I went home that night shaking with the adrenalin rush. I couldn’t sleep and spent the night waiting for Mr Read, the suits, Martin or Rachel to break down my door.
The next morning a kid of about twelve arrived at my door. I recognised him as Mary Templeton’s, the wife of the local corner store’s owner, youngest offspring, He pushed a piece of paper into my hand and ran off.
The paper had a time and place on it — nothing else. Three o’clock. Hillhead Underground station.
I turned up half an hour early and hung around until one of the suits from the previous evening appeared and gave me another note. It was from Mr Read and I now had a new boss.
The next few years were a turning point for me. After a few months of thinning my shoe leather, Mr Read’s right hand man, a brutal beast called Craig Laidlaw, sussed out I had a talent for breaking and entering. He watched me at work a few times and, quite rightly, ranked me as nothing more than a talented amateur. He sent me to meet a man called Kelly Greenlaw.
Kelly was an ex-housebreaker well into retirement, who now spent as much time as possible staring at the bottom of an empty whisky glass in the local pub.
In his day he had been the dog’s bollocks as a burglar and now earned his dram money as a part time professor and tutor in the art of breaking and entering.
When I first met him he said nothing until I bought him a nip. It transpired that this was how things worked. I bought whisky and he opened up a little.
Kelly was an expensive tutor. When we graduated to hands on practical work I was expected to buy a quarter bottle from the Stockwell Off Sales. He watched as I jimmied locks, cracked window catches and smashed and trashed what couldn’t be picked. If I took too long I was despatched to the off sales for a second bottle.
To earn cash to feed Kelly’s habit I went back to loan collection for Mr Read but I didn’t mind. Kelly might have been an out and out alcoholic but he knew his stuff.
Then, one day, after a trip to the pub, Kelly took me to meet a couple of men up a back alley off Argyll Street in the centre of Glasgow.
I was presented with a door and made mince meat of it in seconds. Once inside we all climbed two floors and I was shown another door. I cracked it and we entered an office dominated by a row of mesh-protected windows, each with a customer slot. Each slot was attended by a till with its drawer wide open — empty for the world to see.
Kelly nodded at the far wall and to another door. This one was different. For a start it was made of metal and build into a steel frame. There was also the matter of two keyholes and a padlock — all keeping its contents nice and secure. 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 dozed off because around three in the morning I was woken by Tony and told to get ready.
We left by the front door. The receptionist was long in bed and, back then, night watchmen were a luxury few small hotels needed or could afford — so no one saw us leave. We hailed a taxi and headed south and over the River Thames.
I remember being surprised at how quiet the streets were. I had always imagined London to be a 24/7 sort of place but around us the streets were more alive with rubbish than people.
We reached an industrial district and got out of the taxi. George took a battered A to Z from his pocket and orientated himself before plunging us into a maze of canyons created by warehouse walls. For twenty minutes we wandered, sometimes backtracking until Tony pointed at a small two storey building. George nodded and we crossed the road, all the time keeping our eyes open for signs of life.
There was a double door to the building — I didn’t need to be asked and went straight to work on the lock and cracked it in seconds. A set of stairs faced us, leading up to the second floor, and my services were required again at the top.