Gordon Brown - 59 Minutes

However on the first of January 1986 I sent a message to London. It read:

‘ Scotland now ours — what next?’

We hadn’t really conquered Scotland. Any fool could see that but we had our fingers in most pies and the major jobs didn’t happen without our say.

Incredible as it might seem I was still none the wiser as to who in London was pulling the strings. I knew a lot more than I had at the outset and had been on frequent trips to meet my opposite numbers elsewhere in the country but, as to the boss, I was clueless. When I tried to discuss it with Martin, he didn’t seem interested and spent increasing amounts of time on holiday or just AWOL

By then I had more money than I could reasonably spend in the rest of my life. I had banked three houses in Scotland and was an early bird in the Spanish property market.

My car had progressed from a Ford Escort 1100 Mk1 to an Aston Martin DB4 — the one James Bond uses in Goldfinger. Women littered my path but no one had tied me down yet and the job was getting easier not harder.

I distanced myself from the day to day and if things went tits up I was six or seven people away from the pain. The police would still call but apart from enjoying a cup of tea and a Bourbon biscuit there was little else they could do. It didn’t stop them from trying but the better things got for business, the further from the action I flew.

When the phone call came it was hardly a surprise.

‘Be in London tomorrow, you’ve a room booked tonight in the Hilton on Park Lane. You’ll be away for a while — make arrangements.’

Click.

And so I went. Martin was nowhere to be seen and I went alone.

I’m not a fan of London. Never have been. Too many people, too little space and it takes hours to get out of the bloody place to somewhere less crowded. Then again I’ve mates who swear by the place. Love it. Plenty to do. Plenty to see. Plenty to eat. A real buzz.

I just don’t like it.

Full stop.

The Hilton was stuffed to the gunnels with Yuppies — the real deal. Early adopter mobile phone freaks. Filofax. Power suit. Braces — the whole Wall St thing in one lobby. I almost felt like I had to miss lunch to fit in.

I sat at the bar after unpacking and hated it. Sterile decoration and the yuppies got on my tits. I slipped out, glad to be free of the smell of leather and sweat. I found a small pub in the backstreets and drank myself into a good mood and then drank myself into a shit one.

I woke up the next morning with a hangover and no sense that I had earned it.

A London suit appeared around twelve and insisted I join him on a little trip north. The Ford Sierra we travelled in was clapped out and smelled of beer and curry. I was pushed into the back seat and any notion that I harboured of being treated with some decorum, given my track record, was beginning to diminish.

We crawled through the London traffic and slogged our way onto the North Circular before cutting into the back end of Highgate and into a run down council estate. The car stopped and an outstretched finger pointed to a door that looked like it had been firebombed. The house it served didn’t look much better.

I tell you now I was nervous. I was beginning to think that this was looking like my exit interview as opposed to promotion. I walked up a path strewn with empty cans of Tennent’s Super and began to rack my brains for the deals I had done over the last few months. For all the money I had salted away on the side, I could think of nothing that warranted a kicking — or worse.

Before I got to the door it opened. Another suit grabbed me by the arm and pulled me in. The door slammed behind me, and it was hard not to think of a condemned man being led from his cell.

The hall was stripped of wallpaper and carpet and the sole light bulb in the ceiling was either off or didn’t work. A door at the far end of the corridor opened and warm light flooded the space. I was pushed from behind and entered an altogether different world.

The occupant was obviously used to the double take that visitors went through and gave me space to let my jaw hit the ground.

Far from the expected hovel, the space around me would have graced a stately home and not put it to shame. The walls stretched double height around me and the floor space ran to the size of a basketball court. It reminded me of David Read’s gaff but far nastier on the outside and far grander on the inside.

Furniture was strategically placed amongst a full gambit of statues, display cabinets and paintings mounted on easels. The carpet was so thick that it threatened to suck the shoes from my feet and the room gave out an odour that would have been at home in a Chinese opium house a hundred years ago.

Near the far wall, behind a desk with a stone top that looked like it had been hewn from Mount Everest, sat a man. His head was bent down reading a sheaf of papers in front of him. He grunted and the two suits behind me left.

Thirty seconds silence followed.

‘Take a seat.’

The man pointed to a chair in front of his desk. He didn’t raise his head and continued to give the paper he was reading his full attention and me none. He lifted a pen, scribbled a little and shuffled the paper into a tray. He leaned back and eyes as grey as a wet Loch Lomond sky wandered over me.

‘What did we take last year?’

No preamble. No small talk.

‘10.6 million clear.’

‘And this year?’

‘12’

‘Is that good?’

I thought it was fucking fantastic but it was clear that he didn’t.

‘Much more and we start to step on toes that will bring down a lot more heat. Most of our cash is in small amounts. That keeps the major crime boys off our back.’

He smiled. Cold.

‘Nice strategy. I approve. I reckon twenty five million tops in Scotland before we have to change the way we do things.’

Twenty five. Christ that would be hard work. The organisation would have needed to double again to get close and that was a lot of organising and recruiting.

‘Not your worry,’ he said. ‘How do you fancy south of the river.’

For a second I was lost. South of what river?

‘Giles is moving north and his number two isn’t up to it. I don’t see anyone better for the job. That is if you fancy it?’

I knew who Giles was. Giles Taylor and he ran south London. That meant I had just been offered the second largest patch in the organisation next to north London.

‘Think about it.’

With that he hit a buzzer, the suits reappeared and my time was up.

On the way back to my hotel my head was spinning. This was an altogether different scale. I knew Glasgow and I could get by with the rest of Scotland but London was foreign territory and not without its share of heavy hitters. In Glasgow shooters were thin on the ground. In London they grew on trees.

This was a different game on a different ground.

In my hotel room I fell back on to my bed and let my head wander. I suspected this was another offer I couldn’t refuse. Martin was more than capable of running the operation in Scotland and, if I showed a lack of ambition, or worse, a lack of gratitude, I would get short shrift.

I went for a walk but I knew my time in Glasgow was up and when I got back to the hotel I made the call and said I was in.

I didn’t go back to Glasgow that weekend. In fact I didn’t see Glasgow again for near on eighteen months. London was a cold turkey job. There was no induction. Giles pissed off to the north and I took his seat the day after my meeting at the council house.

I relied on Martin to mothball my homes back north and keep things going. I had him ship me my clothes and a few bits and pieces. When the package arrived I realised, not for the first time, that when it came down to it, I really needed very little of my worldly goods to move on.