Freddie Foreman - The Godfather of British Crime. Freddie Foreman

were all you needed to break in through the small quarter-light side window with very little damage done.

      My job was to nick the cars, then drive them to Tunbridge Wells and park them up. My George would follow and take me back to London. A car dealer he knew in town would put them in his showroom furnished with a log book and all the right details. They started to go like hot cakes. George and I were doing very well. In fact, the lock-up garages were full and I was told not to nick any more for a while. But all good things come to an end.

      The showroom sold a Ford to a man who was very knowledgeable and he spotted a number behind the sun visor that shouldn’t have been on that particular year and model. He called the police and the dealer was arrested. They traced the log books back to County Hall, but nobody grassed on our firm. The wartime propaganda – that golden rule that insisted on silence – still held good.

      Georgie Morgan’s next scheme was counterfeiting and we had a load of white fivers printed up. But that one was short-lived. One of his relations, who did a bit of work for him, nicked a parcel of the dodgies and went to Wandsworth dog track, where he got himself nicked. Then, on top of that, George Morgan got nicked and it all blew up in our faces.

      It was clearly time for me to move further up the ladder and try something new.