We split up instinctively. Beaver ran off in one direction and I headed for the car park, running up to the top floor where the Granada taxi was waiting. I said, ‘It’s hot, it’s on top, we’re being chased. I’ll get in the boot.’ The Turkish driver said, ‘No, don’t do that, just sit in the back seat and act normal.’ I should have gone with my gut instinct but instead I sat in the back. We started to descend the spiral ramp that led to the exit, down and round, down and round, all the time waiting for someone to stop us. We pulled around this final corner just before the ticket barrier, thinking we were going to escape when, dismayed, I saw two policemen stopping all the cars and checking the occupants. The taxi driver said, ‘Just stay where you are, you will be alright, they won’t know it’s you.’ I waited anxiously for our turn in line and decided to lie down on the seat. When the policeman stopped us, he looked in the back at me and said, ‘That’s him.’
‘Step out of the car, please,’ he said to me. I got out and immediately started explaining to the senior officer, saying, ‘Listen, you’ve got the wrong man. I haven’t got anything, look in my bags.’ Unfortunately, the security guard from the store confirmed that I was one of the culprits. At that point, I played an old trick I’d learned from my brother David, which he always used to great effect. I began to act frantic, severely agitated. ‘I’ve got heart problems, I’ve got stress problems, this is making me unwell. I’ll take you to court.’ I started shouting and ranting at this officer, trying to work my way out of the predicament. After about ten minutes, I just started to think I was getting somewhere when the officer, in a truly disparaging tone, said, ‘Will you just shut up!’ So that was that, nicked.
I sat down in the police Rover and slid my way across the seat. Already my mind was racing – it was a Friday and I knew that I would spend the weekend at the station and it would be Monday morning before I’d see daylight. I had a blues to attend on the Saturday which was going to be fun: good music, lots of girls, drinking and ‘crubbing’ (close dancing). That, I wasn’t going to miss.
More worryingly, I knew that as soon as they put my name in the central computer, it would alert them to the fact that I had jumped bail from the gentleman’s outfitter’s theft, where I had been caught on the M23. Then it would be prison and who knows what future for me. This was a desperate predicament. I had to escape.
The obvious thought was to jump out of the car, at high speed if necessary. As we slowed down to drive around this flyover, I tugged on the door latch but the child-lock was on. So now I was really in trouble. A change of tack was needed. I started to apologise to the policemen in the car. ‘Officer, sorry about my behaviour earlier, I was out of order.’ I continued being Mr Polite all the way back to the station, in full charm mode. They were very much more relaxed by the time the car pulled up.
Don’t forget, I am an unbeaten professional boxer at this point and training almost every day, so I am the fittest man on the planet – and I do not say that in jest! The police officer’s grip on my arm had slackened just a little, so that when he turned away from me to unlock the over-sized lock on the door to the cells, I pulled free and I was gone, off like a bullet. The only problem was, I was wearing my cherished £140 snake-skin shoes, which I had bought from Panache in Walworth Road. As stylish as they were, they were not best suited to sprinting, not least because they were dress shoes with smooth, wafer-thin soles.
The officer was, of course, coming after me, so I ran around a car. He stood one side of the car, hands on the roof, staring at me. He said, ‘Now don’t be stupid, son,’ and, voice brimming with confidence, I replied, ‘Let’s see who’s stupid,’ and ran off across the yard away from the officer and security guard. Because of my fitness, within a few seconds I was twenty yards or so ahead. After all, I was running six miles every morning before I even opened the gym door, so these fellows were never going to keep up.
At this point I banged past a middle-aged man who then joined the chase. He was wearing one of those army jumpers with shoulder and elbow patches. By now, though, I had built up a good speed and dived through a subway, then dashed up this long flight of steps to bring me back to street level, deliberately choosing the steps instead of the ramp to make their chase tougher. I can picture to this day the sight of this man, panting desperately for breath, face all reddened and flushed, skidding through the subway and coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. He looked up and I was standing there, grinning at the top of the steps. My heart at this point was barely beating above resting rate. This guy chasing me was so exhausted he was barely conscious.
We stood there looking at each other waiting for the next move, then I heard another officer shouting, ‘Don’t stop! Get him!’ I calmly reached down and took off each shoe, held them up in the air triumphantly, before turning around and setting off at speed towards a street full of market stalls. As I weaved my way through the stalls, out of danger at last, I could just hear a faint voice shouting, ‘Thief, stop!’ I was so fit they never stood a chance. Once I was sure I was safe, I caught the train back to my friend’s house and slept there for the night.
I was awakened at 7.45am the next morning by a knock on the door. I heard someone’s voice saying, ‘Is Christopher here?’ before being let in. It was the police – no, it was the ‘cozzers’. I know cozzers is a generic term for the police but real cozzers only come from certain police stations. This particular cozzer was like a huge bulldog, 6’ 4” with a furious scowl. He didn’t care very much for me because I was wrong. He came into the front room where I was sleeping and said, ‘Christopher, get up now.’ I was half-asleep, squinting through my eyelids, saying, ‘What? What are you talking about?’
I got up and stood in front of him wearing only my socks and underpants. My clothes were hanging up in the wardrobe but I knew I had to delay getting fully dressed because at that point they would cuff me, especially after my escapology of the day before. I couldn’t believe my bad luck; this chase had been going on for two days now!
I surveyed the terrain and noticed that the sash window was too near the officer to offer a realistic chance of escape. So I asked him if I could brush my teeth. He wasn’t stupid, so he followed me into the bathroom where they knew there was a window. They watched me brush my teeth. I had acne at this time, so while I was standing at the mirror, I squeezed a pimple and the pus and a little streak of blood started running down my face. I turned to the disgusted officer and said, ‘I’ve got to clean myself up.’
‘Fine,’ came the reply, and he continued to stand there.
‘Can I use the toilet now?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ came the reply but he still stood there.
‘Can I have some privacy in here?’
‘No.’
So he stood there and watched me use the toilet. Or rather, pretend to use the toilet. After a short while, I played out the charade, did a fake number two, used the toilet paper and so on, pulled up my underpants then came back into the front room.
‘Right, officer, I’ll get changed now.’
He was standing leaning against the door frame and had started talking to another officer and a girl who lived in the house. Alternately he would talk to them then turn around to keep an eye on me. Then, for one moment too long, he had his head turned away from me. That was all the opportunity I needed. Like a flash I was through the sash window, in only my socks (silk, mind you) and underpants.
The estates around Walworth Road were real rabbit warrens so it was easy for me to lose anybody who would take up the chase. However, it was cold and drizzling so I was absolutely freezing. As I ran into one courtyard, this little kid, about 13, saw me and looked surprised to see someone wearing only socks and underpants running