Essex Boys, The New Generation (32 page)

‘The cell I was moved to already had two occupants. I acknowledged them when I walked in and set about sorting out my bedding and personal effects. As I was pinning up a few photographs of friends and family, one of the guys pointed at my photos and said, “I know him, and him, and him. You must be Penfold. I’ve been waiting for you. Damon Alvin is the name, I’m Ricky Percival’s partner.” I have to admit I was a bit wary of him at first, but when he started reeling off the names of lots of other people I knew I thought he must be on the level.

‘I rang my friend Pete that evening – he lives in Southend and knows most of the faces around there. I told him about this guy Alvin who seemed to know everybody that I knew. I said that I was suspicious of him, but Pete said he knew him and assured me that he was “100 per cent”.

‘Alvin told me that he was on remand for possessing a kilo of cocaine with intent to supply. He asked me what I was in for and I explained that I’d had a difference of opinion with one of my fellow students at Southend College. This type of conversation is pretty standard in prison – the only thing you have in common with most of the guys you talk to is your criminality, so it’s inevitable you discuss the offences you’re locked up for. Alvin unnerved me, though. He questioned me about my involvement in crimes that I had never even heard about. He claimed that he’d heard about me through “the boys” and they had said that I was a fucking hit man! It’s not funny to be called such a thing, but I really laughed when he said it. Who has ever heard of a hit man residing and operating in a little seaside town like Southend? I think the only small residential areas that have regular unsolved assassinations are Emmerdale Farm, Albert Square and Coronation Street.

‘I asked Alvin if the person who had told him such bollocks happened to have been sniffing his kilo of cocaine. Alvin kept saying things to me like, “It’s OK, you can tell me, mate. Are you sure you didn’t try to shoot this person because Percival told me that you did?” In the end I told him to change the record because I had no idea what he was talking about.

‘Alvin also talked to me about the murder of a kid named Dean Boshell, who had been shot dead on the allotments in Leigh-on-Sea. I had read about the incident in the newspaper at the time, but I didn’t know who Boshell was or why he might have been shot. I guessed that he hadn’t been murdered because of some horticultural dispute. Alvin told me that the police were blaming Percival for the murder, but it was him who had done it. He didn’t seem worried and when I mentioned this to him he claimed that he didn’t need to be because the police didn’t have a shred of evidence against him. He was desperate to tell me more, but it’s not the done thing. I think that it’s unreasonable and disrespectful to burden a guy unnecessarily with that sort of information. I raised my hand, as if to say stop, and told Alvin that whatever he was planning to tell me I really didn’t want to hear it.

‘Over the next few weeks, Alvin told me that the police were taking him out of the prison to attend identity parades. Almost every day he would get up, have his breakfast and then disappear until later that evening. A sixth sense told me that something was not quite right about this. He would say, “Today, they took me to Birmingham for an identity parade, tomorrow I have to go to Colchester and Ipswich,” and another day he would say London. A prisoner might be required to attend a few identity parades, but Alvin made it sound like Essex police were trying to pin every unsolved crime in the country on him. Everybody knows that they wouldn’t dream of doing that to somebody.’

When Penfold had finished laughing, he told me that he had later learned that these outings Alvin was making were not to identity parades; Alvin was, in fact, attending de-briefing interviews at Gravesend police station.

‘Each night when he returned to the cell, it seemed as if he had been tasked to ask me specific questions about Percival’s alleged involvement in serious crime,’ Penfold said. ‘I became so concerned about the nature of these questions that I rang my friend Pete and asked him if he was sure about this Alvin. “He is fucking up to no good,” I said, but Pete wouldn’t have it. He kept telling me that Alvin was safe to mix with. I normally respect my friend’s judgement, but I just knew that Alvin was conspiring against me, Percival or both of us. The guy freaked me out so much I requested and was granted a move to a single occupancy cell. Alvin almost begged me to stay with him, but I told him straight I wanted to be on my own and I didn’t want to discuss anybody or their business any more.

‘About a week or two later, Alvin was moved to another location and I never saw him again. Nobody will ever convince me that the escape story wasn’t invented so that I could be moved into a cell with Alvin. It never did feel right. I don’t believe Alvin even knew the specifics of some of the crimes he was asking me about. It seemed as if he was thinking, “I’ll ask Penfold about shooting somebody, he must have done one of those.” When I was quite rightly denying any involvement in such a crime, he would say, “Well, some bouncer or villain must have upset you. What about so-and-so? Surely you must have wanted to do him?”

‘It’s not in dispute that after questioning me all evening he was being taken out of the prison by the police the following morning to be de-briefed. I’m not suggesting that the officers dealing with Alvin were involved in any sort of conspiracy with him. What I would say is that Alvin was trying to get me to admit to crimes or to implicate others so that he could give the officers information in the hope that he would be given some sort of reward. Considering the allegations he has made about me, it appears he wasn’t too bothered if the information he gave to the police was true or bloody fantasy.’

Thirty minutes after sitting down with Penfold, a bell rang to announce the end of visiting time. I shook hands with him and wished him well before we went our separate ways. Penfold returned to his prison hell and I made my way out into the car park. The two families from Manchester whom I had seen in the waiting room were trading insults as I walked to my car. From the little I could make out, it was apparent that one of them had been exposed as the source of the newspaper story they had been discussing earlier. I heard one man shout, ‘How could you do it to our kid?’ before the air was filled with screams.

As I drove away, I could see the males writhing on the floor and punching one another. The females were running around aimlessly, screaming at the top of their voices. A steady stream of prison officers were running towards the melee to break it up.

Honour amongst thieves? I doubt if such a thing has ever existed. It is survival of the fittest and fuck all the rest in their world. Damon Alvin is proof of that.

Jason Spendiff-Smith

In the summer of 2007, a girl named Stacie Harris contacted me, claiming to be the estranged daughter of John Marshall, whom I had known during my days with the Essex Boys firm. Stacie had seen photographs and newspaper articles relating to Marshall on my website. She had no idea that I was writing this book; she was simply trying to trace and contact people who had known her father.

Marshall was a close friend of Pat Tate and, in the days leading up to the Rettendon murders, he had agreed to look after a large amount of money for him. Five months after the murders, Marshall was found dead in the back of his Range Rover. Nobody has been charged in connection with the shooting.

The name Stacie Harris appeared familiar to me, but I couldn’t think where I knew her from. I gave her all the contact details I had and thought no more about it. Then one day, whilst trawling through Percival’s case papers, it dawned on me: Stacie Harris had been Jason Spendiff-Smith’s girlfriend and had spent what turned out to be Boshell’s last day alive in his company. I knew there was a possibility that Stacie might have shared her name with another girl from Southend; however, if this was the Stacie Harris from the Boshell case, there were numerous questions I wanted to ask her about her former boyfriend. I had been to Spendiff-Smith’s family home, written to him and telephoned him, but he had refused to acknowledge me.

I rang Stacie immediately. ‘Do you have an ex-boyfriend called Jason Spendiff-Smith?’ I asked when she answered the phone.

‘How do you know about that idiot?’ she replied.

Lady Luck had smiled on me, but my good fortune didn’t end there.

Stacie explained that it would be unlikely that we would be able to meet because she had left Essex and was now living far away in a town called Bilston. Yet another trek to Essex had been avoided – Bilston happens to be a mere ten miles from my home in Birmingham.

The following morning I met Stacie at a café on Bilston High Street. I didn’t know what Stacie thought of the town, but I was confident that the virtuous Mary Ellis, a fellow and former Leigh-on-Sea resident, wouldn’t have approved. In every direction I looked, all I could see were industrial buildings and more industrial buildings. Stacie and I talked about her father and I promised to include her story in this book in the hope that his family and friends would read it and contact her.

Stacie told me that her mother had been ‘well developed’ and looked much older than she actually was when she had met a handsome Essex Boy named John Marshall. ‘John was a bit of a ladies’ man, so I have been told,’ she said. ‘He had previously courted my mum’s sister. It sounds pretty awful now, but when Mum was just 13 or 14 she slept with John and fell pregnant with me. My grandmother was outraged and insisted that my mum leave Essex to go and live in Kent with some of our other family members. When I was growing up, Mum told me all about my dad and I always wanted to meet him. Unfortunately, there never seemed to be a right time. Dad had met another girl named Toni and had married and had three children with her. Mum said it would be wrong to disrupt their lives and I should wait until everyone concerned was older.

‘When I was 16, I fell pregnant and said to my mum that I wanted to contact my dad to tell him that he was going to be a granddad. I was, if I am being honest, fed up of being the “daughter in the dark”, as I called myself. Sadly, about two weeks later, any chance I ever had of meeting my dad was snatched away from me.

‘At about ten o’clock on 15 May 1996, Dad left his home in Billericay to finalise a business deal in Kent. His black Range Rover is believed to have crossed the Queen Elizabeth II Bridge from Essex into Kent at about midday on the same day. He didn’t return home and failed to keep other appointments that he had made that day. He was reported missing that night by his wife Toni. She told the police that she was worried because she had not heard from him and he would normally contact her regularly throughout the day. On 18 May, my dad should have celebrated his 35th birthday. My stepsisters, who were then aged thirteen and three, and my stepbrother, aged six, had bought him presents, but he never contacted them. Then, on 22 May, Dad’s body was found hidden beneath a bale of straw in the unlocked boot of his Range Rover. A police officer had discovered the vehicle parked in a residential street at Round Hill, Sydenham, in south London. Inquiries revealed that his car had been abandoned in that location the morning after his disappearance.

‘Dad had been shot once in the head and once in the chest in an execution-type murder. The only thing clear about the weapon used is that it was not a shotgun. His Range Rover keys, a grey Head sports bag, two mobile phones and a Patek Philippe 18-carat gold watch with a blue face were missing; however, £5,000 cash that he had taken with him the morning he disappeared was still in the glove compartment.

‘I had no idea Dad was even missing. I just remember Mum crying and refusing to let me turn on the television or radio. Mum didn’t want me finding out that he had been murdered because she was frightened that I would lose my unborn baby. I eventually found out about Dad when Mum was out shopping one day. I heard his name and saw his photo on the television news. Police officers were appealing for information about his murder. I had never met him, but he was still my dad and it broke my heart.

‘It saddens me that my brother and sisters don’t even know that I exist. I wanted to come forward at that time and tell his family about me, but Mum told me that I had to think of their feelings at such a difficult time. Mum did take me to the funeral, but we walked around the church whilst the service was going on because she didn’t want Dad’s family to see us and wonder who we were. When everybody had left the cemetery after Dad had been laid to rest, Mum and I went to his grave. That is one of the only memories I have of my father: his funeral, where I had to hide as if I were some sort of embarrassment. I would love to meet my brother and sisters. If they ever do read this, I hope they will get in touch with me.’

Stacie became quite emotional whilst telling me her story. I could not help but feel for her. In order to change the subject, I asked her what she could recall about Jason Spendiff-Smith because his credibility, or lack of it, had been an important factor during Percival’s trial. Despite retracting the allegation in his final statement, when he gave his evidence at the trial, Spendiff-Smith had once more alleged that he had received a threatening call from ‘Rick’, warning him to ‘keep his big mouth shut’, following the murder.

Stacie told me that she had first met Spendiff-Smith at Tots nightclub in Southend. ‘He was the jester amongst our crowd,’ she said. ‘He was always laughing and joking. He was funny, but a bit of a geeky dreamer, really. Like a lot of young men around Southend, he fancied himself as a bit of a gangster. He told me that his family were really wealthy, but they didn’t want anything to do with him. Everybody who went to Tots nightclub who knew Jason used to call him “the Ponce” because that’s all he did: ponce money and ponce drinks. He always used to wear a great big white coat to try to make himself look stocky, but everybody used to ridicule him, saying he looked more like the Michelin tyre man.