I like to take chances. Some pay off and some don’t. But as my dear old dad used to say “You’ll never know, unless you have a go.”
Bobby Philips was one of my big chances.
I first met him in 1982. He’d already been on the run for two years by the time I tracked him down to a little town just outside Malaga in Spain. He was sitting outside a small cafe drinking coffee and brandy and reading a newspaper. He was early forties, a few pounds overweight and his hair had gone grey in places, but it was him, no doubt about it.
I made my way over to his table and casually sat down opposite. He didn’t for one moment acknowledge me, just carried on staring at his four-day-old English newspaper and sipping his brandy. I broke the silence.
“Morning mate. Lovely day. What’s the grub here like? Any good?”
Now I had his attention, he’d obviously recognised the east London accent but remained cautious. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Dunno mate. I only ever have the coffee and brandy.”
I smiled.
“Sounds good to me. Great way to start the day.”
I called over to the waiter and ordered. We sat there in silence until my liquid breakfast arrived. I downed the brandy in one go. It reminded me of the time I syphoned petrol out of my dad’s car when I was a kid. My whole body shuddered.
“Woah, that’s woken me up!”
For the first time, Bobby Philips smiled.
“Wait till you taste the coffee, it’s like rocket fuel.”
We both laughed. The ice was broken. He looked at me for a few seconds before speaking. It was as if he was weighing me up.
“So what brings a Londoner like you, to La Tosca? I mean, it’s not on the coast so there’s no beach and let’s face it, it’s not as lively as Southend.”
I couldn’t help it. I just came out with it.
“I was looking for you Bobby. It’s taken me a while. But here I am.”
His reaction took me by surprise. He didn’t seem shocked, he didn’t try to leave, in fact, he showed no emotion whatsoever. He simply called over to the waiter.
“Two more coffee and Brandys please.”
Then he looked at me and spoke.
“Best make ourselves comfortable while we’re having our little chat then. Yeah?”
I nodded.
“Sounds good to me Bobby.”
The waiter was back in just a few minutes. Once he’d left and was out of earshot, Bobby looked me up and down.
“Okay, well you certainly aint old bill. Cos I can smell em, and to be honest I couldn’t care less if you were. Nothing they can do over here in Spain. No extradition between our two great nations, so no way they’d let you take me back. Which means you’d have to take me back by force. And that’s gonna take some muscle and some planning and all of that costs money. For what? Little old me, who nicked a few quid a couple of years ago and then fucked off to Spain before they could catch me. I mean, let’s face it, I aint no Ronnie Biggs!”
He laughed when he mentioned Ronnie Biggs. So did I.
He was right on both counts. He was safe in Spain. And no more than a few dozen people back in England had ever heard of Bobby Philips, unlike Ronnie Biggs who was a household name.
I took my time before answering. I could almost hear the wheels in Bobby’s head going round wondering who the fuck I was. I took a mouthful of coffee. He was right…it did taste like rocket fuel. I decided it was time to tell Bobby a few lesser-known facts.
“On the second floor of Scotland Yard, there is an office. Room 206 to be precise. In that office is a filing cabinet containing 117 files. That’s the number of people the Police know to have fucked off to Spain to avoid arrest for a crime they’ve committed in the UK. Obviously, your name is on one of those files Bobby, every blag that you’ve been involved in, every job you’ve been connected with or suspected of is written down in that file. Even all the small-time stuff you did as a kid will be in there somewhere. That last job you did back in 1980 with Paul Morgan and Danny Roberts, where you all got about two grand each? That’s in the file.”
His face changed, he was curious but also slightly irritated by me.
“So what are you saying? What the fuck do you want with me?”
I ignored his question and continued.
“Scotland Yard is becoming sophisticated. It’s moving with the times. All written information is slowly being put onto a computer system. HOLMES, they call it, after good old Sherlock. Can you imagine that? EVERY file that they’ve got, and there are hundreds of thousands of them, has to be transferred to a computer. It’s going to take them about three years to complete.”
Bobby looked disinterested.
“So what? Doesn’t concern me.”
I smiled.
“That’s where you’re wrong Bobby. Guess who’s in charge of putting all the information in Room 206 onto a computer. All 117 files, including yours?”
Now I had his attention.
“You?”
I shook my head.
“No not me Bobby. My older brother Dave has that particular job. He works for the firm that’s got the contract to computerise Scotland Yard. He also has the power to make you disappear. Instead of 117 files being transferred to Computer what if he only did 116? That would make you a free man Bobby, no more having to stay in sunny Spain. You could go back to dreary old England and walk around the East End again. See a few old faces, and drink warm beer. Or you could stay here and not worry about old bill knocking on your door for crimes you committed back in the day. Because believe me Bobby it’s only a matter of time before there’s an extradition treaty between us and Spain. Two years max my brother’s been told.”
He’d listened intently to what I’d said. Once again I could almost hear the wheels going round in his head. He asked the obvious question.
“Okay, so what do I have to do to make that file disappear?”
I didn’t beat about the bush. I told him straight.
“You have to open up a Chubb JX260, Grade 5 safe, take out six million in cash and walk away.”
Now he looked confused. But before he had time to speak, I continued.
“Perhaps I’d better tell you what I do for a living. I’m head of security for the largest safety deposit company in London. Seven flights of stairs below the pavement of Hatton Garden is a small room containing the Chubb JX260, a safe that I believe you are well acquainted with. In fact, you opened one up back in 1980. I know that because it’s written in your file.”
Bobby Phillips drank down his Brandy before commenting.
“So, let me get this straight. You want me to open up a Chubb JX260 and steal six million for you. In return for me doing this service, I get to go back to blighty a free man because your brother will destroy my file at Scotland Yard? Doesn’t seem like much of a deal to me.”
I leaned forward.
“Not quite Bobby. The reason you’re stealing six million is because two million is for me, two million is for my brother and two million is for you. Does that sweeten the deal?”
Bobby smiled.
“Yep, that sounds much, much better. But I need to ask a few questions. Firstly how do you know that there is that much cash in the safe, secondly can you guarantee me access to the safe for at least thirty minutes, because that’s how long I’d need and lastly how am I going to just walk away with that amount of cash?”
I knew I had him. It was now just about tying up the loose ends.
It was time to tell Bobby Philips my story.
“I work for a company called Bullen, Weisman and Stokes, three old gentlemen, all in their eighties. They’ve had the company for over fifty years and during that time have amassed a considerable fortune. Only the three of them know the combination of the Chubb safe, and only a handful of people even know it exists. And the reason for all this secrecy is that this safe is full of other people’s money. They call it “The Reserve.” You see they each have a master key that unlocks all of their 650 Safety Deposit Boxes. That’s illegal of course, but to be honest they just don’t give a fuck. So now and again they have a little rummage through their client’s boxes and nick a few bits and pieces. These are then sold off to their contacts within the industry and the proceeds are put into the safe. And, if one of their clients dies, even better, they go to their box, leave any paperwork that’s in there but take out the valuables. If the relatives complain, they just shrug their shoulders and say that the client must have withdrawn it before he or she died. The three of them are like little hoarders, they like to look inside the safe from time to time and see their spoils. It makes them feel good.”
Bobby was intrigued.
“So how much is in “The Reserve?”
“Well, I only got a small glimpse when one of the old gents was busy tucking some dodgy cash away. He’d fallen over and was having trouble standing up again. He called out for help and that’s when I got a brief look inside. From what I saw it was packed from floor to ceiling with bundles of £20 notes. And as you know the JX260 is a 6ft square safe.”
Bobby quickly did the math.
“Fuck me, that must be at least thirty million!”
I nodded in agreement.
“But we don’t want to be greedy. Six million can be taken in two very large sports holdalls and…I’ll escort you in and I’ll escort you out. Deal?”
We shook hands.
Three weeks later at exactly 4.45 am, I met Bobby Phillips at the door of Bullen, Weisman and Stokes. I led him down seven flights of stairs, along a small corridor and into a room containing the Chubb Safe. At 5.28 am I escorted him back up seven flights of stairs carrying two very full black sports bags. He placed them carefully into the back of a Ford Escort Van and was gone. I then went to the control room and pressed rewind on the VHS recorder that captured all the CCTV for the building. All traces of him entering and leaving the building would soon be gone.
I left the company ten days later. The stolen money was never mentioned. The three old boys were so paranoid that they probably thought one of the others had taken it, besides, they couldn’t make a fuss about it because it was money that didn’t exist. None of the contents of the Reserve was on any balance sheet, it was quite simply the three old boys’ slush fund.
I invested my money in property. By the end of 1985, I owned sixty-three houses, all 3 Bedroom Semi Detached and converted them into bedsits. All close to Hospitals and rented by Nurses or Student Doctors. Back then the average price of one of these houses was around £30k. The rental income gave me a very, very comfortable living. Even when the property market collapsed in 1989 it didn’t affect me. All my properties were paid for, if anything it was a good thing. The prices came tumbling down and I just bought more houses for a fraction of what they were worth just months before.
So today, some thirty-three years later I’m back in Spain to attend Bobby Philips 75th Birthday Bash. It’s being held on his Super Yacht in Puerto Banus, Marbella. Bobby has done very well for himself over the years. Back in the eighties, he started “Senor Bob” Scooter Hire. Every resort from Torremolinos to Estepona had a “Senor Bob”. People came over to Spain on cheap package tours and loved to hire an easy-to-ride scooter and explore the coastline. “Senor Bob” became a huge success. Bobby then decided to expand his empire into Nightclubs. “Philips” in Marbella and Fuengirola became where the rich and famous went to let their hair down. In 1990 he married the daughter of Mayor Linguista of Malaga. They now have three children and six grandchildren. Bobby Philips is a well-known and much-respected businessman along the Costa Del Sol.
He spots me through a crowd of people and opens up his arms to greet me.
“I’d have recognised you anywhere my old mate. What is it? Thirty years?”
I raise my glass of Champagne and salute him.
“More like thirty-three Bobby.”
He looks around.
“You on your own. I thought you’d bring your brother with you. I’ve got a lot to thank that man for.”
He winks at me.
“He’s a workaholic Bobby. Over in California now looking at a land deal.”
He looks disappointed. But simply shrugs his shoulders.
“ Ah well, never mind. You give him my best when you see him. Enjoy the evening, and help yourself to whatever you want. I’ve got to mingle.”
He gets swept away by a tide of people all wanting a piece of him.
I help myself to another glass of Champagne and think back to the first time I heard the name, Bobby Philips. It was on New Year’s Eve in 1981. My mate Steve Roberts’s family were having a party. It was late, probably about 3 am and I was sitting with Steve’s dad, Danny. He was well pissed and wanted to impress me by telling me about the scams he’d pulled. One job intrigued me. He mentioned the make of a safe, a Chubb JX260 to be precise and told me how his mate Bobby Philips could open one in just thirty minutes. I recognised the name of the safe because it was the same as the one in the back room at the Safety Deposit Company I’d just started working at as a night security guard. I asked him what happened to Bobby Philips.
“Fucked off to Spain he has. Paranoid that the cops are after him. I spoke to his old mum a few weeks ago. She got a postcard from him. Apparently, he’s shacked up in the middle of nowhere, in a place called La Tossa or something.”
So it wasn’t hard to track him down. What I needed was a reason for him to do the job for me. The truth was that no one was looking for Bobby Philips apart from me. Would he come back to England and help me steal the money, I doubted it. What I needed was leverage.
As I said before, I like to take chances and Bobby Philips was a chance I took that really paid off. You see I don’t have a brother. I’m an only child. I read about Scotland Yard being computerised in one of the Sunday Supplements that I read on the plane on the way over to Spain.
As my old dad used to say, “You’ll never know unless you have a go.”
Eastend butchers Weekend Cuts 