9781529942934

‘Fascinating and illuminating’

Irvine Welsh

Praise for Other People’s Money

‘A fascinating and illuminating story, as Elliot Castro’s search for the good life is slowly unveiled as an archetypally gifted outsider’s quest for affirmation and identity. It will appeal to those of us who have fantasised about spending money we don’t have (i.e. everybody) and serve as a cautionary tale for all credit card holders’

Irvine Welsh

‘An exhilarating Brit variation on Catch Me If You Can, in which Neil Forsyth never misses an opportunity to amp up the sweaty-palmed suspense’

Arena

‘[An] eye-popping account of the brief but spectacularly profitable career of young Elliot Castro . . . The most surprising thing? How likable Elliot Castro seems  . . . A fascinating story’

Mail on Sunday

‘Conveys the desperation of his plight without a shred of self-pity, but with some welcome flashes of humour’

Daily Express

‘[A] fascinating story – how a day-dreaming youngster from a working-class suburb of Glasgow managed to stumble upon the perfect credit card scam’

Irish Examiner

‘He went to Paris for the spring, cruised in the Caribbean in summer and flew to Sydney in winter. He shopped on New York’s Fifth Avenue with a limousine standing by and shared drinks with Bono  . . . No single fraudster has taken the card companies to the cleaners quite like Elliot [and] Other People’s Money tells the astonishing story of his freeloading lifestyle and how he got away with it’

Sunday Mirror

‘A con as big as the Ritz’ Guardian

‘An amazing tale, that intrigues you with details of Elliot Castro’s audacious exploits. It’s a great read.’

FHM South Africa

‘A mind-boggling tale  . . . The intriguing life-on-the-run story is as rich as the youthful swindler’s Rolex watches and designer clobber’ Ralph magazine

‘[It] has the pace and drama of a thriller, with heart-quickening descriptions of transactions made with dodgy cards in the plushest establishments. This great summer read will have you cheering the little guy, who, despite everything, is eminently lovable’ GT

‘The best con artist and fraudster in the world  . . . and the youngest’ Loaded

‘[An] extraordinary tale’ Sunday Tribune

‘The highlife Elliot Castro led as he ripped off financial institutions for record amounts is the stuff of dreams you don’t dare dream . . . Somehow you’ll find yourself willing him on throughout this spiffing story of his exploits’

Daily Sport

‘One of Britain’s unlikeliest super criminals’ Sunday Herald

‘You can’t help feeling  . . . impressed with his honesty in portraying himself like this. You’ll leave the book impressed, too, with Forsyth’s ability to shape Elliot’s story into so compelling a narrative’ Book-Blog.com

Other People’s Money

The Rise and Fall of Britain’s Boldest Credit Card Fraudster

neil forsyth with elliot castro

Ebury Spotlight, an imprint of Ebury Publishing 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road

London SW1V 2SA

Ebury Spotlight is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

Copyright © Neil Forsyth and Elliot Castro 2007

Neil Forsyth and Elliot Castro have asserted their right to be identified as the authors of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published by Sidgwick & Jackson in 2007

First published in paperback by Pan Mac in 2008

This edition published by Ebury Spotlight in 2024

www.penguin.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9781529942934

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

The authorised representative in the EEA is Penguin Random House Ireland, Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street, Dublin D02 YH68

Penguin Random House is committed to a sustainable future for our business, our readers and our planet. This book is made from Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.

For our Mums, Jane Castro and Joan Forsyth

This is a true story. On occasion, names, locations, dates or events have been altered. But this is a true story.

CHAPTERONE

Edinburgh,5November2004

Ihatethistime,thespacebetweenlandingandgettingoff.At leastusuallyI’matthefrontoftheplane,millingaboutfirst classasthestewardessfindsmyjacketandapologizesfor thedelay.Theseshorthopsjustchuckeveryoneintogether andallthehassleinBelfasthadleftmelatetoboardand scramblingforaseatbesidethetoilets.

I’dbeenplanningtogotoAmsterdamuntilthismorning whenIcalledKLM’scentralreservationsdeskwhilepacking myLouisVuittonduffelbag. I’mphoningfromtheBelfast AirportKLMdesk,ourserversaredown,justcheckingabooking inthenameofElliotCastro,everythingOK? Andthereitwas, ‘There’saproblemwiththatone.’SoI’dhungupandswore anddecidedtocometoEdinburgh.

Finally,thereisapingandpeoplestartclamberingfrom theirseats,pullingbagsfromthelockersandeasingthemselvesintotheaisle.Iwaituntilmosthavedepartedbefore risingslowlyandpickingmybagfromtheemptiedshelves. IsmileatthestewardessasIpassbutmyeyesstayonthe ground,Idon’tgiveherafacetoremember.

Theconcourseisamessofpassengers,workmenand ladders.Afewyearsago,whenthisallbegan,EdinburghAirportwasajoke.Therewereahandfulofbarsandshopsand passengerswerecrowdedintoalong,depressingwaitingarea. Itwasperfect.Nowthey’regettingseriousandit’smaking menervousasIscantheairlinedesks.Ican’tstraywithin

sightoftheBritishAirwayspeopleandIneedittobea suitable... there.

‘Excuseme.’Iselectamiddle-classScottishaccent.The manisoldandlocal,heneedstohearfamiliaritybutalsothe impressionofauthority.Helooksupfromhisnewspaperand Ismile.‘Hi.Iseeyouhaveafaxmachinethere,’Islipthe paperfrommyjacketpocket,‘CouldIpossiblypayyouto sendthisformetothenumberatthetopofthepage?’

AsthemachinepushesoutitsconfirmationIthankthe man,slidingatwenty-poundnoteacrossthedeskasIdoso, andheadforthetelephones.Ipunchinthenumberand pause,settingmyselfintocharacter.English,HomeCounties. ‘Hellothere,isthattheGlasshouseHotel?Good,it’sDavid SmithherefromShellOil.I’vejustsentyouafax...ah, greatyou’vegotit.Yes,wellElliotwillbeintouchI’msure. Thankyou.’

AweekagoIcalledtheBalmoralHotelinEdinburgh frommyrentedflatinBelfast.TheBalmoralisafamousand grandhotelbut,moreimportantly,it’sverybig.Thismeans thatwhenyoucallandasktobeputthroughtoMrSmith youhaveadecentchancetherewillbeaMrSmithforthem topatchyouthroughto.‘Hello?’heanswered,andthat’s whenIbecameDavidSmith.

Ipickupthereceiverandhitredial.‘Hello,theGlasshouse,’chirpsavoice.Adifferentone,thoughthatdoesn’t matter.‘Goodmorning,it’sElliotCastrohere.’‘Hello,Mr Castro,Ibelieveyou’rejoiningustoday?’‘That’scorrect,I wasjusthopingthatIcouldhavemyusual...’ ‘Number eighty-one?I’vealreadyreservedit,sir.Doyourequiretobe collectedfromtheairport?’‘No,I’malreadyhere.I’llbewith youshortly,thankyou.’

AsIwalktothetaxirankIpulloutthefaxsheetsand ripthemcarefullyintoshreds,tearingthroughthemiddleof

theproudShellOillogo.Idon’thavetosendthesefaxesbut theyhelpavoiddoubt.DoubtisnotsomethingthatIcan afford.Thetaxidriverleapsfromhiscab,recognizingthe tippotentialofmy£1,000suitandfussyluggageset.Heis heartenedfurtheraswespeedacrossEdinburgh,andheasks thepurposeofmytrip.‘Tospendmoney,’Ianswerblankly asIspotthecastlebehindtherooftops.

IliketheGlasshouseHotel.It’swhatI’vealwayswanted afive-starhoteltobe–expensive,elegant,decadentandfun. Don’tgetmewrong,IstillenjoytheRitzandthePlazaand theoldmoneystenchbutI’mneverfullyrelaxedinthese environments.I’vebeenhumiliatedbywinewaitersfrom TorontotoDubaiandinAustraliaIheardabarmancallme vulgarforleavinga$1,000tip.AllIwantissomewhereIcan spendmoneyinpeace.

‘Hello,MrCastro.’I’veonlyeverusedmyownname herebecauseIknewI’dreturn.Notjustforthehotelbutalso forEdinburgh,closeenoughtohomewithouthavingtogo there,togoback.Thereceptionist’ssmileisreal.Whensmiles aren’trealtheeyesareunaffected,youcanseeitveryeasily whenyouknowhow.Myeyes,forexample,neverreally change.‘Canweshowyoutoyoursuite?’

ShehandsmeovertoasmallSpaniardinablacksuit. ‘MrCastro,’hedrawlsandleadsmetothelift.‘Eighty-one, eh?’Hesmilesknowingly.Aporterhadtoldmeoncethat theycallroomeighty-onetheCelebritySuite.‘Who’sbeen inthererecently?’Iaskhim,becauseIknowthat’swhathe wantsmetodo.Alongthecorridorhelistspopstarsand actors,asheopensthedoorhenamesaprince.

Itisabeautifulhotelroom.Inthemiddleisawooden framethathalvesthespace,dividingtheking-sizebedfroma largelivingarea.Theouterwallisglassandadoorleadsonto asprawlingbalconythatfacesawoodedhill.Ithinkabout

showeringbutIknowIwon’t.Icanfeelitgrowinsideme, thepricklysenseofanticipationthatquickensmybreathing andturnsmythroatdry.Ithrowmyluggageonthebedand takethestairsbackdown.

Iexitthehotelandturntomyleft.ImmediatelyIpass arowofchainbars– LloydsNo.1, Walkabout, TheSlugand Lettuce.Inmyfledglingdays,wheneverynickedquidsentme giddy,Iusedtolovethesechainpubsandtheircardmachines. I’dpassthemacardandaskforfiftypoundscashbackinmy mostwhimsicalmannerthenlistenforthewrongbeep.Ifit came,Iwasoutthedoor.

Thisiswhathashappenedtome.Shopsigns,restaurants andbanksmeandifferentthingstomethantheywouldto you.TometheymeanalotofthingsbutIcanprobablyboil itdowntotwo,successandfailure.Infactno,that’sbeing unfair.Ineverfailintheend,justsometimesittakesalittle longer.

Somearelikebumpingintoanoldfriend.Look,asI arriveatthetopofLeithWalkIcanseeacinema,aBankof ScotlandandtheJohnLewisdepartmentstore.Myreaction iswarm,verywarm,cold.Somecinemachainswanttokeep theirqueuesmovingsooftencardswillbeswipedthrough unauthorizedtosavetime.TheBankofScotlandandtheir competitorsyou’regoingtohearalotmoreof,andIonce hadtowalkverybrisklyoutofJohnLewis.

IpassthroughJohnLewistoentertheshoppingcentre, exitingthroughtheperfumeconcessions.I’mgoingtostop hereonthewaybackandpickupabottleforpostingtomy mother.UsuallyI’dhavegothersomethingfromtheairport butI’dbeendistractedbythefaxbusiness.Shefollowsme roundtheworldfromthepostcodesonherperfume.

AsIpassTheLinkphoneshopItouchtheshapeinmy

pocket.CurrentlyI’vegotthreephones.I’vesometimeshad morebutI’vealwaysgottwo.Nextdoorisacomputershop, whichsendsamomentarypanicasIrecallexactlywherein theflatIhidmyencryptedzipdisk.Therearetwocomputers backthere.Iusethemforseveralhourseachdayandboth haveentirelyemptymemories.

Bootsthechemist.Ionceranfromoneoftheirshopsin Glasgowafterthecardwasflaggedandthemanagerappeared atthetill.Hissuspicionwasunderstandableasthecard belongedtoa75-year-oldmanwhohaddroppedhiswallet onatrain,butIwasstillathiefbackthen.Ah,theywere simpledays.Beforeitbecameajobandthenalife.BeforeI tookthesepeopleandinhabitedthem.BeforeIrealizedthat Icouldstealthroughthetelephone,andmoneycouldcome tomethroughthinairfromthebiggestcreditcardcompanies intheworld.

Ilikethislittlestreet,MultreesWalk.It’sashort,zigzag affairbehindHarveyNicholsandtheybuiltitmoreinhope thanexpectation.Nowit’snearlyfullasdecentfashion houses,boutiquesandotherluxury-goodsstoreshavearrived. ItremindsmeofBondStreetandstretchesofFifthAvenue. Iseeajewelleryshophastakenoneoftheremainingunits.

TheonlypieceofjewelleryIhaveisaplatinumbracelet Iboughtfor£8,000fromAspreyinLondon.Idon’twearit becauseIdon’tparticularlylikeitbutwhenyouhaveahighlimitcardadayawayfrombeingcancelledthenyoudothings likethat.Anyway,Idon’tthinkyouneedjewelleryifyouhave anicewatch,andI’vealwaysgotanicewatch.

TheHarveyNicholsdoormannodsandstepstotheside. Islipinsidethedoubledoors,spottingthefirstofthecameras, andmovetotheescalators.AsIrisethroughtheairabove thesunglassesandhandbagsItrynottostrainmyneckasI

waitforthedesktoappearbeforeme.Awoman,early thirties.Generallyspeaking,that’sagoodsign.Iwalktowards herandsmile.

‘Hellothere.’RefinedCockney,I’mnotsurewhy.‘I’d liketobuy£2,000ingiftvouchersplease.’Shedoesn’treally react,justbeginstoprocesstheorderandasksforpayment details.Ipulloutmywalletandopenitoutofherlineof vision.Theretheyare,rankedandready,butit’snotasstrong ahandasitlooks.Ihavesomeotherssavedinmymindbut forthisIselectthecardnearesttome. DavidSmith.

Abeep.Shereachesforthephone.DavidSmith’scard, mycard,isacorporateAmericanExpresscreditcard.The securityquestionswillbefullname,address,placeanddate ofbirthandmother’smaidenname.Thisinformationisin myhead,alongwithmuchmore.Tokeeporderinthemess thepeoplearematchedtofruit.DavidSmithisalargejuicy pear.AsIbreatheandbringthepearforwarditarrivessoon enough,draggingwithitnames,addresses,dates...

Ithankthewomanandslipthevouchersintomypocket asImakefortheescalator.BackinMultreesWalkIwander intoLouisVuitton.‘Hello,MrCastro.’I’llbehonestandsay thatthiscatchesmebysurprise.I’donlyeverspentmoneyin hereoncebefore,thelasttimeIwasinEdinburghinAugust. AsIconsiderthisthesurpriseevaporates.Thatstay,fourdays inall,hadbeenablur.Ihadspent£42,000.

IleaveandwanderintotheArmanishopnextdoor.I’m wastingtimehere,thevouchersareburninginmypocket butIamtryinghardtoignorethem. Icangoupadifferent escalator,shewon’tseeme,andevenifshedidthenIcanpay withanothercard. IpickupsomeT-shirtsandunderwear.I’m alwaysbuyingunderwear.I’malways buying.

AtthecounterIpulloutacardfromthebackofthe

rack.It’smorehumblethantherest,there’snogoldor platinumorCORPORATEstamp.Itisadebitcardfroma well-knownbankoverinBelfastandbelongstomypersonal account,wheremywagesgo.Ilikethinkingaboutmywages. ThisissomethingIstartedrecently,workingasaDJtofill thehours.Theypayme£120andIleavethebarwalkingon air.

It’stheonlymoneyI’veevertrulyearnedandIdeposit itincashthenextdayintothisaccount.Idon’thaveto,Ijust wantto.MyotherbankaccountisinSwitzerlandandthat’s notquitesocute.Idon’treallylikeitwhenIsendbigchunks fromtheSwissaccounttotheIrishone,andthebadmoney dwarvesthegood.Istilldoitthough.Aman’sgottolive.But that’sjustbankaccounts,they’reonlyasmallpartofthe picture.MostofthemoneythatIspend,thatIhavespent, comesandgoeswithoutrecord.

Ican’twaitanylongerandIwalkroundtothefrontof HarveyNicholsandenterthroughtheotherdoor.Ipass quicklythroughtheperfume,rememberingagaintobuya bottleforMum,andtakeasideescalatoruptothemen’s department.AsIenterIseeStewartandheseesme.Thisis whyIboughtthevouchers.

‘Hi,Elliot,goodtoseeyou,whatcanIshowyoutoday?’ Ienjoythepersonalshoppersystem(whowouldn’t,really,if theyhadthecash?)andIparticularlylikeStewart’sstyle.He doesn’tletmeleavewithanythingthatisn’tright,evenifit costshimafewquidincommission.Helaughedatmeonce, whenIemergedfromthedressingroominacreamsuit. That’swhenIdecidedthatIlikedhim.

Aswewalkthroughthesectionsheyanksdownjackets, shirts,trousers.AnythingIdallyoverhedemandsasizeand slingsitoverhisarmwiththerest.Wegettothedressing

roomandit’squiteapile,butfirstIneedtogotothe bathroom.ItellStewartbuthe’snotlistening,he’sfrowning intothedistanceandmouthing‘What?’tosomeoneelse.

JustafterIenterthecubicleIhearthebathroomdoor openandcloseandsomeonetakeafewstepsinside.I presumethey’reinfrontofthemirror,unawareofmy presence.Iprepareforamomentoffleetingawkwardnessas Ipullthedooropen.

Themanisstocky,hisfacesternashebraceshimself infrontofme.He’sdefinitelypolice,evenHarveyNichols’ securitywouldhavebettersuitsthanthat.Thisisgenuinely myfirstthoughtasIseehim,thathissuitlooksoldandfrom aleanertime.Thetrousersstrainacrosshisthighsandthe shouldersarebadlypinched.

ImoveasiftopasshimbutIdoitmoretoforcethe issue,theend.Whenitcomesit’swithaswingofhisarmand sharppainashesnapshishandaroundmywrist.Hishandis largeandhairy.Histhumbisacoupleofinchesbeyondthe sleeveofmyjacket,hispinkiestretchesacrossthefaceofmy RolexOysterPresident.Itcost£12,110andIboughtiton thecreditcardofanAmericanbusinessmanwhomInever met.

MynameisElliotCastroandI’mtwenty-oneyearsold.

CHAPTERTWO

ThePheasantPub,Brill,September2005

NeilForsyth

IfHollywoodwantedanEnglishcountrypubwithahorrortwist,the Pheasantwouldwinthepartwithsomethingtospare.Littlelight seepsthroughthesmudgedwindowsandthewoodenceilinghangs lowoveraloungeofnooksandcrannies,includingthecornerbooth whereElliotCastroandIsithuddledoveroursandwiches.

Throughthedoorwaywecanseeawindmillgloweringoverthe rollingfieldsthatencircletheBuckinghamshirevillageofBrill,which isstillrecoveringfromlastnight’sstorm.Thelandlordhasbeen passingthroughthebaratregularintervalscarryingcreakingbuckets ofwaterfromanunknownsourceandlaunchingthecontentsinto thegutteroutside.

Formuchofthenight,Ihadlaininbedinasmallroomabove thepubastheskylitupoutsideandthewindowframerattledwith thethunder.AfewmilesawayElliothadfinishedagameofchess againstaninmatefromthenexthut.Ithadbeenadrawn-outaffair butavictoryallthesame,stretchinghisunbeatenruntothirty-five. Afterwardshehadrunbacktohishut,histrainersquicklydrenched throughtheholesinthesoles.

Thelandlordswoopsuponusfrombehindapillarandgathers ourplates.Elliotorderscoffee.Onmysideofthetablesitsajumble ofpaperwork,onElliot’sasolitaryscrapofpaper.Itiscrumpledfrom beingsecreteddownhisrightsockandbearsalistofquestions,the endofwhichwehavenowreached.Nowitwastimeforadecision.

IfirstencounteredElliotCastrofivemonthsagowhiledrinkingacup oftea,dressedonlyinmypants.AsIlayonthecouchinmy Edinburghflatreadingthatmorning’s Scotsman Iwasn’ttoohopeful ofstumblingacrossanythingparticularlylife-altering.Certainly nothingthatwouldlaterhavemesittingatmynearbydeskand writingtheopeningchaptersofabook.

YetburiednearlytwentypagesintothepaperIdiscovereda two-pagespreadentitled‘Jet-SetConmanChecksintoPrison’.There werefivephotos,oneoftheactorLeonardoDiCaprioinascenefrom themovie CatchMeifYouCan,shotsoftheHarrodsdepartment store,aRolex,SydneyHarbourandamugshotofayouthful-looking guythatwasevidentlyCastro.

Thestorywasincredible,eventhroughthereservedproseof the Scotsman.Castrohaddupedanddeceivedandrattledhisway aroundtheworlddisplayinganeyefortheopulent.Thearticlewas patchy,basedonofficialtranscriptsandquotesfromseveralfigures includingadetectivenamedRalphEastgatewhohad,apparently, trackedCastrodown.

Nowhereinthepiecewasananswertothemostobvious question–why?Itdidn’tsay.Hadanyoneasked?Therewasn’ta wordfromCastro,onlyanolddespairingquotefromhismother, Jane.Asothers–police,thejudge,securityexperts–chippedinall around,Castrosatsilentinthemiddleoftheirwords,staringfrom thepage.AndwiththatIclosedthepaperandwenttogetdressed.

AfewhourslaterIwastraipsingdownLeithWalk.Ipassedthe GlasshouseHotelandarowofpubsthenduckedintoapetrolstation concourse.Infrontofthestationwasanewspaperstand,dominated bytheScottishtabloidnewspaperthe DailyRecord.AsIpasseditby mymindclickedandmyfeetstopped.Castrowaslookingatme again–‘CatchMeifYouCon’,blastedthefrontpagebesidethat samesteadygaze.

MyfirstlettertoCastrowastentativelargelybecauseIwasn’tsureif he’dreceiveit,letalonereply.Ihadnoprisonernumberforhimand directedmylettertoWormwoodScrubsPrisononlyontheeducated guessofacourtclerk.Still,aweekorsolaterarrivedasimilarly edgyresponse.

Itwasashort,noncommittalscribbleonofficialprisonnotepaper.AlthoughCastrowasclearlyinterestedinmyproposedinterview,heofferedseveralreservations.Heseemedsuspiciousofmy intentionsandwhattheendresultmightbe.Itwaschildlikein formationandendedwithaclaimthathewasnot‘proudorboastful’ ofwhathehaddone.

FleetingdisappointmentpassedquicklyasItwigged.Theletter waswrittenjustdaysafterthecourtcasewhichhadnowleftCastro inoneofBritain’smostchallengingprisons.Hewasspeakingtome withthecageydeferencethathewouldhavebeenemployingwith lawyers,judgesandprisongovernors.Thiswasbullshit,worthas muchinitselfashiszerocontributiontothecasecoveragethathad bynowzippedroundtheworld.

Thebarefactshadgoneoutontheinternationalwiresand straightintothequirkysectionsofhundredsofnewspapersand magazines.SomeBritishpapershaddelvedbeyondthecourtdocumentstosettleoncontradictoryaccountsofCastro’sbackgroundand actions.Butstilltherewasnothing,notasingleword,fromCastro. Isentoffmyreply.Nothingcameback.

Eventually:‘Iapologizeforthedelayingettingbacktoyou,but asyoucansee,Ihavebeentransferredtoanotherprison.’Castro, ayoungmanwithapenchantfortravelanddeception,hadbeen affordedCategoryDstatusandwasnowinanopenprison.The officialprison-issuenotepaperhadbeenswappedforaplainpadand Castrowroteinatight,neatprintinsteadofthecautiousblock capitalshe’dsentfromtheScrubs.

Hewasslowlycomingroundtotheinterviewproposalbutwas unsurehowwecouldproceed.Icouldseehispoint–withamonth

betweenletterstheprocessofassertingvisitationrightsandphoto accesslookedathanklesstask.Idid,however,givehimmynumbers andtookthisopportunitytonotify Maxim magazineofmyintentions.

WhenCastrocalledme,everythingchangedalittlebit.In contentthecallswerenotmuchmoreimpressivethanhisletters.He wasnervous,questioning,andseemedtoplaceunnecessaryimportanceonwhatIsawasminorissueswhilstnotaskingquestionsthat Iwouldhaveconsideredessential.Hestressedrepeatedlythathe wouldnotwantanypaymentforaninterview.

ButbehindthewordsIsawtwovitalsignsthatdrewmeto him.Inthegapsbetweenhispre-preparedwanderingshewould lightenandspark.Itwasinreactiontomyquestionsthathe approachedalevelofcalmness,asiffindinginspirationinthe opportunitytothinkonhisfeetandrelyonanaturalintelligence. And,vitally,he knew howgoodhisstorywas.

Atfirstthiswouldslipthrough–‘Iknowthatthestoryis maybethekindofthingyou’dbelookingfor.’Acoupleofcallsdown thelinehewouldchuckle,‘There’salotofstuffthatwasn’tinthe papers.’Hewastauntingmegood-naturedly,andthat’swhenIknew Iwasin.WhenIcameoffthephoneIcalled Maxim andthenlooked upexactlywhereHerMajesty’sOpenPrisonFordactuallywas.

Onabrightsummer’smorning,inacarparkintheSussex countryside,ImetElliotCastroforthefirsttime.Hewasbiggerthan Iimagined,powerfulandconfidentashestrodetowardsthephotographerandmeandextendedhishand.WedrovetoBrightonand tookhimtoagreasyspoon,wherehedevouredafry-upandledme onawhistle-stoptourofthepreviousfiveyearsinasoftScottish accent.

IknewIwasgettingonlyasanitized,editedversionbutitwas morethanenough.WitheachtwistandadventureIwouldbefreshly astonished.Itwashardtomatchtheinformationwiththeboyish youngmanwhosatopposite,excitedlyslicingandscoopinghis

£4.99breakfastwhilethephotographerclickedandwhirredoverour shoulders.

AfterwardswewalkedtoBrightonPier,whichstrainedwithits fairandthebustlingweekendcrowd.Castroaskedformoneytogo ontherollercoaster,thenthedodgems.Hewaskillingtime,thiswas hisfirstdayoutofcustodyformonths.Hepickedoutastalloffering computeranalysisofsignatures.Itcameback–Iswear–‘Spending issomethingyouenjoydoingevenwhenyoureallycannotafford theindulgence.’

Whenthemagazinecameoutamonthlater,itwaspainfulformeto read.TherewasEllioteatinghisfry-upandaroundhimmy3,000wordsprintthroughhisstory.Wrestlingitdowntothatsizehadbeen adepressingtask.Ithadbecomeabriefglance,servingonlytohint atgreaterglories.IwrotetoCastroandproposedabook.Hereplied vaguelyandthenallhellbrokeloose.

Castrohadbeenclearthattherewerearaftofissuesthathad tobehandledsensitively.ThereweretopicsthatIcouldnotinclude inthearticleanditwasagreedthatIwouldavoidsensationalizing eventsasmuchaspossible,stressinghisrepentance.Thishadbeen achievedtohissatisfactionandthebookproposalwasstrengthening whenIfoundmyselfinHeathrowAirportshortlyafterwards.

KeentoreadsomeScottishfootballnews,Ipickedupthe Daily Record andboardedtheEdinburghplane.At20,000feetIturned apageandtherewasEllioteatinghisfry-up.Itwasasplash,an exclusive,asyndicationthatwasperfectlynormalbutnowperfectly terrifying.Myarticlehadgonethroughthetabloidwringerandcome outasabullet-pointedboastoffigures,namesandplaces.Ifeltsick.

WhenElliotcalled,hisvoiceshookwithanger.Extraordinarily, heacceptedwithoutquestionmyinnocence.‘Icanreadpeople,’he muttered.Butthetreatmentthepaperhadgiventhestory,which

hadbeencastwidelyoverhisnativeGlasgowasaresult,saddened him.Towardstheendoftheconversationhechangedtackand mentionedthathewasunderabitofpressurebeforesigningoff hurriedly.

Iheardnothingforafewweeksbeforereceivinganunexpected callfromJaneCastro.Aftertalkingaboutthebookproposalfora whileshepaused,asifindecision,thenexplainedherson’slatest silence.Thepressattentionhadignitedtensionbetweenhimand otherprisoners.Elliothadwantedtosititoutbutthegovernorhad orderedanovernightmoveforhisownsafety.

HewasnowinHMPSpringHill,anopenprisoninBuckinghamshire.Hewasquitelow,Janeexplained,owingtoproblemswith hisnewroommate.‘He’safuckingsmackhead,’saidElliotwhenhe called.‘Nightandday;it’sdisgusting,man.’Iaskedhimaboutthe prison,abouthisthoughts...heinterrupted.‘Comedownhere,I’ve gottoaskyouafewthings.’

Thelandlordispotteringabout,openingcurtainsandplugginginthe cigarettemachine.Elliotissmokingsteadilyandleafingthroughmy notes.Heshakeshishead,‘Alotofthisiswrong,’hedrawsin,holds, exhales.‘There’ssomuchnotthere.’Suddenlyhe’salertandinvolved. ThebalancehasshiftedasIwatchhimscancuttings,transcripts, phoneinterviewswithpeoplewhoseliveshavetouchedhis.

Finally,helooksup.‘Itcouldbeabigstory,Neil.WhatIdid,I don’tthinkanyonewillhavedoneitbefore.Notonthesamescale, noteverysingledayandnotontheirown.Alotofpeoplewilltry andpretendIneverhappened,theywon’twantthisbooktobe written.AndI’mgoingtohavetotellyouaboutthebadtimes, becauseIdon’twantthistolooklikefun.’

Helaughs,sitsforwardandrestshismugdown.‘Imean, sometimesitwasfun,don’tgetmewrong.’Ireachintomybag,and producemyDictaphone.Heseesmerestitonthetableand

instinctivelywebothglanceattheclock.Twohoursandthenhehas toreturn.Backtothehut,andthechess,andthewaiting.

Heleansback,thechaircreakingquietlyashesettles.He looksmeintheeyeasasmirkplaysacrosshislips.Shortsilence, thenanod.‘OK.’

CHAPTERTHREE

Whydidyoubuythisbook?I’minterested,Ireallyam.Every meetingwe’vehad,everyletterI’vereceived,myfirstquestion hasalwaysbeenthesame–why?Itseemsthateversincethat lasttriptoHarveyNicholspeoplehavewantedtospeaktome. ThefirstletterIgotinprisonwasfromajournalistandhewas thefirstofmany.I’vehadinterestfromtelevisionstationsand filmcompaniesoutsidethenickandwithinthewallspeoplewho haveheardwhispersaboutmystorywanttoknowmore.I’llbe playingchesswithsomeguywhosenameIdon’tknowandhe’ll askmehowIdidit.Sometimesascrewwilldothesame,they loveagoodcrimeasmuchasthenextperson.BackinGlasgow strangershavestoppedmymuminthestreetandpointedat theirnewspaper.‘He’ssomeboy,yourElliot,’theysay.

Doyouwanttostealmoney?Youmighthavereadthe cover(thestuffIsaidaboutRolexwatchesandsoon)and thoughtthatthiscouldbeit,theanswertoyourproblemsor therealizationofyourdreams.Freemoney.And,youknow what?Perhapsitwouldbe,Idon’tknow.Youmightfeeldifferentlybytheend.Maybeyouwanttoknowaboutme,about whyIdidwhatIdid.Wellyou’renotalonethere.I’mkindof hopingthatwe’llfindthatouttogetheraswegoalong.Or doyouknowme?That’sthethingthatworriesmemost,that makesmelieawakeatnightandstareatthecracksintheceiling ofmycell.Allthosepeople,allovertheworld.Inbars,hotels, nightclubsandprisons.Allthosepeople,andallthoselies.

Do you want to steal money? You might think this book is the answer to your problems or the realization of your dreams. Free money. And, you know what? Perhaps it would be, I don’t know. You might feel differently by the end. Maybe you want to know about me, about why I did what I did. Well you’re not alone there. I’m kind of hoping that we’ll fi nd that out together as we go along. Or do you know me? That’s the thing that worries me most, that makes me lie awake at night and stare at the cracks in the ceiling of my cell. All those people, all over the world. In bars, hotels, nightclubs and prisons. All those people, and all those lies.

Inevermeanttohurtyouortomakeyoulookfoolish,I hopeyoucanbelievethat.Itooknoenjoymentfromtricking youbutIhadtodoittogetwhereIwantedtogo.Don’tbe angrywithyourselvesbecause,asyouwillsee,youweren’t alone.Iliedtoeveryonearoundmeandthoseclosesttome wereliedtothemost.

IwasgoodatwhatIdid,somepeoplehavesaidthatI wasthebest,andIworkedharderatitthananythingelsein mylife.Thatdoesn’tmakeitrightanditdidn’tmakeiteasy butitmightmeanthatyou’llatleastrecognizethemotivation behindthelies.Whatyou’llprobablyrealizeaswellisthatyou didn’treallyknowmeatall.

WhenpeopleaskmewhereitallbeganI’msometimesa bituncertainwhattosay.Withthepoliceorlawyersit’seasy, wetakeoutmychargesheetandrunourfingersallthewayto thebottom.Withothersit’smuchharder,butnowI’vehada littlebitoftimetothinkaboutthingsIknowwhereIwould liketobegin.Itmighthelppeopleunderstandwhentheysee howlongthishasbeengoingon,howlongIhavebeendoing thesethings.I’mgoingtostartwiththefirstliethatIevertold, andhowIcametotellit.

TheliebeganwiththebirthofmyfatherCarlosinSicilyin 1957.Hewasthefourthchildofacouplefromtheisland’s Romanycommunity.Aswellasoccasionalpersecutionfrom thelocalauthorities,thegypsieswerenotaversetosomeinhousebickeringandthefactthatmygrandparentswerefrom differentclanswasapointofcontentionthatonlyworsened astheyearspassed.Bythetimethatmyfatherwasfouryears olditwasbadenoughforthefamilytoemigrateenmasseto anewlifeinChile.

TheysettledinasmalltownclosetothePeruvianborder

andmygrandfathersetupawine-tradingbusiness.Ifthat soundsalittlesuspiciousthenthat’sbecauseitwas,andthere werereasonsbehindtheproximitytotheborder.Somewine wasgettingtradedbutsowasplentyofcontraband,andI don’tthinktheChileantaxmanbenefitedquiteaswellashe mighthavedonefromthefamily’senterprises.Onthefew occasionsthatmyfatherhasdiscussedmygrandfatherwith mehehasalwayslitupatthememoryoftheseroguishendeavours.Alongwiththemischiefcamepoorhealth,however,and GranddadCastropassedawayjustafewyearsafterthemove toChile.

Itmighthavebeenhisfather’sdeaththatsawmydad leaveChileatsuchayoungage,ormaybeitwashisnomadic gypsyblood.Whateverthemotivation,whenhereachedthe ageoffourteenhedecidedhewasreadytoseetheworldand ranofftosea.Forthenexttenyearsherodetheoceanwaves inamotleycollectionofrustbucketsandcreakingtankers,for acollectionofhardysoulsandne’er-do-wells.

Histemper,whichremainsverymuchintacttoday,would oftencausehimtrouble.OnceinManillaharbourhefinally snappedatonecaptainwhowasneglectingthecleanlinessof theshiptothepointofriskingitsseaworthiness.Whenthe captainrefusedtolistentohiscomplaintsmyfatherwalked straightofftheship,leavinghimtoscourtheharbourfordays beforefindinganotherposting.

Ifhedidn’tworkthenhedidn’teat,whichmeanthe wouldsometimesfindhimselfworkingsmugglingrunsaround theMediterranean,scuttlingbackandforthinthemiddleof thenightwithloadsofboozeandtobacco.Othertimeshe wouldspendmonthsinchingacrosstheIndianOceanon mammothoiltankerswithonlythefearofarmedpiratesto keephimoccupied.

By1980hewashardenedbeyondhisyears,withlong

hairthatsnakeddownhisbackandafacecrackedand darkenedfromthewindandsun.Onenightinadistantbar hemetsomemenwhotoldhimoftheNorthSea,adesolate stretchofwaterbetweenScotlandandNorwaywherethey hadfoundhugeoilreserves.Moneywasbeingmadehand overfistandmyfatherdecidedtoworkhiswaybackacross theworldtotheunlikelydestinationofAberdeen,theclosest Scottishcitytotheoilrigsthatwerespringingupmilesout tosea.

ThediscoveryofNorthSeaoilhadtransformedAberdeen.Almostovernightthefactoriesandfishingindustryhad foundthemselvesstarvedofyoungmenastheoilcompanies calledoutforablebodiestomantheirrigs.Theywere offeringweeklypaypacketscomparabletomonthlysalaries elsewhereinreturnfortheirtough‘twoweekson,twoweeks off’workingschedulewherethemenwouldworkfourteen daysstraightbeforereturningtothecitywithapocketfullof doughandaneyefordiversion.

ItmeantthatAberdeenhadaconstanthedonisticsubcultureastheoilworkerspartiedtheirwaythroughtheir gainswithincreasingdesperationasthenextshiftneared.As wellastheluckylocals,theworkhadbroughtinlabourfrom aroundtheworld–fromEurope,theMiddleEast,America and,inmyfather’scase,fromChile.Therewerecertainbars whicheverynightwouldberockingtointernationaloil moneyanditwasinthesebarsthatyouwouldfindmy mother,Jane.

Shewaswildherselfbackthen,andmuchmoreofa drinkerthansheistoday.Shelivedaloneinasmallflatin Aberdeen’sLogieareaandthepartywouldoftenspillback thereatclosingtime.Shebefriendedtheforeignworkers, drawntotheideaofanextendedfamilyunit,andtheytook toheraswell.Whenonlandtheywouldroominbedand

breakfasts,buttheindustryhadyettocatchupwithdemand andsomewouldalwaysleaveittoolate.Theywouldoften endupsleepinginmymum’sfrontroom.

OneeveninginthebaroftheBell’sHotelaChilean friendaskedmymotherifacoupleofhercompatriotscould staythenight.Mumlookedovertowhereshepointedand hereyesfellonawiry,tannedmanwithhairstrewnoverhis shoulders.‘Hecertainlywasn’tfromAberdeen,’sheoncesummarized.Whenheapproachedhewaspoliteandfriendly, thoughmymumspokemoreSpanishthanhedidEnglish.He looked,shesaysnow,likeRobertRedfordbutasIsaidshe usedtodrinkalotmorebackthen.

Withinaweektheyweretogetherandsobeganmy father’sdailyritualofaskingmymothertomarryhim.She wascautious,havinggrownupinanareawheremarriages weremadeamockeryof,butsherecognizedthattomyfather itwasmuchmorethanthat.TheclashofRomanyandLatin rootsmadeforaprettyintensepride.Itwasnotaninvitation hemadelightlyandhesoonworeherdown.BythetimeI arrivedtheywerelivingintheflattogetherashusbandand wifealongwithmybrotherNicky.

Iwasbornon10November1982.TheNorthSeaoil industryhadbythenbeenupandrunningfornearlytenyears andpriceswereabouttoclimbevenhigher.Fortuneshad beenmadeandAberdeenworeitsdisposableincomeonits sleeve,withflotillasofexpensivecarsslippingthroughthe suburbsandpropertypricesunstoppable.Weremainedin Logieandsurvivedcomfortablyonmydad’sgenerouswage. Mymumwasn’tworkingand,anyway,shewasbusybeing myteacher.

Itwasn’tapostthatshehadvolunteeredfor.Mydad washappytotakethe gringo poundbuthebelievedstrongly intheSouthAmericanmodelofthemaleasproviderand wife along with my brother Nicky who was 9 years old.

femaleashomemaker.Partofthatrolewastogivethe childrentheirfirsttasteofeducation,andsofromtheageof threemyafternoonswerespentinourlivingroomwithmy motherandacollectionofbooks.Itwasarevelation.

Thesearemyfirstmemories,mymotherandIsittingcrossleggedonthebrowncarpetwithamugoforangejuiceanda pileofbooksbetweenus.Mathscamequitequicklytome, writingevenmoreso.Itwaswhenwebegantoworkon spellingthatthingsreallyhappened.Ican’tpinpointthefirst occasion,anditwasonlylaterthatIrealizedminewasnota normaldevelopment,buteventsunfoldedalittlebitlikethis.

Iwasdoingalotofreadingfromeducationalbooksand, beingofabasiclevel,therewouldbealotofrepetitionof shortandcommonwords–cat,dog,man,woman.Afterthe readingsessionsmymotherwouldgothroughaspellingtest andinevitablythesesamewordswouldcropupeveryfew days.Whenshesaidthewords,andImeanalmostthesecond sheannouncedthem,theywouldappearinmyhead.Idon’t meanavaguepicture,theywouldliterallyappearinmy mind’seye.

Theretheywouldbe,writteninthefont,size,andcolour Ihadlastencounteredthem.Icouldseetheshadeofthe paperonwhichtheyhadbeenwritten,Icouldseetheway thepagewouldfadetowardsthepaper’sedge.IfIconcentratedsomemoreIcouldbringupotherimages,different occasionsthatIhadcomeacrosstheword;theywouldflit throughmymindlikeaslideshow.Iwouldsitonthecarpet watchinginaweasthesepicturesflewthroughmyhead,and thenIwouldlookupatmymotherandIwouldspellthe word.

Aphotographicmemoryisafascinatingsubjectbutit

onlyreallycomesintoplaywhenitismatchedwithan inquisitivemind.Curiosityisn’tsomethingIhaveeverlacked. Oncemymotherhadkickedoffmyeducation,shefoundshe hadcreatedsomethingofamonster.Idevouredtheeducationaltextssheusedforthelessonswithsuchaforcethatshe addedhistorybooks,encyclopaediasandanatlastothepile.

ThehistorybooksIstruggledthrough.Ilikedthedates andtheplacenamesbuttheyneverreallyheldmyattention. TheencyclopaediasIusedforreferenceinmydailyprojects ofdiscovery.Mymumrememberscarjourneyswithmeat thisagewithlittlefondnessowingtotheconstantstreamof questionsfromthebackseat–What’sthat?Howdoyouspell it?What’sit for?Thiswasthegatheringofammunitionfor ourarrivalhomewhenIcouldretiretotheencyclopaedias foradditionaldetail.

Mybooksbynowwerekeptinmybedroompiledbeside mybed.InthemorningsIwouldwalkgravelydownstairs withastackofthemtuckedundermychin,announcing myarrivalatthebreakfasttablebyplacingthemwith quietreverenceonthespareseat.AtnightIwouldlieunder myblanketwithatorchandopenanatlaswithmyheart pounding.

Itwasalwaysmyfavourite.Theworldhad174nations. ThelargestwastheSovietUnion.Ithadsevencontinents. ThelargestwasAsia.Therewerenearlyfivebillionpeoplein theworld.Abillionwasathousandmillion.Chinesewasthe mostpopularlanguage,thenEnglish,thenHindustani.These factshitmehard.Ihadalreadygonethroughthecommon childhoodhorrorofrealizingthatmyparentswoulddie,and nowIwasstruckbythesheerenormityoftheplaneton whichIlived.Aberdeenwasadotandplacenameonasingle page.Itwasn’teventhecapitalofScotland,Edinburghwas. AndScotlanditselfwastinywhencomparedwiththeworld

mapthatonlyjustsqueezedacrossthecentralpages.Iwanted toseetheworld,tocrossthosevastoceansandtomeetsome ofthesefivebillionpeople.UnfortunatelyIwasonlyfour yearsold,soIwasforcedtomakedowithmyparents.

Myfather’syearsatseagavemeaccesstoareamoffarflungadventuresandthesebecameanotherpartofmydaily schedulewhenhewasonshore.HetoldmeaboutthemanmademiraclesatPanamaandSuez,andoftradewindsand tankersthattookamiletoturnround.Ialsohadthe television,withitsWesternsandtheweathersectionsthat showedBritainsittingserenelyabovetheEuropeanlandmass. IusedtotryandsketchtheEnglishborderwithmyfinger beforetheimageleftthescreenanddevelopedamildobsessionwiththeEnglishChannel.

Asyou’veprobablydeducedbynowIwasabitofan oddball,butthisloveoflearningshouldhavemeantthat whenIarrivedatKaimhillPrimarySchoolin1987Ihitthe groundrunning.InactualfactitmeantIwasdoomedfrom thestart.Almostimmediatelytheproblemsbegan.Itdidn’t matterwhatworktheteacherset,Ifoundittooeasy.Iwould racethroughitandruntoherdeskforhertomarkitand givemesomethingfurthertodo.Atfirstshewouldlaugh orpraisemeinfrontoftheclassbutsoonitbecamea distraction.

Theschoolputmeonthereadingbooksthatbelonged totheyearabovebuttheywerejustasstraightforward.The teacherencouragedmetohelptheotherkidsandforawhile Iwasspendingmostofthedaycheckingtheworkofmy classmatesbutthatcausedresentmentandIsoonlostthefew friendsthatIhadmade.Tomakemattersworsemymumhad beencarefultoregulatemyaccent,believingitwouldhelpme getajobwhenolder,andthismademestandouttothe extentIwasafraidtoopenmymouth.

Ibeganfinishingmyworkandthensittinglookingout thewindow,daydreamingaboutthebellringingandreleasing mebackhometomybooks.Theschoolcomplainedtomy motheraboutmyattitudeandshebeggedthemtoputmeup ayearbuttheyrefusedtodoit,claimingthatitwasn’tinmy bestinterests.Inturntheywereunhappywithherresponse andwouldtakeitoutonmeasafrostyrelationshipdeveloped betweenmyteacherandherstarpupil.Itdidn’thelpmuch thatIknewtheSevenSeas(NorthAtlantic,SouthAtlantic, NorthPacific,SouthPacific,Indian,Antarctic,andArctic);in factthatprobablydidn’thelpatall.

IbecameisolatedandevennowIcanrememberan overallairofdespairfromthatfirstyearofschool.Icouldn’t speaktotheotherpupilswithoutthemmakingfunofmy accent,ormyname,ormyunashamedinterestinanyform oftrivia.InturnIthoughttheywereboring.Alltheyever wantedtodowastoplaygames,orrunaboutlikeheadless chickens.Nonewereinterestedinknowingthecapitalof Argentina,orthefactthatCeylonchangeditsnametoSri Lankain1972.

Andthenoneday,afewmonthsin,somethinghappened.Wewereintheplayground,andIwasaloneasusual. Thoseclassmateswhodidtalktomewerequietkidswho wouldsidleupwhentheyknewtheywouldn’tbespottedand tarredbytheassociation.Incorridorsorstoreroomsthey wouldapproachmewiththeirfacesstrainedthroughathirst forknowledge–‘Tellmeaboutdinosaurs,Elliot.’‘Tellme aboutcowboys,Elliot.’

Buttheplaygroundwaswideopenandunforgiving,soI stoodaloneinthecornerwatchingtherestoftheschoolrun, skipandplaythroughthishourofdailysolitudeformyself. IsawthemapproachingbutpretendedIhadn’t.Theycamein araggedline,nudgingeachotherandgiggling,pushingthe

weakeronestothefront.Whentheyarrivedtheyencircled meandbeganascattergungoading.

‘I’mawizard.’Idon’tknowwhyIsaiditbutitcamefrom meinastrangevoice.Itwasdeepandauthoritative,itsounded justlikethevoiceofateacher.TheotherchildrenpausedasI scannedtheirfacescalmly,lookingintotheireyesinturnas Ilettheenormityofmydeclarationsinkin.Theylooked shaken,nervous,butmorethananythingIrealizedthatthey wereovercomewithunderstanding.They believed me.

Forthenextfewminuteswestoodinreflection.They fidgeted,lookedimploringlyattheirassumedleaders,asked afewhalf-questionsthatIbattedawayimperiously.Iwould catchthemoreimpressionablegazingatmeinundisguised wonderasIcasuallyrelatedthehighlightsofmyshortcareer inwizardry.Evenwhenoneofthem,overcomewiththe occasion,meeklyaskedforevidenceIdidnotfalter.

Evenaswedecampedtoanareaofroughgrassonthe edgeoftheplayground,withmemarchingthemoverlikean infantPiedPiper,IsawnothingbutsuccessinwhatIwas abouttoattempt.Evenastheyeventuallybegantosnigger andjokeasIorderedthegrassforthetenthtimetosetitself alight,andwasgraduallyleftaloneastheyranawayhooting, Ididnotlosetherushofenlightenment.

AsIstoodinthegrasswatchingthemgoIfeltaprickly realizationasIreviewedwhathadjustoccurred.Ihadtaken thetruth,mydepressingreality,andtwisteditintosomething incredible.Thechildren’sreactionstomehadswitchedfrom scorntorespect,Ihadbecomesomeonetobelookedatand listenedto.Itsentmegiddywithasenseofachievement,and thesuddenarrivalofpossibility.Andthatwasthat,thefirst lieIevertold.