Gordon Brown - 59 Minutes

I was based in Blackheath in an apartment not far from the grass. From day one I was Jock unless the person was face to face with me when I was Sir. I had a learning curve that made going to the moon look easy. I knew no-one, I knew little of what was going on and my reputation was worth zip.

For a fortnight I tried to get up to speed and used what charm I had to try to endear myself to the people I needed day to day. This failed in a big way. They just took the piss. The final straw came as I was unwinding over a pint in the local, three weeks to the day since I had taken over.

Giorgio, my number two — he was the one that wasn’t up to the main man’s job — a fourth generation Greek with a first generation accent, was leaning on me for a bigger cut or he was for the off. He knew I needed him and was striking while the iron was burning a hole in my shirt. He wanted double what he currently got and since I had the same deal in London as in Scotland this would come straight out of my pocket.

I listened and tried to reason with him but the more I talked the more it sounded like a negotiation. At one point I got up and went for a slash. The urinals were all occupied so I used a cubicle.

As I let go I heard a familiar voice enter and I listened as Mike Ashby, Giorgio’s minder, gobbed off about how his pay was just about to double.

I realised that Giorgio had already pocketed the increase he was asking for. This was going nowhere good and I needed to act. I pulled the chain and exited, nodding a hello to Mike who suddenly looked like he wanted to be somewhere else. I walked up to Giorgio and said ‘Let’s take a walk.’ He objected but I told him I needed some air to consider his position and he stood up to follow me out.

It was a clear night and we walked towards the heath talking nonsense but keeping the nonsense around Giorgio’s demands and he followed like a lap dog.

We entered the heath and the street lights lost the battle with the dark. Giorgio wanted to know where we were going but, before he finished the question, I squared up to him and gave him my best Glasgow kiss — a head butt to the forehead. He went down in a heap and I lashed out with my foot and caught him in the face. Something broke and he screamed and tried to get up. I lifted my foot and brought it down on his hand and crunched half a dozen bones. He howled and, for good measure, I kicked him in the groin.

I bent down, grabbed his hair and pulled his head up.

‘You’re gone by tomorrow. I mean gone.’

How is the clock doing? Not long. I need to speed up.

News of the incident with Giorgio spread like wildfire and I was eyed with a combination of suspicion and respect.

Giorgio left London — although to this day I have no idea where he went. I appointed a young lad called Spencer Cline as my number two. This managed to piss off about half the team I worked with, as Spencer was a new recruit I had employed on Martin’s recommendation. Spencer had worked with Martin in London for a few years and I needed someone who was loyal to me and not the old school.

I dumped the nicely, nicely approach and went for the cold heartless bastard approach. I found I was good at it and kicking backsides was something I seemed to do well.

I re-organised the set up and appointed ten direct reports, each with their own remit. We met every Monday at 10.00am and Spencer was charged with taking the notes. He encrypted them and sent them out on the Tuesday. This was business and I had a target in my head — make south London number one.

This took balls. London wasn’t like Glasgow. You could walk a quarter of a mile in London and be on someone else’s patch. You could walk another ten yards and be in your grave. This was truly Long Good Friday land and, with one mind on how it all finished for Bob Hoskins, I had to get down and dirty.

I went after local gangs with a simple offer — join or cease to be. This led to more pitched battles than was good for a man. We fought where needed and some months we could be found knife in hand, gun in back pocket for fifteen nights straight. We rattled cages in a big way and we didn’t always win. But we won enough and a year after I joined we overhauled the north as the biggest earner.

I didn’t stop there. In less than eighteen months I was running out of steam south of the river. Most of the gangs that mattered were either on our side or were gone. Gaining new income was proving tougher. We set in motion some big jobs but these took time and were risky. So I turned my attention to the East End.

Technically this was north of the river but Giles was in no shape to tackle it. Unlike myself, Giles had taken a more laissez faire approach to his new job. After all it was already the biggest so why bust your nuts trying to grow it. As such he let a mean little fucker called Graham Stern go unchecked and he was now in control of most everything east of India Dock.

Graham was half German on his dad’s side and couldn’t have been more at home had he put on jackboots and a swastika. He was psychotic and like most psychopaths clever with it. Killing was no issue to him, as he didn’t value anyone but himself and his boyfriend — a circus acrobat called Helmut that hung around him like a cheap necklace.

Being gay back then still wasn’t acceptable but Graham had a wife for show and nobody messed with Graham and Helmut. If they did, they didn’t do it twice.

He worked out of an old mill in Silvertown and lived in the west end. He started work at six in the morning and was rarely home before midnight. I could see the writing on the wall even if my co-workers were blind. This boy was aiming for the top but neither Giles nor the old man seemed bothered. So I decided to go head to head and take him out.

I remember the night we went in. Dark as a fat man’s sphincter. The cloud cover was full and the moon new. The lighting in Silvertown was poor. The lateness of the hour was accompanied by a mist that drifted off the river and settled like a wet blanket on the roads.

There were twenty one of us. All armed and all fully aware of what we were getting into.

The operation was simple. The same old story — cut off the head of the monster and let the rest die. We concentrated everything on getting into Graham’s office and hitting him hard.

At first things went well. The darkness was good cover and the mist deadened any noise we made. The entrance to the industrial estate was unguarded and Stern’s office light blazed like a beacon from the third floor of the old mill. There were two guards at the entrance but they looked bored and were swigging liberally from a hip flask. By the time we landed on them they were too drunk to respond and we were in.

I hung back letting Spencer take point. We flooded up the stairs and into the office and hit trouble.

Our scout had told us there were three or four in the building but when we opened the door I counted five times that number. We had the element of surprise but not for long and instead of a quick in and out we ended up in a fire-fight while Stern fled.

I ordered Spencer and two others to follow me to chase down Stern. We left the team to slug it out and flew down the stairs to the sound of retreating gunfire. We caught the taillights of a BMW as it fishtailed out of the complex. Running for our car we gave chase but, in the mist, it was a hopeless cause and we lost them.

We cruised for an hour before heading back to Stern’s office. The fire-fight was over and we had control but without Stern it was a hollow victory. We leaned on his team but they were either too scared to talk or didn’t know where he was. I needed to finish this and finish it with pace.

Spencer piped up and suggested we try his home. It was a long shot but if he was going to go to ground he might try and fly by his house first. It was worth a shot.