Bonded by Blood Page 14

  ‘Yeah, I only bought it a couple of days ago,’ came the reply.

  PC Barham looked closely at the driver. ‘Aren’t you the guy I nicked last year in a stolen Honda?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sure it was you.’

  ‘No, it was my brother, Craig Rolfe.’

  The officer completed the paperwork and explained what was required. He asked the driver to sign the papers and then gave him a copy, saying that he would be reporting him for not having any road tax. The driver made no reply and elected to produce his documents at Basildon police station. He then walked to a nearby house.

  PC Barham was not convinced that the driver to whom he had given the ticket was Michael Rolfe and after making enquiries at Basildon police station, he and WPC Ponder visited an address in Calshot Avenue, Chafford Hundred, Grays. There, parked alone on the drive, was the blue Range Rover. It was now 2.20 a.m., less than three hours after they had stopped the vehicle in Pitsea. The officers went to the door of the house, where PC Barham knocked repeatedly.

  After a short time, they heard a male voice coming from a first-floor window above the door. ‘Yeah, what?’

  The officers stepped back and PC Barham pointed his torch at the man. ‘Hello, Craig.’

  ‘Yeah, what do you want?’

  ‘I stopped you driving earlier on tonight.’

  ‘You didn’t stop me.’

  ‘I am reporting you for driving while disqualified.’

  Craig Rolfe didn’t answer, he simply closed the window.

  The following morning, I rang Tucker about the threats he, Tate and Rolfe had been making about me. ‘I hear you want to speak to me,’ I said.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving Raquels when I saw you in Southend?’ he asked.

  ‘I had had enough of everything,’ I explained. ‘I admit I was wrong not to discuss it with you, but I just wanted to walk away. I told the manager Maurice was taking my place and the door was safe. You’ve not lost out. It is still your door. In fact, you have complete control now instead of going down the middle with me.’

  ‘But people are talking,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck about people,’ I replied. ‘I’m out of it.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Tucker said and the line went dead.

  On 5 December, I was contacted by a detective from Basildon police station. He told me the police were taking the threats Tucker and Tate had made to shoot me seriously. People within the firm were discussing it and, inevitably, the police had got to hear about it. He also told me that Detective Chief Inspector Brian Storey wanted to talk to me about events leading up to the death of Leah Betts.

  ‘I’ve moved away from Basildon now. I don’t need this shit,’ I said.

  It was impressed upon me that I could attend the police station voluntarily or be taken there under arrest. If I wanted to move away and start a new life, then I would have to clear up any outstanding matters with the police first. It would be an informal chat. I could then go off and begin my new life, no strings attached. He also asked if Debra would be willing to talk.

  ‘She has nothing she can tell you,’ I said. ‘She knows nothing. She only worked at the club occasionally, searching females as they entered.’

  The detective said they would be speaking to every member of staff, so it was in both of our interests to get it over and done with. In the end, I agreed that we would both attend South Woodham Ferrers police station the following day at about 2 p.m.

  I was due to see a mutual friend of Tate and Nicholls’s the following day at 2 p.m. in Great Blakenham, near Ipswich. He was going to give me an update on what Tucker and Tate were up to. I wanted to know what, if anything, they were planning for me, but there seemed little point now. The police had told me what their intentions were. That afternoon snow began to fall heavily. Soon everywhere was covered under a white blanket.

  That night, Tate was up to his old tricks. He was at home with Lizzie Fletcher, who had called the London Pizza Company in Wickford and asked for a pizza with different toppings on different sections. Roger Ryall, the manager, told Lizzie they didn’t do that type of pizza. Tate grabbed the phone and started swearing at him. Mr Ryall said later, ‘I wasn’t going to take that, so I said, “Get rid of that attitude and I will send you a pizza.”’

  He obviously didn’t know the type of man he was talking to. Tate became more irate and slammed down the phone. Half an hour later, he turned up at the pizza shop, picked up the till and hurled it across the room at Mr Ryall. Fearing for his life, Mr Ryall backed out of the office and pushed the panic button which was linked directly to the police. It was his second mistake of the evening. Tate, fearing arrest and a return to prison, overreacted. He punched Mr Ryall in the face, grabbed him by the hair and smashed his head into a glass plate on the draining board. Tate told him not to call the police or he would come back and smash up the place and hurt his staff. However, the panic button had already been activated and officers arrived after Tate had left.

  When Tate was identified, and the police told Mr Ryall who he was and a bit of his history, Mr Ryall decided not to press charges after all. Only Tate could turn ordering a pizza into an orgy of violence.

  Now I had spoken to Tucker myself, I wasn’t too concerned about the rumours that were flying around. He hadn’t, after all, threatened to shoot me in any conversation I’d had with him. It was probably just wannabes stirring it up, gloating over the fact Tucker and I had fallen out. I thought that once I had spoken to the police, my purpose would have been served and nobody would have any further business with me. I could at last see light at the end of the tunnel. I was awakening from the nightmare.

  The following day, Tucker, Tate, Rolfe and their friend, Peter Cuthbert, sat at table number 50 in TGI Friday’s restaurant at the Lakeside shopping centre in Thurrock, Essex. As soon as they sat down, Helen Smith, a staff member, approached the men and asked them if they wanted a drink. They ordered three bottles of Beck’s beer and a Diet Pepsi. When Helen Smith walked away to sort out the drinks order, another member of staff, Linda Wolfe, walked over to the table and asked them if they wished to order any food. Rolfe said they were all hungry and that they wanted to order straight away. Tucker and Cuthbert ordered fajita baguettes, Tate ordered steak and mushrooms with a baked potato, Rolfe ordered Pasta Santa Fe with garlic bread. As they sat in the restaurant, Tucker received the call he had been waiting for. The Rettendon drop was being made the next day. The Canning Town cartel advised him to get the money organised. Everything, Tucker thought, was coming together. They just had to wait for Tucker’s Judas to call with the exact location and the time of the drop.

  Cuthbert sat quietly waiting for his food and drink but after receiving the call, Tucker, Tate and Rolfe seemed excited. They began fooling around and generally taking the piss out of the staff. They kept asking the waitress to let her hair down and eventually, after their constant pestering, she did.

  ‘Oh, yeah, nice. You’ve got to come to the Berwick Manor on Friday. Ask for Tony Tucker. Tony Tucker, it’s easy, it rolls off the tongue,’ Tucker shouted out.

  She said she might but she had no real intention of going because she had to work on Friday evenings. She mentioned to Tucker that she knew a man who worked at Hollywood nightclub in Romford. To her surprise, Tucker said he ran security there and he would ring the club and find out who this man was, as he had never heard of him. He tried dialling the number, but his phone wouldn’t work, so he used Tate’s. When he finally got through and asked if they had a bouncer called ‘Boysey’, somebody must have given him the man’s name because Tucker started laughing and said, ‘What? Mick! Fucking sack him.’ Although he continued laughing, he assured the waitress he was only joking. At the end of their meal, the bill came to £56. Tucker threw £70 on the table and Tate threw down £10. All four left shortly afterwards.

  Around the same time as they were having their lunch, Debra and I were driving to the police statio
n. We were met at the door by four detectives. Two wished to speak to Debra. DCI Storey and another detective wanted to speak to me. Debra knew nothing and therefore could say nothing, so I said I had no objection to her talking to anybody. However, if, as they had said, this was an informal chat, then I would only be prepared to talk to DCI Storey on his own. Storey, in my opinion, knew the score. I think he knew the pressure I was under. He agreed to see me alone.

  As I was meeting the police, Tucker received a second telephone call. This time it was from his Judas in the Canning Town cartel, who was calling from a payphone near Great Blakenham. The caller told Tucker he wanted to meet him, along with Tate and Rolfe, later that evening to show them where the drop was going to be made so they could rehearse the robbery at the scene. Moments later, the same caller telephoned Darren Nicholls from the same payphone. It’s not known what was said, but phone records confirm that both of these calls were made.

  Storey soon made it clear to me that he was well aware of the firm’s involvement in just about everything. He also knew what he could prove and, despite knowing the facts, what he couldn’t. He knew the pill that had taken Leah’s life had come via Mark Murray. Murray had been arrested the morning after Leah had collapsed. Murray had been questioned, but nobody was going to give evidence against him. I could see Storey’s task was painful, but he knew at that time the only people he could realistically prosecute were Leah’s friends, whom he knew had purchased the drugs in Raquels.

  Storey had heard that the firm had threatened to shoot me. These were serious people. He knew it wasn’t an idle threat. He asked me if I would make a statement about the sale and use of drugs in Raquels. I didn’t have to implicate anyone. I explained that I had enough problems with Tucker without him hearing I had assisted the police. ‘He’s threatening to shoot me now,’ I said, ‘what do you think he will be like if he hears I’ve given your mob a leg up?’ Storey assured me that if I made a statement, police protection would be given to my family should Tucker and Tate try to carry out their threat. He added that there was always the possibility that if I refused I may be subpoenaed to court, although he made it clear he wasn’t offering me an ultimatum, he was just being honest with me. I told him I understood my position. I couldn’t put my family at risk for things I had done, but I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of doing what he asked. I told him I would give it some serious thought, discuss it with my family and speak to him again in a couple of weeks.

  Our conversation lasted until about 4 p.m. When I came out, Debra was waiting. She said they had kept her for half an hour and had only asked about who was working on the night and other trivial matters, facts they already knew. I left the police station feeling a little better about everything.

  Debra and I had asked her mother to look after the children whilst we were at the police station. It was approximately ten past four when we left South Woodham Ferrers to pick them up. The snow had continued to fall and was now perhaps three or four inches deep. We arrived at Debra’s mother’s house at about five o’clock and stayed for a cup of tea. Then we drove on to Wickford, where we had something to eat, before heading towards the Rettendon Turnpike, the main roundabout on the A130. By now, it was about 6.30. It was a miserable night. The snow was still falling and it was pitch-black.

  At around the same time as we were nearing the Rettendon Turnpike, Tucker, Tate and Rolfe were approaching it from the Southend arterial road to rehearse the Canning Town cartel’s cocaine robbery with a man they thought was their co-conspirator. We must have negotiated this busy roundabout at around the same time, but we didn’t see each other. I was concentrating on getting home with Debra and the children. They were no doubt focusing on the drugs they would steal and then sell, making them millionaires.

  Chapter 11

  Detective Superintendent Dibley had been with Essex Police for 31 years. During that period, Dibley had investigated twenty-five murders: only two had remained unsolved. He had joined the force at the age of seventeen and was only four months away from retirement when on 7 December, just after 8.30 a.m., he received a call asking him to take charge of the biggest case of his entire career. Three men had been found shot dead in a Range Rover that had been parked down a farm track in Rettendon. Although Dibley was on leave that day, a colleague had followed protocol by telephoning him to offer him the case, as the murders had taken place on his patch.

  Never one to turn down a challenge, Dibley told his colleague that he would take charge of the investigation, but first he had go to his daughter’s house to change an electrical fitting. Considering the crime scene was covered with a blanket of snow that had footprints and tyre marks embedded in it that were melting before the officers’ eyes, it may not have been a wise decision to delay the investigation for a faulty electrical fitting.

  When Dibley had completed the work at his daughter’s home, he made his way to Rettendon. There were no houses overlooking the scene or even any close enough to consider conducting house-to-house enquiries. It was so remote there was no chance of a witness having seen or even heard anything. Dibley stood in the lane and thought, ‘Christ, where do we start?’

  At that stage, Dibley had no idea who the three dead men were. Nobody had telephoned the police saying they were concerned about a missing son, boyfriend or husband. The Range Rover provided no clues regarding their identities either. The man in whose name the vehicle was registered was found to be alive and well but he was unable to throw any light on the occupants because he had sold it on some months earlier; however, police records did show that the vehicle had been stopped the previous day.

  When the two officers who had stopped the vehicle, DC Pullinger and DC Williams, were contacted, they said that at approximately 4.30 p.m. they had been on duty in plain clothes in an unmarked police vehicle. As they left Grays police station and drove into Brooke Road, they had noted a blue Range Rover travelling in front of their vehicle. The Range Rover parked adjacent to the front entrance of the police station, and they parked directly behind it. As DC Pullinger got out of the car, the sole occupant of the Range Rover did likewise. The officer recognised the driver as Craig Rolfe and called out to him. They then had a conversation regarding a future appointment to obtain a statement from his partner concerning a motoring allegation. Dibley had his first name.

  It was only when local news bulletins about three men being found dead in a Range Rover started being broadcast that relatives and friends began reaching for the phone. At 2 p.m. Tucker’s partner rang. ‘My boyfriend, Anthony Tucker, was out last night in company with Pat Tate and Craig Rolfe. They were in a blue Range Rover part index NPE, which is jointly owned by them but not registered in their names. They were due to take me and two others out for dinner last night but didn’t come home.’ Before the officer who took the call could answer, the woman became hysterical, saying that she knew they were the deceased and that they had been murdered. She went on to say that unless action was taken quickly ‘it wouldn’t end there’. She also said that by the time the police got the killers, they would need to ‘dig them up’.

  Totally distraught, in hysterics, she demanded to be allowed to identify the bodies. When the officer asked for her name and address, she refused to give it.

  At 2.20 p.m., Craig Rolfe’s mother called the police. Mrs Rolfe said, ‘My son is missing. He has an F-registered Range Rover 3.9 Vogue, colour blue. I don’t know any other details concerning the car. I last saw him yesterday between 3 p.m. and 4 p.m. at my address, when he picked his daughter up.’

  DS White, who took the call, told Mrs Rolfe, ‘Our inquiries are at an early stage. If we have any positive information, someone will speak to you.’

  At five past seven, Tucker’s brother, Ronnie, called the police. ‘Can someone call me if one of the deceased is my brother, Tony Tucker. I suspect that it is him, so a phone call will do.’ At 9.35 p.m., DC King took a call from Marie Tate, who asked if her son, Pat, was one of the three dead men. The officer was unable to give
her any information but said someone from the incident room would make contact with her.

  When Tucker’s father Ronald, aged 63, of Folkestone, Kent, heard the news of his son’s death, he suffered a heart attack, collapsed and died. God only knows what Mrs Tucker went through that day and has undoubtedly been through since.

  As the identities of the dead men became known, the nature of the executions began to make sense to DS Dibley. Especially when it came to one of the dead men. DS Dibley had met Tate several years earlier. Dibley was a detective inspector at the time, investigating a number of armed robberies that Tate was rumoured to have been involved in. Before Dibley could interview Tate, he had escaped from the magistrates’ court, fled to Gibraltar, been brought back and imprisoned. Undeterred, Dibley had gone to visit Tate at Swaleside prison in the hope he could persuade him to confess to the unsolved robberies. Dibley was sitting in the visiting room staring at the doorway through which Tate was going to enter. As it was an unarranged visit, Tate would have no idea whom the visit was from or what it was about. Dibley hoped the element of surprise would help him talk Tate into assisting him. When Tate appeared, it was Dibley who was surprised. He later said, ‘I have never seen such a big man in the whole of my life. He actually took all the light away from the room, that’s how big he was. His arms, chest . . . everything was just enormous.’

  When Tate sat down, Dibley said, ‘Hello, Mr Tate, you don’t know me, but I’m investigating some armed robberies . . .’

  For the next half-hour, Dibley talked, talked and talked. He was telling Tate what he suspected him of being involved in and was saying the only way he would get parole on his current sentence would be if he came clean about everything. Tate did not even blink. The whole time he just sat staring at Dibley without saying a word. Then Tate got up and walked out of the room. The next time Dibley set eyes on him, Tate was lying dead in the Range Rover.

  That morning, I’d arranged to meet my brother, Paul, in London. I travelled on the train, as I didn’t fancy battling through traffic in the snow. At about eleven o’clock, I rang home to see if there were any messages on the answering machine. There was one. A detective was asking me to contact him as soon as I got his message. It sounded urgent. I rang him from a call box at King’s Cross station.