Powder Wars

On 26 October 1999 more arrests were made during a police raid at Haase’s Dock office at the Stanley Heritage Market. The following day he was charged with conspiring to supply heroin in relation to the kilo police had tracked from London.

A separate firearms offence stated that ‘on 7 September this year in Liverpool, he conspired with other persons to possess or sell prohibited weapons, prohibited ammunition and Section One ammunition, contrary to the Weapons Law Act 1977’.

Ken Darcy, the drugs mule Haase had travelled to London with, was charged with drugs offences. Paul’s son and Haase’s main lieutenant, Heath Grimes, was also charged with firearms offences, as was Barry Oliver, who had allegedly been in the Dock on the day of the gun transaction. Oliver was in a bad situation. At the time of the offences he was out of prison on Home Office licence after being convicted of manslaughter. He had set a man on fire. If found guilty, Oliver would automatically be sentenced to life.

The situation was further complicated because Haase’s right-hand man Paul Bennett was wanted in connection with a £1 million cannabis importation. Over the next few months the case became a stock exchange of plea bargains and deals, as some of the parties, awed by the level of secret intelligence against them, desperately battled to get the shortest sentences possible. But Haase and Heath were in for a bigger shock. When it dawned on them that Paul Grimes was the secret informant, the grass, they could not believe it. A lifelong friend to one and father to the other.

Haase first realised that Paul had betrayed him when police unearthed a secret cache of guns hidden underneath a floorboard in an old warehouse next to his office. The warehouse was so vast that Haase was convinced that only a tip-off could have led police to the specific hiding place. The only other person who knew the secret location was Paul Grimes. He had been there when Haase had buried them. Paul had kept look-out and blocked the doorway into the huge room as Haase had pulled up a floorboard and stashed the weapons in the cavity underneath.

As the interviewing police officers asked Haase whether the guns were his, his heart sank. ‘How the fuck did they find them,’ he asked himself. There was only one explanation. He’d been turned over. In a weak and unconvincing rebuttal, Haase limply tried to say that the guns were not his but actually owned by Paul Grimes. Deep down though he knew he was in deep trouble.

On the drugs-related charge Haase felt more confident. The great irony of the bust was that the kilo of heroin found on drugs mule Kenneth Darcy was not technically Haase’s. Chris No-Neck had set up the deal. No-Neck had been badgering Haase to get him a kilo of brown in the run-up to the trip. Haase had first visited the Turks in London on Saturday 23 October, two days before he was busted, to talk business and pick up one kilo. But he agreed to get a second kilo of heroin for No-Neck as a favour on the following Monday. The Turks had been informed that on the Monday a courier would arrive at their cafe to pick up the parcel.

The following day, Sunday, Haase had told No-Neck that the heroin would be ready for him. Haase explained that although he would be travelling to London again on the train on Monday, he wanted Darcy to go by coach so that there was no connection between them. However, on the Monday Darcy missed the National Express coach after No-Neck gave him the wrong times.

In the end Haase agreed to allow Darcy to travel on the train with him and even paid for his first-class ticket. It was the worst decision of his life. On the return journey later that day, they were both arrested, Darcy with the gear on him.

Haase never contemplated grassing up No-Neck, but he decided early on that his case strategy would be never to plead guilty to possessing the heroin. After all, the drugs were not found on him. He would try to cut a deal on a lesser charge.

As a bad post-script to the already ruinous situation Haase found himself in, the Turkish cafe that had supplied the heroin was raided one year later. Some of the Turks sectretly blamed Haase for leading the police to them.

Meanwhile, Heath was facing the first big rap of his life. For a while, Paul kept visiting him in prison and pumping him for information. Heath had not yet tumbled that Paul was the grass. It was a ruthless ploy, especially towards his own son, but Paul was so determined that drug-dealing Haase would be destroyed he no longer cared whether Heath went down with him or not.

Paul rationalised it in his head; even though it was his own son he had still chosen to get mixed up with Haase and drug-dealing. In his book, that was unforgivable and he deserved to be taught a lesson. It was tough love. Paul agonised over his treatment of Heath. It felt like he had lost one son but was about to lose another – by his own making. By his own double-dealing hand.

Matters were made worse when Christine, Paul’s ex-wife and Heath’s mother, accused Paul of the basest and most unnatural treachery. ‘How can you send your own son to prison,’ she wailed. ‘You fucking bastard cunt. God will never forgive you for this.’

Paul felt like he was living in a Shakespeare play. He wrestled with both his conscience and his paternal instinct. He remembered how he had held Heath in his arms as a baby. How he had bathed him, changed his nappies and shushed him to sleep. How he had provided for and protected the helpless, crying child until he was old enough to stand on his own two feet. Now he was going to unravel that beautiful, life-giving process and destroy his creation like an abortion. Could he do it? Could he stick the knife in and turn it? Could he look Heath in the eyes as coldly as he had looked into Haase’s and betray him?

Paul then made a last desperate bid to save his son. He would throw Heath a lifeline. If Heath took it, it would be his decision. Paul approached his Customs handlers and asked if they would show leniency to Heath if he turned Queen’s Evidence. After much toing and froing, they came back and said that they might be interested in doing a deal, but that they also felt it wasn’t worth talking about – in their eyes Heath was staunch. He would never turn grass. He looked up to Haase too much. He saw Haase as a father figure. He would never do it. Paul was pained by the father analogy, but he persuaded Customs to let him have a go.

PAUL: Everyone started getting nicked. Haase, Heath, the lot. The busies even turned my flat over to make it look as though I was a legit suspect. For a short while no one knew I was the grass.

When it come down to it I couldn’t throw Heath to the lions just like that. Had to move fast. I wanted Heath to get bail so I could have a talk to him, but the busies were like that: ‘Are you fucking joking?’

They were non-committal but I went for it anyway. I knew that they were ripping the Dock apart, but there was no chance they’d ever find anything. Special fucking SWAT teams or not. It was the largest building of its type in Europe. They’d been at it nearly eight days and found fuck all.

So I took the police to the spot. They found the gear. There was a Colt handgun and a magazine, a Brevett pistol with a mag, a sawn-off Parker-Hale 12 bore Shotgun, 200 rounds of ammo and 25 shotgun cartridges. There weren’t as many shooters as I’d seen him put in there. Was like a fucking IRA cache at one stage, but he must have been selling bits over the months, getting rid and that.

The busies were made up, but they still kept Heath in the nick. I was going back and forth seeing Heath, pleading with him to save himself by fucking Haase. I give him the phone number of this busie to ring if he decided to change his mind. But I could tell he was a bit ashamed of me, his auld feller being a midnight mass and all. He kept going on about his security.

‘Dad, I’ve got to think about me bird and me house and that. If I talk, they are gone. Blown up. You know that.’ Heath was terrified of Haase.

I said: ‘Look, the busies will put you on a programme, take you to fucking Australia or somewhere with a new fucking identity. They’ll take your bird. Fuck Haase. He won’t be able to find you.’

After that he phoned the special busie who hangles witness protection people. They took Heath out of the nick and drove him to a secret meeting at a hotel in Chester. The busies offered him the deal, but when it came down to signing the form his bottle went. He looked at the busie. ‘I can’t do it . . . comebacks,’ he whispered.

After that there was nothing I could do. I had to start making statements and telling tales. It was a whirlwind of magistrates’ appearances, where I had to stand up and say what I was going to say in front of their briefs. I was escorted back and forth by armed police. I was the prize, no doubt about it. No cunt was taking any chances on me. Everyone knew that Haase wouldn’t think twice about killing me. Especially after he definitely found out I was a grass.

They found out for sure only after I’d tried to persuade Heath to turn. Heath must have told Haase and his worst fears were confirmed. It was after one of the committals. They brought Haase into court. He was giving it moody stares. I wasn’t arsed. I just kept wondering why his hair had gone so grey so quickly. It was jet black two weeks ago and now it was like a fucking silver fox, knowmean? Transfixed by it I was. Can’t be down to worry. This cunt could do 20 years in jail and not give a fuck.

Then I burst out laughing. The vain bastard must have been dyeing it all along and now he’s in the jug he mustn’t be able to get hold of the old Grecian 2000. Haase was always meticulous about his hygiene. Always washing his fucking hands, in bleach and everything. Hygiene was unbelievable. Howard Hughes, la, he was.

The busies moved me to a new house. A team of lads went into my pad, boxed everything up and moved me out. They told me to find somewhere I wanted in any area. I chose somewhere in Wallasey. Next thing I get a phone call telling me to go up to the council. They had a place for me. Then they got me a job working for a security firm in Manchester to keep me on the move.

Was a tense time to be honest. There was a lot of stress. I started rowing with the bird I was knocking about with and we split up. My head was wrecked with it all, in all fairness. The only thing that kept me going was the gym. That and chilling out with a joint afterwards. Pumping Iron and all that.

One time I went round to see her, there was the usual slanging match and she called the busies. They searched me and found a little bit of weed. Could you believe it? The irony of it. Me at the centre of this massive case and being nicked for possession. I got fined £45 at the mags. Did not even try and call it in to the other lot to see if they could get me off. After all, fair’s fair, isn’t it?

Next thing I have to give evidence against Heath. Then his mam was on the phone saying I gave Heath up, blah blah, blah. That I’d go to hell and that. But what could I do? The busies offered me the full witness-protection programme. It even come up in court. Anywhere in the world. New ID, new house, new job, new fucking life.

But as far as I was concerned that was handing victory to Haase. That was like running away from him and everything I’d ever fucking known. I told the busies to fuck off. I told them that Paul Grimes was the name I was born with and that was the name I’d be dying with whether it was at the hands of John fucking Haase or not. I said I’m staying where I am, here in Liverpool, and facing up to these cunts. As far as I’m concerned I’m not changing my fucking life for them.

It was a lonely life. I spent a lot of time waiting inside special rooms in courts, with bored fucking busies with Hecklers next to me, reading old copies of the Radio Times. I’d have to wait all fucking day so that the prosecution could ask me two fucking questions. Then I’d have to go back again to answer one other fucking question . . . sitting there all day. A farce it was. Just walked in, gave me evidence and walked out. Sometimes Haase was there. They’d stare at me as I walked out. The system was fucking ridiculous.

The police were right, though they didn’t know it yet. From his prison cell, Haase was already plotting to kill Grimes. Not out of revenge, but to stop him appearing in court and giving evidence. The plan was more complicated than a straightforward assassination. Haase was desperate to find out exactly how much Grimes had told his Customs handlers. At that stage Haase did not know about the bugging and the masses of intelligence the Customs had on him. What he did know was that if there was such data in existence much of it would be inadmissible against him, especially without Grimes standing up in court to back it up.

Haase’s grand plan was to try and negotiate a deal with the courts. He was a past master at plea bargaining. Had he not pulled off the greatest sentencing deal of the century? Haase was totally confident he could do it again. But first he needed to find out exactly how much Grimes had given his masters.

Haase instructed one of his specialist surveillance teams to track down Grimes to his new safe house and observe his every movement. Within days his men had found it. The next step was to log his routine in a bid to determine the best time to snatch him. The plan was to bundle him into a van, kidnap him, torture him to find out what he had told them, kill him and dump him.

Paul’s safe house was an anonymous flat in a council tower block in Thornridge, Morton, one of three high-rises close to the entrance of the Wallasey Tunnel. Haase’s surveillance team discovered that they could see into Grimes’ flat from an observation point on top of an adjacent tower block.

A former member of Haase’s gang, who has been interviewed by the author, revealed how one attempted snatch raid was called off at the last minute.

One night as the team were scaling a fixed wall ladder, which gave access to the roof, they heard noises. When they reached the top and peeked over the edge of the roof wall, to their horror they found a specialist police surveillance unit already in position in the exact place they had been in just hours before.

Luckily for Haase’s team, the officers were consumed by peering through their binoculars, checking on Paul Grimes sitting in his flat and scanning the estate for suspicious movements. The officers had not seen nor heard Haase’s men even though they were yards away. Haase’s team quickly and silently climbed down the ladder from where they had come and escaped from the estate unchallenged. They later found out that although Grimes had bravely refused the offer of close protection, the Chief Constable had ordered his officers to secretly protect their star witness without him knowing. That was the purpose of the suveillance team.

Haase realised he would have little chance of snatching Grimes. Time was running out. If he was going to do a deal with the prosecution, he would have to make soundings before the trial started. In a last-ditch attempt to find out who knew what, he turned his attention to the Customs officers who had helped gather the evidence against him.

Haase instructed his team to find out the identity of Paul’s main handler. Shockingly, within days they were able to find out the name of the Customs investigator that Paul had liaised with since the days of the Warren trial, dominic Smith. Although this officer had handled Grimes at the outset of the Haase investigation, he had moved on and was now only one of a number of officers who Paul had passed information to. Nevertheless, this officer was the main port of call for Paul and his most trusted confidante. Haase gave the order for his men to track the Customs officer’s every move.

Unknown to Dominic Smith, he was photographed at his home and outside his office at the Customs HQ in Manchester’s Salford Quays. Using long-lens stills cameras and video equipment the team recorded him at secret meetings with Paul Grimes and at liaisons with other informants on unrelated cases. From these encounters the team learned the identity of several underworld figures who were feeding information back to Customs and Excise.

Once Haase’s reconnaissance had been completed he gave the order to kidnap the Customs officer. It was unprecedented. To kidnap a serving law enforcement officer was unheard of. It was an unspeakable crime, well outside the unwritten underground code of conduct, but Haase did not give a fuck. He was a desperate man determined to do what it took to get off. Haase instructed his men to snatch Dominic Smith and torture him to find out what he knew but to avoid killing him. Some of Haase’s men were uneasy but they understood to refuse would mean certain death. The operation got underway, but from the outset there were problems.

Owing to the Customs rules of officers working in pairs, the investigator was never alone. His home was protected by a sophisticated alarm and he drove everywhere, competently and at high speeds, making him difficult to ambush. Several times the trap was set – but never sprung for one hitch after another. Eventually Haase had to drop the plan. Time was running out fast. He would be forced to try and negotiate a deal with the prosecution without any aces up his sleeve. He would be playing blind.