John Palmer: the Goldfinger years
Brink's-Mat gold, a Tenerife timeshare empire, and a killing in his own garden that no one has answered for.
He went from nightclub doorman to the Sunday Times Rich List. Three decades on, investigators have still accounted for only a fraction of the money.
Brink's-Mat gold, a Tenerife timeshare empire, and a killing in his own garden that no one has answered for.
They called him the hardest man in England. The prison system spent years trying to prove otherwise.
Nice house. Nice car. Properties across Spain and France — and a French courtroom that heard a very different story.
How one robbery in 1974 created the man the tabloids would name Britain's most feared prisoner.
Sanctions, indictments and a cartel that outgrew the city it came from.
One death, five nights of riots, and an inquest whose findings are still argued over.
Neighbours assumed it was for show. Merseyside Police had a different theory.
He went from nightclub doorman to the Sunday Times Rich List. Three decades on, investigators have still accounted for only a fraction of the money.
Curtis Warren started where a thousand Liverpool stories start: on the door of a nightclub. But by the mid-1990s, the former bouncer from Toxteth had done something no British criminal had managed before or since — he appeared on the Sunday Times Rich List, discreetly described as a property developer, with an estimated fortune that placed him among the wealthiest men in the country.
The money did not come from property. According to prosecutors on two continents, Warren had built direct lines to Colombian cocaine suppliers, cutting out the middlemen who took a percentage at every border. Where other British traffickers bought from wholesalers in Amsterdam, Warren, investigators said, dealt with the source. Interpol would come to describe him as one of its highest-priority targets.
The line that made him a legend came at the expense of British customs officers. After walking free from an earlier trial, Warren is widely reported to have taunted investigators that he was off to spend his millions — and that they could not touch a penny. Whether the wording grew in the retelling, the sentiment was accurate: no British court had convicted him, and no agency could find the money.
Warren moved to the quiet Dutch town of Sassenheim, running his operation, according to Dutch prosecutors, through payphones and coded calls. In October 1996, Dutch police moved in. The raids recovered hundreds of kilograms of cocaine hidden in lead ingots, along with firearms and cash. In 1997 a Dutch court sentenced him to 12 years.
Prison did not quiet him. In 1999, after being attacked by a fellow inmate in the exercise yard of a Dutch maximum-security prison, Warren fought back; the man died, and Warren was convicted of manslaughter, adding years to his sentence.
Within months of his eventual return, he was arrested again — this time in Jersey, over a plan to smuggle cannabis onto the island. The 2009 trial ended in conviction and a 13-year sentence. Jersey authorities then spent years pursuing him through the courts for the fortune he was believed to still control, in one of the largest confiscation claims ever brought in the islands.
That is what keeps the Warren story alive three decades on. Not the arrests, not even the Rich List entry — but the arithmetic. Investigators could account for only a fraction of what they believed he made. The rest is a vault with no known door, and every few years someone claims to have found the handle.