Gangland E-Book

Paul Williams

• Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Number 1 Bestseller Paul Williams is Ireland's No. 1 award-winning crime reporter, famed for exposing the ruthless gangsters behind Irish crime. In Gangland! he investigates who is pulling the strings behind the scenes - the families that form the Irish mafia - and examines the way in which their net has spread across Ireland and beyond. Compelling, chilling and unput-downable, Gangland gives the inside story on a dark and sinister world.

Leseprobe

Reviews

GANGLAND

Paul Williams

What they say aboutGangland

‘Written with pace and a forensic attention to detail’Irish Independent

‘Few journalists have the guts to trawl the dark underbelly of Irish society like Williams’ Irish Independent

‘In the best traditions of investigative journalism’Irish Independent

‘Williams again comes up trumps with his depiction of the evil men who control Dublin’s gangs’Evening Herald

‘Williams does a fine job’ Sunday Tribune

‘This book must be read’ Kerry’s Eye

‘Compelling, chilling and unputdownable’ Garda News

‘Racy and riveting, you’ll be instantly buttonholed’Books Ireland

‘A racily written account of the failed lives of men who chose crime as the way to rise out of the Republic’s social and economic underclass’The Irish Times

GANGLAND

PAUL WILLIAMS

Dedication

To my family and friends

Acknowledgements

Writing about so many underworld figures, some of whose careers span four decades, would have been impossible but for the assistance, patience and good will of a great many people. I want to thank all those involved in the law-and-order business, from both sides of the thin blue line, for their help, advice and information. None of you, for various good reasons, wanted to be identified and I appreciate that. One of these people is an elusive character who can only be referred to here as the ‘fortune teller’. He has been a great friend over the past few months.

My gratitude also goes to my equally patient editor and friend, Colm MacGinty, for allowing me the time to complete the book, and North Leitrim’s finest, Big Mick McNiffe, who has always been there to watch my back. Also my thanks and congratulations to Evening Herald crime man and friend, Stephen Rae. During these long months, we kept each other going with words of encouragement while trying to finish our respective books. Thanks to Irish Independent librarian Lorraine Curran, Sunday World picture editor Gavin McClelland and the staff of the RTÉ library. A special word of thanks to Sarah Hamilton for the amazing amount of work she did in order that I could finish the project on time. Also to legal mastermind Simon McAleese, of Matheson Ormsby Prentice, who, after four years in the Sunday World, probably knows more about villains than most of the criminal Bar put together. Finally, thanks to Michael O’Brien and his staff at The O’Brien Press. Our relationship could at times be described as stormy, but in the end he was the only publisher in Ireland with the courage to enter uncharted waters and publish The General – and now Gangland.

Contents

Reviews

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1 The Kidnappers

2 Bronco’s Last Ride

3 The Blaggers

4 The Psycho

5 The Builder

6 The Hitman and The Penguin

7 The Scam Man

8 The Boxer

9 The Monk

About the Author

Copyright

Other Books

Introduction

An elusive brutal world called Gangland has existed in Ireland for over a quarter of a century. It is the criminal underworld, a parallel society which thrives on fear, death and dirty money, with its own codes of conduct and behaviour. It is the underbelly of the Celtic Tiger. Here, some of the most successful and respected citizens are killers, robbers, fraudsters, fences, extortionists and drug dealers.

This book pieces together the story of Gangland through the life and crimes of its better-known residents. These are the godfathers and gangs who have influenced the underworld over the past twenty-five years, and whose crimes have both outraged and fascinated. Gangland is the story of the struggle between the forces of law and disorder. Here are the people who have made their mark on underworld history. It is the story of the horrific violence of PJ Judge, the appropriately nicknamed Psycho; the meticulously planned heists associated with Gerry Hutch, The Monk; abhorrent young drug dealers like Thomas Mullen, The Boxer, who brought misery to his own neighbourhood by supplying heroin; the pitiable figure of former armed robber Paddy Shanahan, who was murdered because he wanted to cut his ties with the mob; the colourful and dapper Christy ‘Bronco’ Dunne, who once headed the country’s most notorious crime gang; and the extraordinary real-life cops and robbers drama of the so-called ‘Athy gang’.

The story is also about the appalling experiences of the innocent victims of gangland. The story of a courageous wife and mother called Jennifer Guinness, kidnapped by the Cunningham brothers who wanted to hit the ‘big time’ no matter what it cost anyone else. The gruesome murder of a small-time crook and Walter Mitty character, William Jock Corbally, who was tortured to death before being dumped in an unmarked grave. And the reign of terror wrought by a ruthless one-man crime wave called Mickey Boyle across Wicklow and Dublin.

Gangland did not exist before the late 1960s. Ireland was a sleepy place in the days before the outbreak of war in Northern Ireland and the mayhem which spread south of the border as a result. The economic boom of the 1960s also played its part in the transformation which was to come. In a few short years, petty crime became much more serious. The burglars and the pickpockets of the 1960s became the armed robbers of the 1970s. And, in turn, a lot of the robbers became the drug barons of the 1980s and 1990s. Drugs, in the words of one criminal interviewed for this book, destroyed the old ethics of so-called Ordinary Decent Criminals. As in every other country in the western world, drugs became a source of vast wealth for organised crime. Ironically, the people who have suffered most from the drug epidemic were the gangsters’ old neighbours and friends, the downtrodden and forgotten working classes of the sprawling suburbs and inner-cities, where the Celtic Tiger’s largesse is out of reach.

Drug dealing brought death and devastation to the streets. It also created a new Gangland phenomenon – the contract murder. Since criminals moved into the narcotics trade, dozens have been executed in feuds fed by greed, their names added to Gangland’s roll of dishonour. In practically every Gangland murder case, the victim was a player in what Martin Cahill liked to refer to as ‘the game’ that is crime.

During the 1970s and 1980s, the slow and inadequate response of both the Gardaí and the legislature effectively gave Gangland its independence and the godfathers established its borders. Lack of resources or strategic planning, and a disorganised, plodding criminal justice system helped to facilitate the much more organised crime wave. Gang bosses and their hoods, flush with the millions their rackets had earned, began to think of themselves as untouchable and above the law.

Never was that more brutally illustrated than on 26 June 1996, when a gunman cold-bloodedly shot journalist Veronica Guerin five times, at point-blank range. The outrage was a chilling wake-up call from the gangsters to the establishment. Guerin was shot simply because she had tried to do an interview with the ‘main man’. The gang boss who organised the killing was warning the establishment that anyone who crossed him or his cronies was fair game.

But, when he sent his hitman out to work on that sunny summer afternoon, he also made a devastating miscalculation. It led to a counter-offensive against organised crime, which turned the tables in favour of law and order for the first time in over two decades.

As a crime journalist with the Sunday World for over a decade, I have written about all the shady characters in this book and reported on their exploits. Some of them I have known on first-name terms. Others were not as friendly. One even planned my murder, until an unknown assassin indirectly spared me by taking him out of the picture first.

As a study, I have always found crime a fascinating subject. What are the factors which help create a serious criminal and what motivates him to continue committing crime no matter how many times he has been inside? The study of crime gives an insight into a much bigger picture, which a lot of our social leaders through the decades have preferred to ignore. Crime causation tells us as much about the fundamentals of our society and, indeed, ourselves as any other study. It illustrates social dysfunction – in other words the failure of our systems of education, welfare, employment and justice. Crime is about the gulf between the haves and the have nots. The vast majority of our criminal population grew up in deprivation, on the wrong side of a social and economic boundary wall. Behind this wall exists a sub-culture where the norms of the middle class mean little. Here it is survival of the fittest, and gangsters tend to be the more nimble ones. Achievement in the underworld is pulling off the big crime and getting one over on the cops. Why have our socially-minded commentators never questioned why so-called Ordinary Decent Criminals are often the heroes of their local communities? In October 1998 the Garda Commissioner, Patrick Byrne, warned that the intervention of the police in social disorder should be a last resort. He argued that social and economic reforms were vital if crime was to be reduced.

Crime journalists are regularly criticised for glamorising crime. When I wrote The General, I was asked by one individual: ‘Why write about that dirty bastard? He was only a scumbag, and you’re glorifying him.’ The reason that book was written is the same as this one – that Cahill and his underworld cohorts are as much a part of our social history as anyone else. They have had such a profound effect on the national psyche that it would be wrong to ignore them. It is neither glorifying nor glamorising. It is informing the public of what is going on around them. Crime will always be a feature of society, however ‘civilised’ we are supposed to be. In the midst of Ireland’s unprecedented economic boom, we are creating the next generation of criminals, as the socio-economic boundary grows higher and more impregnable.

The psychologist Carl Jung once wrote of the public’s fascination with crime: ‘With what pleasure we read newspaper reports of crime. A true criminal becomes a popular figure because he unburdens in no small degree the consciences of his fellow men, for now they know once more where evil is to be found.’

Welcome to Gangland.

Paul Williams October 1998.

The Kidnappers

John and Michael Cunningham, like most hoodlums, were ambitious criminals who dreamt of the ‘big one’, the crime which would set them up for the good life. They craved an epicurean existence of long holidays in the sun, big houses, flashy cars, expensive suits, champagne and women. But it was the Cunningham brothers’ pursuit of the great ‘underworld dream’ which would earn them an unenviable place in the history of organised crime.

The brothers came from Ballyfermot in west Dublin and were part of the new breed of criminals who emerged in the 1970s and ushered in an era of organised serious crime. At the time, the police were putting most of their limited resources into tackling the IRA, who were financing their war by robbing banks throughout the country with apparent impunity. Meanwhile, the new young generation of petty thieves was learning from the paramilitaries and exploiting the lack of police attention.

The Cunninghams, along with the other notorious families on the south side of the River Liffey, the Dunnes and the Cahills, quickly learned their trade and became professional armed robbers. By the early 1980s they were among the underworld’s trend-setters – swaggering, cocky crooks, giving the two fingers to the police. Those were the days when a hoodlum could drive a Jaguar and live in a mansion and still be entitled to collect his unemployment benefit down at the Labour Exchange before collecting more money in the bank around the corner with the help of a sawn-off shotgun. Today older criminals reminisce with affection about those halcyon times when organised crime was still a relatively new phenomenon in Ireland.

The Cunningham brothers came from a family of seven children. Their father, Frank, from County Clare, had been a soldier and their mother, Lily, was from County Mayo. When the children were small the Cunninghams, anxious to give their children a decent upbringing, moved from the slums of Blessington Street in the north inner-city to Le Fanu Road in Ballyfermot, one of a number of sprawling suburbs where the Government built thousands of new houses in a bid to give the working-classes better living conditions. But they would become notorious breeding grounds for the new generation of ruthless hoodlums.

Michael Joseph Cunningham, born in 1949, was the older of the two brothers. John was born two years later. Michael qualified as a plasterer but gave it up in 1971 for a more lucrative career in crime. John worked for a short time as a metal worker and gave it up for the same pecuniary reason. John Cunningham was the leader of the criminal enterprise. He received his first custodial sentence in 1966 at the age of fourteen for house breaking and larceny. He was given a two-year sentence and sent to Daingean Industrial School, a notorious institution run by religious brothers. It was in institutions such as Daingean where most of gangland’s future godfathers got their first brutal experiences of incarceration.

Over the next twenty years, John Cunningham would accumulate another twenty-seven criminal convictions, for larceny, receiving stolen goods, assault and malicious damage. Michael Cunningham, on the other hand, was slightly more successful at avoiding the attentions of the police. His first conviction was for larceny, which he received in 1963, on the day of his fourteenth birthday. He was fined £1. Between 1963 and 1986 he received another eight criminal convictions for larceny, receiving stolen goods and malicious damage.

In the meantime, John and Michael’s older brother, Fran, nicknamed the ‘Lamb’, was making a name for himself as a big-time fraudster. Fran the Lamb, a smooth-talking conman, used his charm to rob banks instead of his brothers’ preferred tool, the sawn-off shotgun. He teamed up with two other notorious con artists, John Traynor and Sean Fitzgerald, to organise all kinds of elaborate fraud scams, netting them huge sums of cash which were blown on wine and women.

From an early age, Michael and John Cunningham were close associates of Martin Cahill and some of his brothers. Cahill was the same age as Michael. He was serving two years in Daingean for burglary when John Cunningham was sent there in 1966. The two were to remain close friends. The Cunninghams were also closely associated with the notorious Dunne brothers – Christy, Henry, Larry and Shamie. These three groups of hot-headed young thieves were to become the most prolific robbers in the country.

The Cunninghams began featuring in Garda intelligence reports as suspects for a string of armed robberies around Dublin from the mid-1970s. In 1976 John was jailed for eighteen months for an armed hold-up at his local post-office in Ballyfermot. On another occasion he and Michael were arrested at a party in a house at Scholarstown Road in Rathfarnham after an armed robbery from the Carlton Cinema. The guns and cash from the heist were found in the house. John Cunningham was also questioned about the murder of a security guard during a raid at Clery’s Store in central Dublin in 1982. And that same year both Michael and John were suspected of taking part in a £120,000 robbery from a post-office in Mallow, County Cork, with Martin Cahill.

John Cunningham also participated in the robbery which was to establish Cahill as a major-league criminal godfather – the O’Connors jewellery heist in July 1983. The ‘stroke’ netted the gang £2 million in gold and diamonds and earned Cahill the nickname ‘The General’ for his meticulous militaristic planning. After the heist Cunningham was given the nickname ‘The Colonel’. On the night following the robbery Martin Cahill and Cunningham collected the van they had used to transport the huge haul to a lock-up garage where the loot was split fourteen ways.

The two hoods drove the van to Poddle Park in Crumlin to burn it and whatever forensic evidence it contained. They threw in petrol bombs to start the fire. As Cunningham was about to throw one of the bombs, it ignited prematurely in his hand. He was wearing a rubber glove which melted onto his hand in the flames. The General helped his pal to a waiting car driven by another gang member.

They took Cunningham to his home in Tallaght, where he soaked in a cold bath and had the wound dressed by The General. Two days later Cunningham was treated for the burns at a Dublin hospital. The injuries were consistent with a plastic object melting on his hand. Later, he claimed that he had received the injury when a chip-pan caught fire in his home. A subsequent search of his home by the Gardaí found no evidence that there had ever been a fire of any kind.

The Cunningham brothers loved the high life their criminal activities paid for. Like the Dunnes they wined, dined and partied in all the city’s best restaurants, pubs and clubs. They drove fast cars and enjoyed lavish holidays abroad in places like Barbados, Florida and Spain. Michael and John also shared the same interest in women. In 1978 Michael separated from his wife Anne, with whom he had a son and daughter, and began living with Patricia McCormack in Clondalkin. At the same time, John started a relationship with Patricia’s sister Mary, who was also separated. She had a twelve-year-old daughter, Caroline, whom Cunningham treated as his own child. In 1981 he bought a bungalow for his new family in Tallaght, Dublin.

But the high life was a big drain on money and took a lot of armed robberies to sustain. John Cunningham wanted one big ‘job’ which would earn himself and his brother enough money to sit back for the rest of their days. He decided that the most effective way was kidnapping a member of a family worth millions. By 1986 the IRA had been responsible for a number of high-profile abductions, most notably that of supermarket executive Don Tidey in December 1983, which resulted in the murder of a Garda and a soldier. Earlier that year, Gardaí arrested four members of the IRA in a shoot-out when they tried to kidnap Galen Weston, another supermarket millionaire.

But while the Gardaí had succeeded in rescuing the hostages in the reported cases, Cunningham was interested in the number of kidnappings which were never reported. As in the case of armed robbery, Dublin crime gangs were taking their lead from the Provos and looking at abduction as a means of making easy money. The most notable of these kidnappers was Mickey Boyle from Bray, who was well known to the Cunninghams. (See chapter 6, ‘The Hitman and the Penguin’.) Boyle had been caught following two kidnaps in County Wicklow in 1984. But John Cunningham knew that Mickey Boyle had got away with several other such abductions. The super-confident crook reckoned that he and his sibling could do a better job than the IRA or Boyle.

In early 1986 the Cunninghams began looking for a target. They had decided to go it alone because Martin Cahill was involved in his own rackets. They did not agree with The General’s methods, which invariably involved large teams. They wanted to divide up the loot among the smallest number possible. At the time the Cunninghams were working with Anthony Kelly from Tallaght. Kelly was born in 1943 in Dublin but moved to live in Leeds in Yorkshire at an early age. He had been in trouble with the police from the age of eleven, accumulating thirteen convictions for larceny, forgery and burglary for which he received a total of over seven years behind bars.

In 1975 Kelly absconded to Dublin while awaiting trial on robbery charges in Leeds. A warrant was issued for his arrest. When he came back to Ireland he got involved with the underworld, and met the Cunninghams. In 1980 his marriage broke up and his wife and children returned to live in England when he began living with a seventeen-year-old street trader called Julie Lyons.

Like the Cunninghams, Kelly liked the high life. He had developed a taste for expensive wines, liked to wear flashy ‘Miami Vice’ suits and holiday in the Bahamas. He also bought a house with cash in Clondalkin. He paid for his lavish lifestyle by taking part in armed robberies in England with Dublin-based criminals, including the Cunninghams. The police in Leeds set up a special team to track down the gang, which commuted between England and Dublin to do ‘jobs’ and were suspected of robbing in the region of £1 million over a three-year period up to 1984. Their targets were mainly banks and security vans. Often the gang would fly from Dublin airport, do a robbery somewhere in the north of England and take a return flight to Dublin the same evening.

In October 1984 the Dublin-based gang were the prime suspects for the murder of police sergeant John Speed who was shot dead during a chase in Leeds. After that the gang discontinued their day trips to England. Early in 1986 the West Yorkshire police informed the Gardaí in Dublin that, among others, they wanted to extradite John and Michael Cunningham and Tony Kelly to face charges. The three crooks were tipped off that the Gardaí were to be asked to arrest them for the purpose of extradition to England and were advised to keep their heads down. They decided to bring their kidnap plans forward. If they were going to face a jail stretch in England, they wanted to ensure that their families had enough money to keep them going. They hastily drew up a shortlist of possible hostages. Among these was Susan, the first wife of Independent Newspapers proprietor Dr Tony O’Reilly. Also on the list was Guinness heiress Miranda Guinness and Norma Smurfit, the former wife of business tycoon Michael. However, neither Miranda Guinness nor Susan O’Reilly were in the country and Norma Smurfit was too well protected by private bodyguards to get near.

Eventually, they decided on the family of John Guinness, the millionaire chairman of the Guinness Mahon bank. The fifty-one-year-old banker, a former officer in the Royal Navy, was married to Jennifer, who also came from a wealthy family background. The couple had three grown-up children – Gillian, Tanya and Ian. The family lived in a splendid period mansion, Censure House, at Baily, near the fishing village of Howth in north County Dublin. John and his forty-eight-year-old wife were a very close, happy couple who shared the same passion for yachting. They were well-known in the sailing world and regularly participated in high-profile races such as the Round Ireland yacht race. Jennifer, a very strong and resilient woman, also did a lot of charity work in her spare time. Cunningham had read a feature about the family in a glossy magazine and decided that they would have little difficulty in raising the ransom money.

In March 1986 the gang started making preparations for the abduction. Because of the extradition threat the crooks all moved off-side and went into hiding at the beginning of the month. They carefully began watching the house and generally building up a pattern of the family’s movements. Cunningham solicited the help of Brian McNichol, a drinking acquaintance of his. The Derry-born forty-nine-year-old former businessman had lived in Dublin since 1965. McNichol was a shady, small-time con artist who Gardaí would later describe as a mystery man. He had worked in the demolition business in Dublin until 1984. McNichol and Cunningham had had some dodgy dealings. He was not known to the Gardaí and had not been in trouble with the law except for a few drink-related minor offences. McNichol, who had lost an eye in a mugging incident, had been married but was now separated. He spent most of his time with a girlfriend who lived at Waterloo Road in Ballsbridge.

The gang agreed that they would abduct either one of the family’s daughters or Jennifer Guinness herself. John Cunningham was confident that if they convinced the family they were the IRA the police would not be alerted and the money would be paid over within a few days. Their plan was to then skip the country for a far-flung hot spot where there were no extradition arrangements with Ireland or England. Because time was against them they decided to do the job on the afternoon of Tuesday 8 April. They would demand a ransom of £2 million for the safe return of the hostage. Tony Kelly took on the job of finding safe houses where they could hold their hostage.

On Good Friday he rented a fisherman’s bungalow near Drumconrath in County Meath. The house was quiet and private. He paid the rent up front in cash, and told the owners he wanted it for two weeks from 1 April. Along with a woman who was never identified, Kelly also rented a flat above a shop in Arbour Hill in Dublin up to 17 April at £20 per week. On 1 April Kelly also hired a green Opel Kadett hatchback car from Liffey Car Rentals in Dublin’s city centre. At the same time John Cunningham collected the gang’s arsenal of weapons.

Since the West Yorkshire police had begun their investigation into the Speed murder in Leeds, a special surveillance team attached to the Garda Central Detective Unit had been keeping tabs on the Cunninghams and Kelly. Under the command of Detective Inspector Gerry McCarrick, the squad had been set up in 1982 to target major organised crime figures in Dublin and liaise with other police forces in targeting international crime networks involving Irish hoodlums. McCarrick and his tight-knit team had been hugely successful, as a result of using what were considered at the time to be radically new undercover methods.

The squad tailed one of the city’s underworld gun-hire merchants to a meeting with John Cunningham in the car park of the Submarine pub in Crumlin, Dublin, in late March. They had been watching the illegal gun dealer as part of an operation code-named ‘April’. Cunningham had paged the dealer, asking him to meet ‘Jack’. McCarrick was convinced that Cunningham and his team were getting ready for a major crime, possibly a kidnapping or a robbery. Intelligence sources revealed that the gang planned a major crime during the June bank holiday weekend. A number of potential targets were placed under Garda protection.

Cunningham obtained a hand-grenade, a replica Uzi sub-machinegun and three hand-guns for the kidnapping. He also made up two devices which would look like bombs, complete with ‘remote control’ detonators. Bombs with electronic detonation devices tended to scare people out of their wits and focus the mind on paying up, Cunningham believed. On the afternoon of the kidnapping the gang planned to use a battered old car belonging to an associate of McNichol to abduct their victim. Michael Cunningham and Kelly would conceal themselves in the back seat. The car would then be used to bring the hostage to a pre-arranged spot where the green Opel hire car would be waiting for the change-over. Everything was ready. The Cunninghams were about to etch their names in gangland history.

At 3.30pm on Tuesday, 8 April, Jennifer Guinness took the family’s two dogs for a walk, as she often did in the afternoon. As she returned to the house around 4.15pm, a battered old car pulled into the driveway. She could see that the driver was the only occupant, a respectable-looking man, smartly-dressed and wearing a blue felt trilby hat. There were sheets in the back covering what she would describe as something bulky. One of the dogs began barking wildly and she restrained it, apologising to John Cunningham as she did so.

‘You have come to collect the books?’ Jennifer asked Cunningham, who smiled and replied, ‘Yes.’ A half-hour earlier a bookshop owner, Simon Nelson from Schull in County Cork, had arranged to call and collect some sailing directories and she assumed that he was the man in the car. Jennifer Guinness was the secretary of Irish Cruising Club Publications Ltd., and the club’s headquarters was at the house. Sailing enthusiasts regularly called to collect books from her at Censure House. The gang could not have timed their arrival any better.

Jennifer turned and walked up to the front door. Cunningham followed. She pushed open the door, walked over to a hall table and picked up the stack of books she was holding for the bookshop owner. When she turned to hand them over Cunningham was standing behind her with a .45 pistol in his hand. ‘Don’t be so stupid … you’ve got to be joking,’she exclaimed in surprise at the sight of the weapon. ‘Oh, no, it’s not a joke. Keep your hands on the table,’ Cunningham replied in a sinister tone.

By now Kelly and Michael Cunningham, who were both wearing balaclavas, had jumped out of the car and were running into the front hallway. They rushed past the ‘Colonel’, who also pulled a mask over his face, and into the kitchen. The housekeeper, Patricia Coogan, and Jennifer’s daughter Gillian were sitting at the table. The criminals pointed their guns at the heads of the two women and ordered them not to move. One of the kidnappers grabbed the housekeeper and brought her to fetch her fifteen-year-old daughter, who was watching TV in a flat adjoining the main house. When they returned they marched the four women into a television room adjoining the hallway.

The three kidnappers demanded to know the location of any panic buttons. There were none. They also asked what time John Guinness was expected home and who else was expected to call. The phone lines in the house were ripped out. The men gave their terrified captives the impression that they were paramilitaries by referring to the ‘organisation’. They said they were following orders because the organisation needed money and that if everyone behaved themselves no-one would be shot. Michael Cunningham and Kelly made a point of calling John ‘Colonel’. In turn Michael was called ‘Sergeant’.

John Cunningham announced that they intended taking Gillian Guinness as a hostage and that they wanted a ransom of £2 million paid for her safe return. Then he ordered Jennifer out to the hallway where he quizzed her about where her jewellery was kept. He also demanded to know which paintings in the house were valuable. He was abusive and pointed the gun at her head. She took him around the house, explaining the value of each painting. Jennifer showed him the family’s most valuable piece, an Osborne painting of her grandmother-in-law. She explained to the ‘Colonel’ that it was too well-known in the art world, as it had been on exhibition in Dublin, and was therefore worthless to a thief.

As they walked through the house, Cunningham demanded to see the safe. When she opened it and showed him her collection of Victorian jewellery Cunningham demanded to know where the ‘real safe and real jewellery’ were. Jennifer Guinness tried to explain that the gang had targeted the wrong family. ‘Do we look like people who have an enormous amount of money?’ she asked him. Cunningham and his brother took whatever jewellery was there. It was worth just over £50,000. They ransacked every room in the house looking for valuables.

At one stage, the ‘Sergeant’ found Jennifer’s Irish passport and declared, ‘We don’t shoot Irish people,’to substantiate their claims of being paramilitaries on a ‘fund-raising mission’. Jennifer, a strong-willed, courageous woman, was determined to do everything in her power to prevent the gang taking her daughter. She was terrified of what the masked thugs could do to a defenceless young girl. From the beginning of her nightmare ordeal she steadfastly refused to show fear in front of her captors. She pleaded with John Cunningham to take her instead of Gillian. ‘No, you would be better because you would make sure that everybody would stay quiet. I want you to stay and put pressure on John to pay the money quickly,’ Cunningham replied.

About twenty minutes had now passed since the kidnap gang entered the Guinness home. Around 4.30pm Simon Nelson arrived in a white van. The book dealer knocked on the door. Jennifer Guinness answered and invited him in. A masked gunman emerged from behind the door and held a gun to his head. Jennifer explained to Cunningham that this was the man she had been expecting to call for the books. A short while later, the family butcher called to deliver meat, as he did twice a week. The gang waited with their guns cocked as he walked around to the kitchen door, placed the meat in the fridge and left again, totally unaware of the unfolding drama in the house.

Nelson was taken out of the room by the ‘Colonel’ and questioned about his family and where he came from. Cunningham held a grenade in front of the petrified man and told him that he had been unfortunately caught up in something which was not his business. If he talked about what happened to anyone then they, the organisation, would find him no matter where he tried to hide.

Then a woman delivering census forms called to the door. One of the gang members held Jennifer’s arm behind her back and a gun to her head. She opened the door slightly and accepted the form. The census enumerator was nervous about dogs and got the impression that Jennifer was holding one of them behind the door. She promptly left, suspecting nothing.

At 5.30pm John Guinness’s silver-grey Mercedes car drove up the driveway to Censure House. He first tried to use the front door, which he found locked. He walked around to the back of the house and entered through the kitchen door. As he walked from the kitchen into the hall, he was stunned to see his wife standing near the TV room door with a masked man who was pointing a gun in his direction. ‘What’s all this about?’ he gasped in amazement. Jennifer told him that it was all ‘for real’ and that the gang had the rest of the household at gunpoint in the TV room.