Mine For The Taking

By Eleanor Parks

Mine For The Taking tells the true story of South London gangster Charlie Richardson and his remarkable life and crimes in South Africa.
By 1964, London was effectively ruled by two gangs: the Krays and the Richardsons. Their reputation for violence preceded them wherever they went; even today the fearsome tales of Ronnie and Reggie Kray stamping their authority on the North and East End, while south of river, Charlie and Eddie Richardson headed up the so-called “Torture Gang”, enthral and appal in equal measure. Such tales have been told with a frequency undiminished by the passage of time. Indeed, some have been told so often that they are known almost by heart. One story, however, has never been told...at least, not in its entirety.
Between 1964 and 1966 Charlie Richardson was at the zenith of his power in the London underworld. From his headquarters in Peckford Scrap Metal Yard, Charlie presided over an empire encompassing five scrap yards, two swanky West End clubs, and several spielers (illegal gambling joints). Charlie had money, he had influence and he had power. And yet, in spite of all this, one thing eluded him. Ever since he was a small boy, traipsing over bomb sites searching for scrap metal and shrapnel he could hawk for pin money, he had harboured a secret ambition: to own his own mine. So when he was offered the chance to be partners in a South African diamond mine, it was an offer Charlie could hardly refuse.
By the time Charlie arrived in South Africa, the country was a tinderbox ready to burn, and its wealth of riches was there for the taking. Intent on following his mining ambition, Charlie was oblivious to the fact that he was sailing into the murky waters of international espionage and into direct conflict with the British police and MI5. In addition, his intense, passionate love affair with Jean La Grange, a beautiful spy and the wife of South Africa's number one secret agent, meant that the pursuit of his dream placed everything in jeopardy: his businesses, his marriage, and even his life.
This book is the culmination of three years extensive research, during which the author conducted numerous lengthy interviews with Charlie Richardson, delving deep into memories long since buried to unearth the true and remarkable story behind a fascinating part of British gangland history.
Mine For The Taking is no ordinary gangster book; for Charlie Richardson was no ordinary gangster.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eleanor Parks
• Release date: May 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476230429

Eleanor Parks

I am the youngest of four children and was born in Leigh, a small town in Lancashire, England. I have been writing all my life, from poetry and short stories (one of which was published in my primary school's magazine), and finally culminating in my book "Killing For Capone". I am a real cat lover, and when I am not writing I love to spend my time relaxing at home with my 13 feline friends, all of whom have been rescued from the street. My other loves include MotoGP (Valentino Rossi is my hero), Formula 1, good food, good wine, reading (some of my favourite authors are Oscar Wilde, Truman Capote, Stephen Fry and Christopher Isherwood), and, saving the best for last, my wonderful husband! I left the UK 13 years ago and now live in a small village not far from Antwerp, Belgium.

Book preview

MINE FOR THE TAKING

Copyright Eleanor Parks 2012

Smashwords Edition

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return the work to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design © Eleanor Parks

DeMora Publishing

To Graham, my wonderful husband, who has had to endure nonstop talk of Charlie Richardson and South Africa for the past three years. Thank you for putting up with me.

I love you more than words can ever say.

And

To my Mum and Dad, for instilling the belief that I could be anything I wanted to be. I love you both.

PREFACE

During the swinging 60s, London was not only the capital city of the United Kingdom, it was also the beating heart of a youth-driven cultural phenomenon; a revolutionary wave sweeping in everything that was new and modern, and turning the already vibrant city into a bewitching melting pot of hedonism and optimism.

Of course, it had its darker side too. By 1964, London was effectively ruled by two gangs: the Krays and the Richardsons. Their reputation for violence preceded them wherever they went; even today, the fearsome tales of Ronnie and Reggie Kray stamping their authority on the North and East End, while south of river, Charlie and Eddie Richardson headed up the so-called Torture Gang, enthral and appal in equal measure. Such tales have been told with a frequency undiminished by the passage of time. Indeed, some have been told so often that they are known almost by heart. One story, however, has never been told...at least, not in its entirety.

Between 1964 and 1966 Charlie Richardson was at the zenith of his power in the London underworld. From his headquarters in Peckford Scrap Metal Yard, Charlie presided over an empire encompassing five scrap yards, two swanky West End clubs, and several spielers (illegal gambling joints). Charlie had money, he had influence and he had power. And yet, in spite of all this, one thing eluded him. Ever since he was a small boy, traipsing over bomb sites searching for scrap metal and shrapnel he could hawk for pin money, he had harboured a secret ambition: to own his own mine. So when he was offered the chance to be partners in a South African diamond mine, it was an offer Charlie could hardly refuse.

In 1964, South Africa was political hot potato. Nelson Mandela had just been sentenced to life in prison, convicted along with several others of treason. The beaches were ablaze with burning bodies, each one the victim of necklacing. The ANC and other like-minded groups opposed to the rule of apartheid, had been officially banned, designated by the government as terrorist organisations; imprisonment and torture awaited anyone courageous or foolhardy enough to defy the law. Due to its unrepentant stance on its policy of apartheid, South Africa was barred from attending that year’s Olympic Games in Tokyo. And all of this was in addition to the fact that the ruling government was merely a puppet of the South African Secret Service, the feared and all-encompassing Republican Intelligence, headed by the infamous General Hendrik van den Berg.

By the time Charlie arrived in South Africa, the country was a tinderbox ready to burn, and its wealth of riches was there for the taking. Intent on following his mining ambition, Charlie was oblivious to the fact that he was sailing into the murky waters of international espionage and into direct conflict with the British police and MI5. The pursuit of his dream placed everything in jeopardy: his businesses, his marriage, and even his life.

During my research for this book, I have spent many hours, over the period of three years, talking to Charlie and interviewing him at length on all aspects of his life, searching for those golden nuggets of information that would bring this story to life. This book is the culmination of those long talks spent over glasses of chilled white wine. It is a story never before told in its entirety and shows a side of Charlie’s life that has long been lost in the seemingly impenetrable fug of bribery, corruption and violence. At the heart of the story is a love affair, passionate and intense, between Charlie and the beautiful spy Jean La Grange. I knew of the affair of course, but only when Charlie began to talk about Jean did I realise just how deep their love for each other went; only then did I see each side of this complicated, multi-faceted man. Charlie Richardson: gangster, businessman, husband, father, lover. This is no ordinary gangster book for the simple fact that Charlie Richardson is no ordinary gangster.

CHAPTER I

I want you to bug Harold Wilson’s phone. That is what he just said, wasn’t it? Yeah, I’m sure he did. He took a sip of his brandy and then came right out with it. Cool as you fucking well please. Like it was the most fucking natural thing in the world to ask someone to do. I mean, it’s right up there with every other normal fucking request, isn’t it? While you’re out, could you pick up a paper, maybe a bottle of milk, oh and bug the British Prime Minister’s phone would you, there’s a good chap. For fucks sake! Who the fuck does he think I am?

These thoughts, amongst myriad others, meandered round and round Charlie’s mind as he sat in the office of General Hendrik van den Bergh; an impressive wood-panelled affair set in the heart of a great sandstone building which formed the headquarters of South Africa’s secret service agency known as Republican Intelligence.

Established in 1963, Republican Intelligence began its public life as the security and intelligence arm of the South African Police. In reality, however, it was an extremely militarized and uniquely repressive tool of homeland control during the regime of apartheid. At its head, was a man whose views on race landed somewhere to the right of Hitler. Respected and revered by the ruling white minority government; feared and despised by the black majority; his name was Major General Hendrik van den Bergh.

Born in the Orange Free State town of Vredefort – a town which lies close to the centre of the world’s largest verified impact craters (the asteroid which created the crater hit the earth between 2 and 4 million years ago and is generally gauged at being between 5 and 10 km in diameter) – Hendrik Johan van den Bergh was the son of an Afrikaner farming family. A staunch Afrikaner Nationalist, he opposed South Africa’s intervention in WWII and, with the then future Prime Minister Balthazar Johannes Vorster, he joined the Ossewabrandwag (Ox Wagon Sentinel), a paramilitary organization formed along similar lines to that of the Nazi Sturmabteilung (Storm Troopers). Over 350,000 strong, the nature of the Ossewabrandwag paramilitary soldiers was evidenced by their oath As ek omdraai skiet my. As ek val wreek my. As ek storm volg my (If I retreat kill me. If I fall avenge me. If I advance follow me). As if that were not enough, their seal bore the words My God, My Volk, My Land Zuid Afrika (My God, My People, My Country South Africa). Ultimately, their efforts were to no avail. Both Hendrik Johan van den Bergh and Balthazar Johannes Vorster, amongst many others, were detained under the wartime emergency laws for their activities and acts of sabotage against the allies.

Following the cessation of hostilities, Hendrik van den Bergh sought to use his staunch Nationalism to even greater effect. He joined the police force and rose somewhat meteorically through the ranks, until, in 1962, he and Vorster – who was now Justice Minister – convinced Prime Minister Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd, that with the rise of the anti-apartheid movement, a department should be created which combined both the intelligence and police services. The following year, van den Bergh got his wish and Republican Intelligence, with van den Bergh as its chief, was born. And their first priority was to crush the rapid growth of resistance to apartheid.

In this pursuit, their first move was to impose a ban on organisations such as the African National Congress (ANC), the Pan African Congress (PAC) and the South African Communist Party (SACP). In the case of the ANC and the PAC, they were declared terrorist organisations. In addition, non-whites were removed from electoral rolls, residence laws were passed and strengthened, and the so-called Pass Laws were introduced, which required black South Africans to carry an identity pass at all times to justify their presence in public, especially in predominantly white areas. In turn, the previously peacefully resistant ANC adopted a policy of armed resistance. This militarized arm of the movement became known as Umkhonto we Sizwe (Spear of the Nation), and was charged with acts of sabotage against the ruling government.

While the ANC firebombed government buildings and derailed trains, Major General van den Bergh organised his own fight back. Republican Intelligence engaged in bombing raids on primary ANC targets, not only throughout South Africa, but also in Mozambique, Botswana, Lesotho and Swaziland. In addition, ANC members were arrested, tortured, tried and incarcerated. The most famous of these trials was the Rivonia Trial, at which the soon to be incarcerated Nelson Mandela gave his now famous I am prepared to die speech. It was a vicious circle, with each side redoubling their efforts in response to the opposition.

By the time Charlie found himself sitting in Hendrik van den Berg’s office, South Africa was a tinderbox ready to burn.

Van den Bergh himself was still perched on the edge of his somewhat oversized mahogany desk, his long legs stretched out in front of him, arms loosely folded over the top of his ever so slight paunch. His pale, and unnaturally grey eyes, were furtive and expectant. It was almost a minute since either of the two men had spoken, and the silence was becoming intolerable.

Charlie cast a casual eye around the office, noting that the deep mahogany wainscoting was suddenly oppressive rather than impressive. The amber eyes in the severed head of a Springbok mounted on the wall now seemed alive, willing him to speak. And say what? How the fuck am I supposed to respond to something like that?

He shot a worried look towards van den Bergh; that last thought had resounded so vociferously in his head he was sure he had said it out loud. Yet the General made no response. He still sat on the edge of his desk, staring at him impassively. Taking a deep breath, Charlie somehow summoned up his reserves of calm, and at last, and better late than never, managed to find his voice.

You know General, he began, more confidently than he had expected, it’s funny, but for a moment there I could have sworn that you asked me to bug Harold Wilson’s phone

General van den Bergh looked down along the length of his long, outstretched legs and gave a wry smile. He hadn’t had Charlie down as the mind game sort. Not that he minded; he loved the curious surprise of certain nuances. That being said, however, when he looked up to again fix his pale eyes on Charlie, they appeared greyer than ever.

That is exactly what I asked you he said, his deep Afrikaans accent accentuating the undercurrent of detestation he felt at being made to repeat himself.

Yeah, I thought you did said Charlie. He smiled, though he was dying inside. Countless thoughts were running through his mind. He tried to sift through them, to find that golden nugget of a response which would elicit the information that would make this whole conversation make sense. In absence of that, however, he plumped for the most obvious.

Why? he asked, instinctively holding out his empty brandy glass, fearing he may need some liquid fortification for the answer that was to come.

General van den Bergh leaned himself up off his desk and, taking Charlie’s glass as well as his own, crossed the office to a large ornate bureau that stood against the far left hand wall. On top of the bureau stood two cut crystal decanters and six matching glasses, all beautifully presented on a silver salver. One of the decanters, Charlie already knew, was half filled with brandy, whilst the other was filled with what looked like port. Casually, and with his back to the room, the General began to refill both of their glasses, talking as he did so.

Because of his communist sympathies of course

Charlie practically laughed out loud.

Harold Wilson a communist? Do me a favour General

As he turned back to Charlie, it was clear that van den Bergh wasn’t laughing, nor was he joking. His face was impassive, his eyes focused with a steely seriousness. Charlie studied him closely as he was handed his glass.

Fuck me, you’re serious ain’t ya he said, half raising the glass the glass to his lips but then lowering it again in disbelief.

I’m deadly serious replied van den Bergh, his tone as steely as his expression.

Downing his brandy in one fortifying gulp, Charlie suddenly thought that he may have found a misunderstanding that lay at the heart of this bizarre conversation.

Nah, you don’t understand, General. Wilson’s not a communist, he’s a socialist he said, convinced that this would clear matters up. It didn’t.

Communism, socialism, it’s the same thing, Charlie. Same nigger, different owner

Charlie didn’t respond, but merely leaned down to place his glass on the floor beside him. The General sensed the tension.

Surely you don’t mind me talking like that, Charlie Boy, he said I’m sure you hear a lot worse in your line of work

Not at all General. It’s just that I’ve got nothing against blacks

Neither have I so long as they stay in their place. Aspiration is a dangerous thing

This rhetoric was common throughout South Africa, Charlie knew, but it was still difficult for him to swallow. Besides which, Charlie knew that it was best not to get the General started on the issue of race. A rampant Afrikaner, his views tended to land somewhere to the right of Hitler, and very little was more likely to heighten his belligerence than the notion of racial equality. From bitter experience, Charlie had learned that to continue the conversation in that vein would be to be there all fucking day. Once the General got started, he could never shut the fuck up.

So what if he is a communist? asked Charlie, in an effort to bring the discussion back on track What’s that have to do with me? I never voted for the fucker

Neither did I Charlie, but his political choices affect us all. Many of the communists here in South Africa are migrating to London. With someone like Wilson at the helm, I’m sure they’ll be made very comfortable in your country. As for what it’s got to do with you, Charlie Boy, well, I need someone more local for the job in hand

What do you mean ‘more local’? If you mean local as in London, I’ve got news for you, General. London is a bid fucking place

I’m well aware of that Charlie, replied van den Bergh but you know your way around better than any of my people, even those agents stationed there for months As he spoke, he reached behind him for a cardboard file that lay on his desk. Opening it, he took out a letter. And besides, he said, handing the letter to Charlie you’re obviously well acquainted

As Charlie took the letter, he recognised it immediately. Bearing the official insignia of the Prime Minister’s office, it was a letter of introduction from Harold Wilson, testifying that Charles Richardson was a reputable, honest businessman and one who would be beneficial to the economy of South Africa. Charlie was incensed.

Where the fuck did you get this? he demanded.

I can get anything I want, Charlie. Need I remind you who I am, or where you are? replied van den Bergh. His tone of voice had dropped several degrees, and was now menacing in its coldness.

That was a favour from a friend of a friend, General. Don’t get it into your head that I can simply stroll into Downing Street whenever I fucking well feel like it, and I ain’t never been invited round for afternoon tea either Charlie was getting increasingly frustrated as the conversation progressed.

I don’t understand your attitude, Charlie. It would be a very simple task

Charlie jumped up from his seat.

So you fucking do it then!

Like I said, I need someone more local, someone more familiar with the surroundings

Charlie almost laughed in exasperation.

More familiar with the surround...for fucks sake General are you going deaf or just not listening. Who the fuck do you think I am?

General van den Bergh stood up from his desk and strode over to Charlie, who was now making his way towards the door. The General’s words stopped him in his tracks.

I think you are Charlie Richardson. I think that in England you are known as a gangster. I think you have come over here with a lot at stake here in my country. And I also think that you could lose everything if you upset me with your decision

Charlie wheeled round and took a step towards van den Bergh, all the while doing his best to control the rage that now rapidly welled within him. His voice was low and menacing to begin with, but rose to a crescendo as his anger bubbled to the surface

You know what General, fuck you. Fuck you, fuck your fucking mother, and fuck the fucking horse you rode in on. I’ve never responded to threats General. I never have and I’m not going to start just because some jumped up second rate Dutchman is too arrogant to do his own fucking dirty work!

The General smiled. It was a sickly, disturbing smile, one which said you’re between a rock and a hard place, Charlie and I’m the fucking rock!

If you don’t think you can do it, Charlie just...

Fuck you! You know I can fucking do it, but just to be clear ‘it’ is fucking treason and I ain’t no fucking traitor!

Without even waiting to hear what van den Bergh had to say, Charlie stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

A few seconds later, as Charlie stepped out into the oppressive heat of downtown Johannesburg, he tried to take a deep breath but all he got was a lungful of hot air. In frustration, he kicked a stone, sending it tumbling across the dusty, gravelly ground. On the opposite side of the street, a young black boy was watching him, transfixed by the image of this blond white man. It was not the fact that blond white men were an uncommon sight in Jo’burg, the Afrikaners made up for that; but none of the Afrikaners were ever as well dressed as Charlie, who wore pale blue trousers, polished black shoes and a crisply pressed shirt. Charlie was not in the mood to be stared at.

What the fuck are you looking at? he yelled. The boy instantly turned on his heels and ran in the opposite direction.

By now, the bitter bile was rising in Charlie’s throat. It was a bad sign, he knew. It meant that his temper was liable to explode at any moment. He turned and walked a little way along the street before turning left along the side of the Republican Intelligence building and into the small car park at the back. His was the only car there, a borrowed beaten up jalopy that would have been sent for scrap back in England.

The car was like an oven as Charlie opened the driver’s side door and sat in. He didn’t care. It felt good to simply sit alone, away from prying eyes. Reaching into the top pocket of his shirt, he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a small book of matches. He lit one of the cigarettes and took a long drag, holding the calming smoke deep in his lungs for a few moments and then exhaling slowly. The General’s request was still playing in his mind, like a broken record looping its way continuously around his consciousness. As he smoked, one question kept returning to the fore on the never ending merry-go-round of contemplation. Just how the fuck had he got himself into this mess in the first place?

CHAPTER II

Tuesday April 16th 1964 was a day that shook Britain. Like a torrent, the news gushed out of the Old Bailey, into the pens of the waiting Fleet Street hacks and onto the front pages of the daily newspapers. From there it was delivered into the homes of the nation, whose occupants gasped in cumulative shock. Ronnie Biggs, Bruce Reynolds, Charlie Wilson, Douglas Goody, Tommy Wisbey, Robert Welch, James Hussey and Roy James had each been sentenced to an unprecedented 30 years in prison for their part in what the world was coming to know as The Great Train Robbery. Naturally, Charlie Richardson was one of those who read the news.

Reading the evening paper as he sat in his office in Peckford Scrap Metal, a scrapyard on Peckford Place in the heart of South London’s Camberwell, Charlie felt closer to the story than most, and was stunned at the severity of the sentence.

For around six years now Charlie had enjoyed a central position in London’s underworld, a position that he himself would hasten to add was carved not through choice, but necessity. All he had ever wanted to be was a legitimate businessman with no connection to the crime or criminality amongst which he had grown up. Nevertheless, a few minor misdemeanours committed during the folly of youth – a book filched from the back of a truck, six sides of hooky bacon and a car, stolen to impress his girlfriend – soon put paid to any notion of getting anything through the proper channels. In any other circumstance these setbacks may well have proved to be Charlie’s undoing, setting him on the well trodden road of housebreaking and violent thuggery; and indeed this could have easily been the case were it not for a chance skirmish with two detectives investigating a complaint regarding the recent fraudulent sale of a hangar load of aircraft parts.

The incident happened in the late summer of 1949, when Charlie was just fourteen. At the time he was earning a bit of pin money here and there by helping his uncle (also called Charlie) collect sacks which they would then sell on to farmers, who would use them to store their animal feed and the like. It wasn’t exactly a lucrative business, but in post-war Britain it served the purpose of keeping the wolf from the door.

It was on the way back from one such trip when Charlie saw an apparently abandoned aircraft hangar, standing alone at the far edge of what was once a fertile field, but which now was nought but dust and dry gravel. Persuading his uncle to take a detour, they began to investigate the hangar, which, they soon discovered, was full of aircraft parts belonging to an ordinance company that had subsequently gone bust after the war. Charlie was transfixed by the sight of so many piles of apparently scrap metal, just waiting to go to rust. His other source of pin money was hawking shrapnel he found when trawling the old bomb sites to local scrap merchants. Occasionally too, he would find the odd bit of hooky lead, torn from the roof of some church and dropped by the original thieves as they made their escape. He couldn’t help but wonder just how much a hangar load of scrap would be worth.

Charlie and Uncle Charlie were just about to get back in their truck and leave when a black Citroen pulled up to the hangar, and amidst a cloud of dust created by the wheels on the arid, stony ground, a well, but not expensively dressed, man stepped out. He introduced himself as Mr Havers from the Ministry and explained that they had taken over the ordinance company’s affairs. It transpired that the entire hangar – aircraft parts and all – was for sale, at the right price of course. The right price, it seemed, was 5,000 pounds. To his uncle’s amazement, Charlie laughed out loud, telling the man that it was not worth that much and that he would be lucky to get half that, before promptly offering him 2,000 pounds for the whole lot. Mr Havers fell silent, obviously considering the offer.

If it helps you make up your mind, said Charlie we could meet here again tomorrow and I can give you a cheque there and then

It has to be said at this point that Mr Havers was not nearly as stupid or naive as he might first appear, for Charlie most certainly did not look fourteen, and was often thought to be at least five or six years older. While Havers considered the offer, Charlie looked at his Uncle Charlie who was visibly sweating. 2,000 pounds was more money than he could even contemplate, and here was his fourteen year old nephew offering a government man precisely that amount when their entire fortune consisted of a hundredweight of stinking, empty sacks worth around twenty quid. And then, to Charlie’s delight, Mr Havers accepted the offer, man and boy shaking hands while Uncle Charlie looked on in perspiring horror.

Once Mr Havers had departed and both Charlie and Uncle Charlie were back in their truck, Uncle Charlie rounded on his nephew.

Where the hell are you going to get two-thousand pounds, eh? Answer me that

I’m not, replied Charlie in a matter-of-fact tone that stunned his uncle You’re going to write him a cheque. We can pretend it’s from me because the name on the cheque is Charles Richardson

And where the hell am I going to get that kind of money then?

"Oh have a day off will you, you soppy sod. I ain’t got two grand, you ain’t got two grand, but by the time that pen pushing