Powder Wars Read Online Free PDF

inside jobs. The Mellors had a small army of ‘card-markers’ on the firm. These were tipsters and spies, all over the docks and the city’s industrial estates, who would secretly pass on information about the comings and goings of merchandise in return for a piece of the action. Crucially, the card-markers would appraise the gang of security and the chances of being caught before the jobs went ahead.
    The risks were invariably and generally low, mainly due to the non-existence of modern CCTV and the low standards of alarm systems. Some warehouse employees were paid to ‘roll over’ – cooperate with the gang while the goods they were supposed to be guarding were stolen from under their noses, often in broad daylight.
    The gang’s early success was briefly marred by the incarceration of their boss of bosses, Billy Grimwood, in December 1970. Grimwood was jailed for seven years for shooting his business partner David Chand in London and threatening to open fire on the police officers who gave chase.
    Grimwood and Chand co-owned a drinking club in Liverpool but had gone down to London to discuss some business with the Kray twins. After the meet, they played snooker in one of the twins’ billiards halls in Great Windmill Street. Grimwood wanted to celebrate the success of the meeting by high-rolling it in the capital’s casinos. Chand, on the other hand, urged him to show restraint with their money. Grimwood shot him in the leg and dumped him in a nearby hospital. The police gave chase, but Grimwood threatened them with his loaded revolver, warning one of the startled officers: ‘Touch me, and there’s one up the spout for you.’ It was a serious case and the sentence reflected it.
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    PAUL: I was doing all right for myself in the late ’60s. I don’t mindadmitting that. I had loads of ventures on the go – all bringing in a tidy amount of dough, but I was obsessed by making money. I was hungry for it. More than hungry. I was fucking desperate, in all honesty. It burned me.
    That cunt Scarface had nothing on me. There was no way I was going to let it come to me. I grafted like a cunt from the minute I woke up to the minute my head touched the pillow. Prolific work rate, I had. I didn’t care what it was, legit or skewwiff. If it made a raise, I was on it, all over it like a fucking deranged animal. I was into all kind. The door on the Oslo. Had a little illegal cab firm on the go.
    I’d buy nice cars for cash, like a brand new Chrysler or what have you. Do a bit of posing in it for a few days. I had a new 1600 Capri when they first came out. Then I’d see the fucking thing parked up and think, ‘What the fuck did I buy that for, making me no money.’ Then I’d batter it to death on cabs.
    Greedy twat, I was. Do anything to make a raise. I even sold fruit off’ve a handcart. So one minute I’d be getting paid decent bags for a nice bit of work I’d carried off, know where I’m going? The next I’d be getting pennies for a pound of apples off an old biddy, helping them across the road and that. But that’s the way we seen ourselves, to be honest. As working-class fellows who were going out and taking a bit of extra for the good things in life. Bit Robin Hood, I know. Half a bit Kray-style propaganda, knowmean? But it was fucking true, la.
    We all had our little going concerns on the sly. Billy Grimwood was into the clubs and the pubs. Me dad had a little steeplejack business – when he wasn’t fucking harpooning whales off’ve the coast of Newfoundland, that is. Ritchie and Ronnie were into a bit of tarmacing and demolition. It made them a few shillings in between devilment, to be fair. Nothing too over-the-top, but it kept the busies and probation officers right off’ve their cases. Anyone making enquiries as to the source of their half-all-right incomes would have to take a view on it. They’d have to