Kidnapping and the McKay case
PETA FORDHAM
I was away in France when the news of Mrs McKay's " abduction broke. Twenty-four hours later, the London underworld was humming with theories and rumours, united at this stage in admiration of what appeared to be a thaster stroke. 'Good' crime, by which is meant in these circles, profitable, well- organised activities, has been scarce of late (for a number of reasons) though violent, snatch-type jobs have been on the increase. So anything involving a putative sum of a million pounds had professional appeal. The subsequent proceedings have also been fol- lowed with close attention: the macabre, is popular reading.
What was puzzling to all was that no one knew who was responsible. There was the usual turnover of every possible miscreant by the police, to the fury of those with some- thing else to hide. One by one, by both 'the Law' and the fraternity, the regulars were checked off. Feverish curiosity seized the underworld and, since nobody could be shop- ped, talk was quite open in any company— which is rare indeed. The immediate assump- tion was that is was an Australian gang, a theory no doubt fed by the fact that both the Murdochs and the McKays had so many links there. The shoplifting gangs, who are 'well-respected' in the London underworld for sheer audacity and professional compe- tence had been boasting that their exodus to the Continent was reculer pour mieux sauter and that big things were on the way. The robbery at the Hotel Crillon had been credited to them and this kidnapping sounded to underworld ears like a Ned Kelly follow- up. 'It's them all right—scooped us again' were the opening, melancholy words of my first telephone-call, one of a flood which, for the first time in my experience, actually sought information from the press.
But united admiration soon began to sag. Ghastly possibilities cast their shadow before them. Don, a gentleman who might almost be described as public relations officer for the. Australians actually made what the poli- ticians would call a public statement in Badger's club, after which the Australian theory broke down.
This club is a traditional part of the London criminal scene. Badger is the owner, his nickname derived from old encounters with the law and his courage in facing any professional hazard He is 'very highly thought of'. Old at fifty (crime is remarkably ageing) he now makes a lucrative business out of premises not licensed for drinking or betting but at which little else ever takes place, save much talk. It is a listening-post of the first order, containing all the retired villains who, in the words of one 'Sit on the blower and put the buzz around' (most of the underworld are ex-directory). It cuts across. the age-groups and was 'once more exclusive than it is now since, as remarked. good-class crime has receded. Thus you will now. find there a sprinkling of tearaways, mainly stoppo-drivers. who would not pre- viously have been admitted. 'Have to live' is Badger's excuse. It is a sociable atmosphere and only rarely is there trouble. Badger is a disciplinarian. In his club, conservative as the Athenaeum, amphetamine-high boys may talk their heads off but must behave with some circumspection.
Charlie, aged twenty-three. raises his eyes from the racing page and has plenty to say. He has been in trouble all his life and has had contacts with most of the protection rackets. 'Stole a bag of sweets from a little girl when he was seven and never looked back' Badger had previously told me.
Charlie has attended as much of the McKay case as he can (or says he has) and his only real criticism of the whole business is of amateur methods. 'Grabbing the wrong bird is one thing' he says, 'Well, even if they had, well look, keeping her hanging around —it's not clever. Bloody amateurs. They want to get a few good men on it and where's your trouble?' Charlie's friend chimes in 'No point in feeding her to the pigs. She's worth more alive than dead, and any silly bastard ought to know that'. A con-man says that he is drinking and doesn't want that sort of talk here but the young contingent, pressed, admit that they couldn't care less whether one woman more or less gets killed on a job. 'Well, we've all got to die, haven't we?' Criticism of this particular kidnapping is economic and a singularly nasty story emerges as to the fate of some Pakistanis who, alleges one youth, were suffocated in the fumes of the boat-engine when their smuggler discovered they had done him over the money. One older man, Alf. who has done a recent stretch in a Continental gaol says that good money is hard to come by and that - he discussed kidnapping as an income-booster with a Belgian robber. I have a sudden fear that this may be putting ideas into the heads of the Charlie section: most of the elders say that they would not work with Alf on that job, while one fifty-year- old semi-retired burglar says 'kidnapping is very un-British'. Nobody thinks this is funny.
I raised the McKay case a week later with an intelligent contact. In his words, it 'sorted the men from the boys', whatever that meant. He did not reveal his own feelings, but took me on a tour of three pubs and two spielers, where we chatted for short periods. Few under thirty cared what had happened. 'Her old man should have paid up and not tried to be clever' said one, perhaps the most callous. Several thought it extremely funny that a 'nosey pair' of respectable people by telling the local police of a dumped suitcase had wrecked the Yard's second ransom trap and 'Had to do her after that', said another. 'Wouldn't you?"Chicken', said his friend. 'I wouldn't let one grand slip like that, let alone that lot'. The older group were as shocked, on the whole, as most of us are, though without compassion. Violence came through even there. 'Never mind about try- ing them. Put the buggers, excuse me lady!, up against a wall and shoot them.'
Discussions on the McKay case show up in sharp relief the fact that changing social conditions are having extremely serious con- sequences in the underworld. Twenty years ago, much more horror would have been expressed and, in fact, the most understand- ing comment I heard came from a murderer, well-known, and recently freed, now nearing sixty. Young criminals accept violence as part of life, whereas the older crook tended to use it typically only when 'up against it', also considering that more violence, more 'bird'. The young crook now carries a gun and expects to use it. He also regards violence as a short cut, as opposed to careful plan- ning and skilled craftsmanship as has hap- pened in France. 'It costs', said one. 'Look what the bellmen charge.' A bellman is the skilled man who deals with alarm systems and his fees have risen with the rest of the world's workers. Nor does the youngster feel as his father did that he belongs to an insular community. Education, increasing prosperity—the wages of sin are pretty high these days—foreign travel with a fast car and a well-filled wallet and contact with criminals from other lands has broadened the horizon of the young criminal and has led to work- ing contacts of the most undesirable kind. And there is amphetamine.
Today, there is virtually a Common Market in crime. English and French thieves assist each other in Hatton Garden and the Cote d'Azur; Italian 'art-dealers' dispose of the proceeds of jewel, silver and art thefts. smuggling out treasures from their own country; while the lowest grade of Mafia hirelings assist between times in any skull- duggery going, such as ferrying wanted men or materials along the part of the drug- routes on which they happen to operate. The Australians descend on a country like Viking raiders. Belgium and Germany are coming increasingly into the picture and enterprising thieves are taking language courses. Against this background, plus increasingly common examples of public blackmail, the un-British nature of kidnapping begins to seem a little thin. It is not a happy prospect.
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