Elephants can't hide forever Page 13

  In an attempt to soften the blow, the Major added, “But of course you will be free to reapply to the Regiment whenever you feel ready.”

  Jock was devastated- all serving members of the SAS had started their army life in normal regiments, they then applied to the SAS and if successful transferred to the elite troop. Only in the initial training months were applicants RTUd, this was acceptable, but not after ten years; no, as far as Jock was concerned this was it, his army life was finished, over and out.

  Jock knew the Major well enough to know any sort of pleading would do him no good at all.

  “I’m gutted, boss,” he said. “But there’s no way I can go back to being a squaddie, I’m out.”

  “I’m really sorry, Jock,” continued the Major “If there’s any thing we can do to help you in Civvy Street, let me know,” and with that the chief stood and outstretched his right arm, which Jock accepted, and showed him the door.

  The next few months were not kind to Jock. Initially, he travelled back to his native Glasgow and tried numerous jobs. Employers were keen to take on an ex SAS trooper, so Jock had no problem finding gainful employment, but he couldn’t handle the mundane life of Civvy Street- the petty rules and regulations were too much. Jock’s skills as a mechanic were not appreciated either, he had to learn the philosophy of his new way of life: a good job was a botched job, take as much of the customer’s money as you could, for as little as you get away with. This was an alien world for Jock, who started to drift back into his old haunts of Glasgow’s East End, taking solace in the bottom of a glass. Before long, Jock started mixing with the wrong crowd. Glasgow’s East End was still a viper’s nest of petty villains, pimps and prostitutes. Territorial gangs ruled, and a fair share of real bad guys inhabited the place. It was no surprise that Jock felt more at home in this environment than that of the legitimate workplace, and the local hoods soon recognised that Jock possessed some unusual talents which they could deploy.

  Jock became a doorman at a particularly nasty dive in a particularly nasty area, just off Argyle Street. He regularly found himself facing the local wannabes in street brawls and skirmishes within the club, and he always found himself coming out on top. What Jock possessed, along with his ability to keep the house in order, was intelligence, unusual for this type of work, so it was no surprise when the owner called him to the back room one night.

  “Jock, I’ve been watching you since you started here,” he said in his deep Scottish brogue. “And I have to say the way you’ve kept the door and sorted out the trouble makers, I’m prepared to take a chance on you, fucking hell, we all started with nothing round here, so how would you fancy being the new manager?”

  “Well that would be just fine, Mr Donaldson,” replied Jock.

  “Good,” came the reply. “Let me put the cards on the table then, you’re not stupid Jock, no doubt you’ve seen what goes on around here, and it not all Kosher, so I’m going to pay you two grand a week For that, you manage the club and when you’re not doing that you’re minding my back.”

  “Yup, I can handle that, it’s very generous, thank you Mr Donaldson,” Jock replied.

  “One last thing, I’ve noticed you like a wee dram a bit too often- as of now, you’re off the sauce.”

  The weeks passed, and Jock immersed himself in his new employment. It was to his liking- plenty of excitement, long hours and perks of which Major Morley would definitely not have approved.

  One Sunday morning, when all was quiet, Mr Donaldson invited Jock out to his country house, at Greenock, overlooking the Firth of Clyde. They walked out in the gardens, watching the few container ships that still made the journey into Port Glasgow. Mr Donaldson turned to Jock.

  “Jock, you have done better than I could have hoped, nothing seems to faze you, so I want you to go down south and do a little pick up for me.”

  “No problem” replied Jock. “Can you tell me more?” he asked.

  “That’s why you’re here, in the privacy of my home” came the reply.

  Jock, being quick, realised this was something out of the ordinary. In the time he had been working for Donaldson, he had handled drugs and illegal women, and even firearms, but all this was done as a matter of course from the club.

  Mr Donaldson continued: “I can see, Jock, you’ve realised this is a bit special and it is, so there’s twenty large ones in it for you. I want you to go down to Kent, buy a van, then rendezvous with a plane that will be dropping a couple of large bags of dope in a remote field just off the coast. You’re there to pick up the drugs and get back up here with them- simple, really.”

  “So why do we have to go all the way down into England to pick it up, wouldn’t it be safer if the plane dumped it round here?” asked Jock.

  “Good question,” came the reply, “The simple reason is that the plane’s coming in over the English Channel low, so by the time it’s picked up on radar it will be back out again, and away from British air space, and, more to the point, if it flew all the way up here it would need to refuel and that can’t happen. One other thing, Jock, there shouldn’t be a problem but you had better go tooled up, just in case.”

  Jock considered this, and then asked: “When do I go?”

  “The drop’s three am Wednesday morning, so come back to the house and I’ll find you a decent shooter, and you can be off.”

  The following Tuesday morning found Jock in Folkestone High Street, bartering for a reasonable Mercedes Sprinter van, with a spotty youth who was so disinterested there was no problem he would ever recall Jock, never mind remembering selling Jock the van. Jock thought if he told him the reason for the purchase, that might get his attention. With the van acquired, Jock drove south, along the coast road towards Dymchurch. He needed to acquaint himself with the terrain and the pick up point; the first time since Jock had left the army that his specialised training was being put to good use.

  Jock decided to spend the first half of that night in the back of the van, and go over the plans one last time. He had the co- ordinates of the drop memorised- he was to park the van on the edge of the field facing south. As the plane approached, Jock was to flash the van lights three times. The plane would fly over at no more than one hundred feet and discharge the two sacks of drugs in the middle of the field, Jock would then give the plane five minutes, and if all was clear, he would drive into the field, load the two hessian sacks, and twenty minutes later be on the M20 heading north, twenty grand richer.

  At two am that Wednesday morning, Jock was in position. He had left the van, and was surveying the perimeter of the field on foot. No one would have seen him; it was what he did best. Jock was comfortable that he was alone; the only sound was that of the sea, breaking waves less than a kilometre away.

  At precisely three am Jock heard the sound of a low flying aircraft, probably a Cessna, approaching. This was it- he flashed his lights, and before he knew it the plane was passing directly overhead, climbing steeply and banking to its right. Even with Jock’s night glasses, it had all been so quick he didn’t even know if the illegal cargo had been jettisoned successfully.

  After five minutes nothing stirred, so Jock started up the motor, and under cover of darkness made his way out into the middle of the field. After a couple of precautionary circles, he spotted the contraband and pulled up with the back doors next to the sacks. Jock loaded the goods into the back, and tentatively made his way back to the outskirts of the field. Just as he was about to put the van lights on, all hell broke loose. From nowhere, a huge spotlight illuminated half the field; Jock was the proverbial rabbit caught in the headlights, but the difference was this rabbit was armed and dangerous. A loud hailer broke the silence.

  “This is Customs and Excise, leave the vehicle and lay flat on the ground, do not move or we will open fire” came the instruction.

  Jock didn’t go into a panic, worse, he went into regression, and he was back in the Hindu Kush and these were the Warlords of Northern Pakistan. Without hesitation, he removed
the Colt automatic from the glove box, exited the vehicle and opened fire. The lights from the vehicle went out, and Jock heard two simultaneous screams- with luck he had caused so much confusion he could still get out of there. Jock had to drive right past the Customs and Excise van to get out of the field. He saw two officers lying motionless, and without a second thought, he gunned the van down the lane he had already identified as an escape route- with luck he could still make it. He rounded a bend, the motorway lights were visible, but to his horror blocking his way were two police vans and several officers who were obviously marksmen, and there was too much firepower in this group for Jock to do any thing. He couldn’t do a u turn, the lane was too narrow, reversing was out of the question; these were trained shooters and he sensed they would open fire any second, so he stopped the van, very very slowly got out and laid on the cold tarmac face down.

  Three months later it took Dover Crown Court less than two days to convict Jock of the murder of two Customs and Excise officers, as well as possession of two hundredweight of cannabis. It took the presiding Judge less than two minutes to sum up and sentence Jock to a double count of life imprisonment, to serve a minimum of eighteen years.

  Jock Wallace had fallen a long way in a very short time,

  Chapter 23

  HMP Prison Parkhurst A Wing

  Built in 1805, Parkhurst Prison enjoyed a certain infamy as Britain’s toughest prison. In recent years, the prison has housed some of the country’s most notorious criminals, including Ian Brady the Moors murderer, the Kray Twins and the Yorkshire Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe. Various attempts at escape have taken place over the years; the most recent occurred in 1995 when three prisoners- two murderers and a blackmailer- made it out, only to be apprehended four days later in a garden shed in Ryde, Isle of Wight. Therein lies the reason why the prison houses so many dangerous felons- to escape not only requires the guile to get out of the confines of the prison, but once on the outside there is still the problem of getting off the island.

  It remains a common misunderstanding of the general public that prison life, and the regime that it entails, is an easy life- for those within the system, nothing could be farther from the truth. The reality of being locked up, usually with one or two other prisoners not of your choice, is a living hell and nowhere more so than on The Isle of Wight, where the sense of isolation felt by the inmates is heightened by the geography of being divorced from mainland Britain.

  Prison life, like civilian life, like the animal kingdom, develops a hierarchy within its community; the strong survive at the expense of the weak, and so gangs evolve with the strongest leading the pack, and the gangs that run the inside of the Prisons are the most feral of all.

  To survive the ordeal of lengthy incarceration, all inmates must pin their colours to one of the gangs; it is nothing more than self preservation, that is, unless of course you are one of the few individuals that can survive without the comfort of a group. These people, who didn’t need the security of gang membership, or the patronage of a gang master, were usually the hardest inmates; those who were doing the longest sentences, for the worst crimes, and who were considered the most resilient to the penal system and they could be found on A Wing.

  John Illes, a.k.a the Mouse, was one of these people. There were two reasons Mouse was on A wing- initially, simply because as one of the leading figures in the Brinks Mat job he was considered highly dangerous, and secondly, since his incarceration, his arresting officer one Frank Carter, Flying Squad, had let it leak, in the appropriate quarters, that the great blagger and hard man John Illes had offered to turn queen’s evidence against his fellow conspirators to obtain early or immediate release, what is known in prison parlance as a grass. The Prison Governor had decided that, as fearsome as Mouse’s reputation was, and indeed the respect shown to him by the rest of the prison community, there would always be the chance of some young buck trying to enhance their reputation by causing considerable harm to Mouse, so Mouse was on A wing as much to keep him out of harm’s way as to keep him under special surveillance.

  Mouse occupied Cell forty nine on the wing. He was the single occupant, and had been since his arrival. His visits had dropped off since he had instructed Danny Gallagher to employ the hitman to gain revenge for the double crossing following his sentence. John had done the usual thing since being locked up, and had even gained a degree from the Open University in medieval history. However, the one thing that occupied his mind above all else was the thought of escape; and he could not come to terms, like some, with seeing out his sentence, or even accepting his future in the prison.

  It was a normal Tuesday morning in the prison the wing was on lock down, and Mouse was sitting on his mattress when he heard the wardens walking along the steel infrastructure that constituted the floor, talking to what was probably a new inmate. A new inmate always caused great interest amongst the prison fraternity, who could it be, what have they done, were they known, what stories could they tell at recreation. Mouse was no exception and he went to his door and peaked out of the small hatch, in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the poor bastard.

  As Danny Gallagher walked past Mouse’s cell, escorted and flanked by two screws, Mouse nearly shouted in astonishment and amazement, but incredibly he kept his cool and watched as Danny was led down the wing and shown his hotel room about ten cells down. For the rest of the day all Mouse could contemplate was: was this a good thing or not that Danny was now going to be sharing the wing with him?

  The next morning at breakfast, Mouse waited for Danny to join the queue of hungry inmates. As Danny took up position, looking to all intents and purpose like the new boy, which he was, Mouse tucked in behind him, tapped him on the right side and moved to the left, Danny turned one way then the other.

  “Mouse!” he exclaimed in shock. “Jesus, you made me jump.”

  Both men realised the sense of déjà-vu going back to that meeting in Spain in 84, and burst out laughing, although the circumstances were far different, and neither man had anything to make them smile.

  So Danny and Mouse were reunited, and spent all their free time, as little as it was, together, huddled in a corner in the recreation hall. Their conversation was initially focused on the good old days, but as the weeks passed by and they ran out of stories, the conversation became more sporadic and maudlin. Eventually they began to discuss their circumstances, and together they agreed, some how- God knew how, they had to get out of this shit hole.

  One particular morning, Mouse was saying to Danny: “The fucking stupid thing is, I can get my hands on a million quid, more if necessary, surely a million quid would get us out of here, for fucks sake we could hire a small army for that.”

  “Yup” Danny said, “I think, Mouse, we need to start putting our feelers out, we both know plenty of people on the outside, at least we can start moving in the right direction, for a million quid we could, as you say, get a tank to come through these walls and Bruce fucking Willis to fly us out.”

  Both men grinned, but in their earnest plotting they had failed to notice Prisoner 080374 passing by within earshot, and he had heard enough to realise these two were not only talking about busting out, but deadly serious.

  During the next couple of weeks, Prisoner 080374 kept a watchful eye on Mike and Danny. He could lip read a bit, and was able to verify his earlier suspicions that these two villains were hell bent on jumping ship, and as it happened, so was he. It was now a problem of approaching the two conspirators. How could he tell these two bank robbers, who thought nothing of maiming anyone who got in their way, that he had been listening in on their conversations about escaping, and that he had a very good plan as long as they took him with them? In the end, Prisoner 080374 decided he had to bite the bullet- the worst that could happen would be a serious assault in the near future, but actually even that was highly unlikely, as he was more than capable of handling himself, and what’s more, over the time of his incarceration, he had proved to be an inmate not to be messed
with.

  It was a couple of days later that he plucked up the courage to approach Mouse. It was that time between the evening meal and lockdown when prisoners have the choice between recreation or staying in their cells with the doors open, so that they can to some extent talk between themselves, a privilege only allowed on A wing.

  Mouse was sitting alone in his cell when the door was knocked.

  “Mr Illes,” the prisoner started, “Could I talk with you on a highly delicate subject? It’s quite likely that you will be extremely angry before I finish, and that’s fair enough, but all I ask is you don’t interrupt when I’m speaking, you hear me out, and then if you want to give me a good hiding I wont complain.”

  Mouse was interested, what harm could this bloke do? If he didn’t like what he was saying he’d give him a good kicking alright, way before he’d finished if necessary.

  “Pull the door to, but keep a lookout for any screws, and this had better be good.” he said.

  Prisoner 030874, ex SAS trooper Jock Wallace, began: “Mr Illes, I have reason to believe you would dearly like to escape from this penitentiary, like every single person in here, me included, however I believe the difference between you and the rest is that you have both the resolve and the money, that you will need to make this happen.”

  Mouse raised his eyebrows, but was too inquisitive by now to toss this bloke Wallace out.

  “I was in the SAS for ten years,” continued Jock, “In that time, I committed as many crimes as you probably have, the difference being I was doing it for King and Country, whereas you were doing it for personal gain. I’ve murdered people in cold blood and undoubtedly witnessed more violence for the safety of the realm than you have in your life of crime.”

  “Your point is?” Mouse was starting to get agitated.