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Kelly pushed me forward.
    It took a little longer for me to crack it but we were
in soon enough. This seemed to impress my colleagues.
    The room beyond was wall to ceiling with shelving.
Each shelf was stuffed with paper. I pulled out one of the bits of paper and
recognised it as a betting slip. That explained the windows and tills. This was
a back street bookie’s shop.
    In the centre of the floor stood a small safe bolted
to the floor. It looked new and solid and reminded me of the safe at Malcolm Smillie’s
place. Kelly grunted and got to his knees. I stepped back but was pushed
forward by one of Kelly’s friends and sat down next to the safe. It was clear I
was here to learn.
    Kelly walked me through what he was doing; downing the
obligatory quarter bottle as he did so. He explained how the safe worked and
what we needed to listen for. I thought the stethoscope he used was a joke but,
back then, safes really could be cracked by listening for the tumblers falling.
    He popped it open and I stood up, expecting the men to
empty the contents but Kelly closed the door, spun the tumbler and handed me
the stethoscope.
    It took me three minutes – a good ten quicker than
Kelly to crack it. He was impressed. Mr Read had the need of a good safe
cracker and I had just pulled on the team strip.
    That was the last night I saw Kelly. He vanished and
turned up in the King George V dock a week later. Nobody suspected foul play. I
reckon he just got tired of life and went for a swim – blind drunk. But I
always wondered if my little demonstration in the bookies had been the straw
that had broken his booze-soaked back.
    Mr Read worked me hard. I was hardly an expert at my
craft and I had no choice but to learn as I went. At first my jobs were far
from Glasgow . With a varying set of companions I travelled the
length and breadth of the country – Newcastle , Liverpool , Cardiff , Manchester , Derby , Carlisle , Plymouth – the list was endless.
    Each time the routine was the same. I would get my
orders via Mary’s kid and meet a variation of my new friends at Central
Station. They would have the destination, tickets and a carry-out.
    On arrival at the town of choice we would meet up with
some locals in a dingy pub. Always a dingy pub. They would explain the gig and
point us in the right direction. Job done we never hung around and, on the
occasions that we could not get the last train out, there would be a car to
take us home. For two years I saw the UK by night.
    After a while I realised that we never touched London and I
once asked why, only to be told to mind my own fucking business.
    A year later I found out why.
    With my cash flow improving I had moved out of my flat
and bought a semi-detached house on the south side. Nothing too grand but I was
on the up. The jobs were regular and so far trouble free. I wasn’t high enough
up to get the big cut, but I got a fair wage and my skills as a safe cracker
were growing.
    By now Mary’s kid had given way to the phone and when
I received a call to go to the train station I packed my bag as usual and met
up with two of Mr Read’s elder statesmen - George Cummings and Tony Wright.
    George and Tony were heavyweights and usually reserved
for big jobs. I’d never been with them on a gig before. When we boarded the London train I
knew this was something different.
    The journey south was done in near silence. George and
Tony slept most of the way. The silence made me nervous and I didn’t close an
eye for the whole journey.
    When we pulled in at Euston, I was exhausted and they
looked fresh. This time there were no locals and no dingy pub. We took a taxi
and jumped out near the Albert Hall and checked into one of the myriad of small
hotels that surround it. I had never been to London before but was destined
to see little on this trip.
    Once in the hotel room George and Tony got to work on
the phone and told me to get some shuteye. I thought I was still too uptight to
sleep but must have