The ‘Wife of Crime’ series is based on true events and will be published in daily installments.
He was never a gangster. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He wasn’t in a gang or part of a firm. He didn’t live a life of crime and he’d never done time, but he was a criminal. He was a criminal, in more ways than one, and so I suppose he still is and always will be just that.
Yes, he was violent. Yes, he was stupid. Yes, he turned into a monster when he’d had too much to drink and put too much up his nose. Yes, he was easily led astray. Yes, he had some bad friends. Yes, he had enemies. Yes, he had unfinished business. But he also had me.
Of course most girls would’ve run a mile after that first incident, but I’m not most girls. And honestly? It was exciting.
The hiding, the running, the swapping clothes, the pre-arranged conversations from public phone boxes, the disposable mobile phones, the meetings in the middle of the forest.
Like, it was exciting knowing exactly where a fugitive was hiding. It was exciting watching the filth run around like headless chickens on E down all these false trails while I knew exactly where so-and-so was hiding. In fact, I knew where he was hiding and I was bringing him cigarettes and clean socks twice a week, and waving to the plastic policemen on my way.
I knew where certain weapons were hidden; weapons that were highly sought after by the Met. I knew who was in possession of incriminating pieces of evidence, and how the evidence was going to disappear. I knew when and where certain vehicles had been scrapped. I knew drug batch delivery dates. I knew who had done what and to whom, and at what location, date and time. Sometimes I was a witness, sometimes I had reliable sources. I heard a lot and saw even more.
To possess such knowledge and to be trusted with that information was a great thing.
Knowledge is power. And I knew everything.