eventually managed to acquire a double-barrelled shotgun with which he decided to confront his tormentors. Nipper hid in a cupboard in his flat and waited with the shotgun resting on his lap. When nobody had shown up by 3 a.m., he went to lie on what remained of his mattress. At 6 a.m. the phone rang and Nipper answered it.
‘Nipper?’ Tate whispered.
‘Hello, Pat,’ Nipper replied, ‘why are you doing this to me?’
‘Don’t worry, mate, it’s all sorted out now,’ Tate reassured him. ‘We are going up to London to sort a bit of business. Give me a call around midday and Tony and I will come around and see you.’
Nipper sensed that he was being set up, but he didn’t say anything to alert Tate to the fact. He simply said, ‘OK, goodbye,’ and then jumped up, grabbed the shotgun and ran out to his car, where he had the .22 revolver. As he reached the car door, Tucker’s car screeched to a halt in the road and the occupants jumped out. They did not see Nipper, who had crouched down at the side of his vehicle. Nipper watched as they ran to his home and kicked open the front door. After a few minutes, they walked back out of the flat and Nipper stood up.
Tucker saw Nipper and the shotgun that was pointing towards him and Rolfe. Without saying a word, Tucker and Rolfe turned and ran. Nipper gave chase, but Tucker and Rolfe were in their car and speeding away before he could reach them. He went back into the flat and found a note written in Tate’s handwriting. ‘Nipper, don’t let us lose all respect for you. I’m your mate, we want to help you.’
Nipper telephoned Tate, who asked him why he had laid in wait with a gun. ‘Because you lot were going to fucking kill me,’ Nipper replied.
‘No, we just want to help you,’ Tate said.
‘So why kick my fucking front door in then?’ Nipper asked.
There was no reply. Tate put the phone down. Unbeknown to Nipper and Tate at that time, after running away, Tucker and Rolfe had gone to the police and made a statement about Nipper confronting them with ‘what looked like a sawn-off shotgun’. So much for wanting to kill Nipper for being a grass.
The following day, I telephoned Tucker, but, unusually, his number was unobtainable. He was due to hold his birthday party at a snooker hall in Dagenham that Sunday and I had been invited. I was going to tell him that I couldn’t make it, but as his phone was unobtainable, I decided to leave it and try later.
At work that night, the doormen were telling me various stories about what was happening regarding Nipper Ellis. I was surprised to hear that even Nipper’s father had been threatened. Tate, they said, was going berserk. That was the reason why I didn’t fancy going to Tucker’s party. I didn’t want to listen to hours and hours of what he and Tate were and were not going to do to Nipper. I rang Tucker’s house and left a message on the answering machine saying I was unable to go, as I had fallen ill. I later learned that only 20 people had turned up. I was obviously not the only one noticing the decline in Tucker and Tate’s behaviour. A year earlier, there had been nearly 200 people at his birthday party.
On Monday, 21 November, I was contacted by two Basildon detectives, who said they needed to see me quite urgently. Because I was the head of security at Raquels I had to maintain some form of civil relations with both the police and the council. My gut instinct was to tell them I had no desire to talk to them, but Tucker and I would then have been out of Raquels and other clubs sooner rather than later, so reluctantly I agreed to see them.
When we met, they asked me if I had heard anything at all about Pat Tate being shot. I said I was not even aware that he had been shot. They also asked me if Craig Rolfe had been up to anything in the past few days and if Tony Tucker drove a black Porsche. I said he didn’t, he had a BMW. They asked me if I knew anyone who had a black Porsche. I said I
‘Nipper?’ Tate whispered.
‘Hello, Pat,’ Nipper replied, ‘why are you doing this to me?’
‘Don’t worry, mate, it’s all sorted out now,’ Tate reassured him. ‘We are going up to London to sort a bit of business. Give me a call around midday and Tony and I will come around and see you.’
Nipper sensed that he was being set up, but he didn’t say anything to alert Tate to the fact. He simply said, ‘OK, goodbye,’ and then jumped up, grabbed the shotgun and ran out to his car, where he had the .22 revolver. As he reached the car door, Tucker’s car screeched to a halt in the road and the occupants jumped out. They did not see Nipper, who had crouched down at the side of his vehicle. Nipper watched as they ran to his home and kicked open the front door. After a few minutes, they walked back out of the flat and Nipper stood up.
Tucker saw Nipper and the shotgun that was pointing towards him and Rolfe. Without saying a word, Tucker and Rolfe turned and ran. Nipper gave chase, but Tucker and Rolfe were in their car and speeding away before he could reach them. He went back into the flat and found a note written in Tate’s handwriting. ‘Nipper, don’t let us lose all respect for you. I’m your mate, we want to help you.’
Nipper telephoned Tate, who asked him why he had laid in wait with a gun. ‘Because you lot were going to fucking kill me,’ Nipper replied.
‘No, we just want to help you,’ Tate said.
‘So why kick my fucking front door in then?’ Nipper asked.
There was no reply. Tate put the phone down. Unbeknown to Nipper and Tate at that time, after running away, Tucker and Rolfe had gone to the police and made a statement about Nipper confronting them with ‘what looked like a sawn-off shotgun’. So much for wanting to kill Nipper for being a grass.
The following day, I telephoned Tucker, but, unusually, his number was unobtainable. He was due to hold his birthday party at a snooker hall in Dagenham that Sunday and I had been invited. I was going to tell him that I couldn’t make it, but as his phone was unobtainable, I decided to leave it and try later.
At work that night, the doormen were telling me various stories about what was happening regarding Nipper Ellis. I was surprised to hear that even Nipper’s father had been threatened. Tate, they said, was going berserk. That was the reason why I didn’t fancy going to Tucker’s party. I didn’t want to listen to hours and hours of what he and Tate were and were not going to do to Nipper. I rang Tucker’s house and left a message on the answering machine saying I was unable to go, as I had fallen ill. I later learned that only 20 people had turned up. I was obviously not the only one noticing the decline in Tucker and Tate’s behaviour. A year earlier, there had been nearly 200 people at his birthday party.
On Monday, 21 November, I was contacted by two Basildon detectives, who said they needed to see me quite urgently. Because I was the head of security at Raquels I had to maintain some form of civil relations with both the police and the council. My gut instinct was to tell them I had no desire to talk to them, but Tucker and I would then have been out of Raquels and other clubs sooner rather than later, so reluctantly I agreed to see them.
When we met, they asked me if I had heard anything at all about Pat Tate being shot. I said I was not even aware that he had been shot. They also asked me if Craig Rolfe had been up to anything in the past few days and if Tony Tucker drove a black Porsche. I said he didn’t, he had a BMW. They asked me if I knew anyone who had a black Porsche. I said I
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