. I shouted through the door to one of the screws, ‘What's going on, governor?'

‘We've got a break-out, so you're all staying locked in until it's sorted.'

No supper, no tea, what a fucking turn out.