Homicide and Organised Crime Ethnographic Narratives of Serious Violence in The Criminal Underworld

MIGRATION,
PALGRAVE STUDIES IN RISK, CRIME AND SOCIETY

DIASPORAS AND CITIZENSHIP
Homicide and
Organised Crime
Ethnographic Narratives
of Serious Violence in
the Criminal Underworld
Mohammed Rahman
Palgrave Studies in Risk, Crime and Society
Series Editors
Kieran McCartan
Department of Criminology
University of the West of England
Bristol, UK
Beth Weaver
School of Social Work and Social Policy
University of Strathclyde
Glasgow, Lanarkshire, UK
Risk is a major contemporary issue which has widespread implications for
theory, policy, governance, public protection, professional practice and
societal understandings of crime and criminal justice. The potential harm
associated with risk can lead to uncertainty, fear and conflict as well as
disproportionate, ineffective and ill-judged state responses to perceived
risk and risky groups. Risk, Crime and Society is a series featuring mon-
ographs and edited collections which examine the notion of risk, the
risky behaviour of individuals and groups, as well as state responses to
risk and its consequences in contemporary society. The series will include
critical examinations of the notion of risk and the problematic nature of
state responses to perceived risk. While Risk, Crime and Society will con-
sider the problems associated with ‘mainstream’ risky groups including
sex offenders, terrorists and white collar criminals, it welcomes schol-
arly analysis which broadens our understanding of how risk is defined,
interpreted and managed. Risk, Crime and Society examines risk in con-
temporary society through the multi-disciplinary perspectives of law,
criminology and socio-legal studies and will feature work that is theoreti-
cal as well as empirical in nature.
More information about this series at

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Mohammed Rahman
Homicide
and Organised Crime
Ethnographic Narratives of Serious Violence
in the Criminal Underworld
Mohammed Rahman
School of Social Sciences
Nottingham Trent University
Nottingham, UK
Palgrave Studies in Risk, Crime and Society

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Dedicated to my nan (1929–2015) and mum.
Two, strong, devoted, and beautiful women—
who made sure that I became the author of this book as opposed to its subject.
Foreword
The publication of Mohammed Rahman’s Homicide and Organised Crime

is timely, coming as it does against the backdrop of a defining moment
in the history of serious violence in England and Wales. After many years
of decline, the levels of gun and knife crime began rising in 2014 and
reached an all time high in the year 2018. Headline figures emerging from
police-recorded crime and NHS data for year end September 2018 (com-
pared with the previous survey year) suggested an 8% increase in the num-
ber of offences involving sharp instruments; a 15% increase in the number
of hospital admissions for assault; a 14% increase in homicides; and a 17%
increase in robbery offences (Office of National Statistics 2019). Evidence
suggests that knife and gun crime has risen across almost all police force
areas, both victim and perpetrators are getting younger and that a sizeable
majority of homicides are linked to the illicit drug market—with the esti-
mated costs of serious and organised crime around £37 billion annually
(HM Government 2018a, b). Importantly, but perhaps unsurprisingly,
HM Government (2018b) has confirmed that the majority of recorded
violence tends to be male-on-male.
Much research has, of course, documented the links between the
social construction of masculine identities and violent crime. Scholarly
insights from gang literature emerging from the period of the Chicago
School of Sociology onwards have repeatedly suggested that men some-
times become attracted to gang violence and criminality as a means of
asserting the standard bearers of working class hegemonic masculinity
(such as toughness, physical prowess and respect) against the backdrop
vii
viii Foreword
of marginalisation (for review, see Deuchar 2018). In her seminal work

on masculinities, R. W. Connell (2005, p. 83) argued that gang vio-
lence is a ‘striking example of the assertion of marginalised masculin-
ities against other men’. Urban ethnographers in the UK have also
highlighted the way in which working-class men who are brought up
against the backdrop of aggression and domination may come to place
the enactment of violence close to their sense of self-identity (Winlow
and Hall 2009). The perceived need to uphold a culture of honour is
often the driving force behind this violence, as Nisbett and Cohen so
eloquently highlighted over thirty years ago:
Many patterns of behavior continue because they are defined as things

that a man just does; he protects his family from threats, he answer serious
insults with violence, he spanks his children to discipline them, and he pro-
tects his honor and status in the community. Reasons are irrelevant. These
are just things you do. (Nisbett and Cohen 1996, p. 93)
Recent research has indicated that gang life is evolving in urban contexts
within the UK. For example, Densley (2014, p. 22) has highlighted that
recreation, crime, enterprise, and governance represent ‘actualization stages
through which gangs progress’ in London, and alludes to similar evolution
processes emerging in other English cities. Further, the work of McLean
(2018) in Glasgow suggests that, while purely recreational-style violence
and the traditional ‘cafeteria style’ offending associated with street gangs
has somewhat diminished in the city, there has been an emergence of ‘spe-
ciality’ gangs that involve young men concentrating on drug sales and
other forms of organised criminal activity (Densley et al. 2018). However,
as Winlow (2001, p. 171) has observed, ‘violence will never go out of fash-
ion or lose its perceived uses, or its aesthetic and seductive qualities’.
Mohammed Rahman’s book is one that is essentially about violent
men, all of whom have been part of organised crime networks in and
beyond the West Midlands area of England. The particular geographi-
cal backdrop to his research is highly pertinent, given that Birmingham
has been branded the ‘gun crime capital’ of the UK in recent years
(Anderson 2017, p. 13). Rahman’s ethnographic approach is focused on
interviews and informal conversations with offenders, associates and key
informants as well as the analysis of multiple documents and ‘grey’ litera-
ture to unravel the nature, extent and meaning of violent practice in and
around Birmingham.
Foreword ix
However, what is really novel about Rahman’s approach is his pio-

neering use of ‘dash-cam’ ethnography where he has virtually been able
to reconstruct key criminal events by recording the views that driv-
ers would have had in ‘getaway’ cars linked to key street-level incidents
in the West Midlands’ criminal underworld. During a recent visit to
Birmingham, I was able to experience the insights emerging from this
methodological approach firsthand when I had the unique privilege
of riding around with Rahman in and around Birmingham’s gangland
neighbourhoods with the ‘dash-cam’ activated. I could instantly see
how this unique approach had led Rahman to skilfully provide a deep
and candid account of the nature and meaning of violence in organised
crime within an often under-researched locale. At times, the richness of
the data and insights combined with the lucidity of Rahman’s description
and analysis of key incidents in the criminal underworld gives the reader
the impression of actually being in the cars and the neighbourhoods with
him, as I had the opportunity to do.
There has been growing attention paid to the role of deindustrial-
isation and the related issue of social and economic inequality in gen-
erating a crisis of masculinity in disadvantaged communities within the
UK. Rahman’s observations about the impact of neoliberalism in terms
of the related transition from conflict to entrepreneurial crime and the
structural backdrop of violent masculinities builds on the earlier, note-
worthy work of Winlow (2001) in Sunderland; Deuchar (2009, 2013),
Fraser (2015), and McLean (2018) in Glasgow; and Densley (2013)
and Harding (2014) in London. Across the pages of the book, Rahman
mostly places the spotlight on Birmingham—from the explosive inven-
tiveness and business expansion during the core years of the Industrial
Revolution, through the presence of the ‘peaky blinders’ in the early
1900s to the organised and entrepreneurial crime groups emerging
against the backdrop of the deindustrialisation and structural inequality
associated with both Thatcherism and New Labour. His use of visual and
urban ethnography, life history interviews with the ‘hard to reach’ and
the creative analysing of his insights using ultra-realism in combination
with psychoanalysis and Bourdieusian epistemologies leads to a continu-
ously rich narrative.
The middle chapters of the book are particularly compelling. First
comes the focus on the often under-researched area of hitmen and
Rahman’s rich analysis of the murders of Gary Morgan by Peter O’Toole
in 2002 and Richard Deakin by David Harrison in 2010. While the
x Foreword
former enables Rahman to demonstrate how violence at times transcends

beyond international borders, the latter provides an opportunity to
build understanding of the modus operandi of the ‘journeyman’ hitman.
Second, Rahman explores the criminal underworld of Birmingham in
even more depth by introducing the reader to biographical accounts of
three violent men who have committed serious offences in and beyond
the West Midlands. In presenting the latter, Rahman carefully and sen-
sitively explores the links between the harm these men have inflicted
on others and the trauma and humiliation they have experienced in the
past. On the latter point, Father Greg Boyle (2017), founder of Homeboy
Industries in Los Angeles, USA, has observed:
There is violence in gang violence but there is no conflict. It is not ‘about

something.’ It is the language of the despondent and traumatised.
Rahman’s compassionate unravelling of the root causes of these men’s

violent dispositions ultimately illustrates the way in which violent male
identities often emerge as a result of dark memories, rumination on past
humiliation and current, deep-rooted but well disguised feelings of inad-
equacy (Winlow and Hall 2009). The release of the book comes at a
time when UK politicians are recognising the need for a public health
approach to tackling the long-term causes of violent crime, such as pov-
erty and mental ill-health (HM Government 2018a). Agencies are being
called to commence a conversation about ‘healing’, and to show genuine
love, care and concern for victims but also for perpetrators caught up in a
cycle of trauma, crisis and criminality (Anderson 2017). Within this con-
text, Rahman’s work provides a textured and compelling evidence-base
for researchers, practitioners, and policy-makers alike.
This is a stand-out text. Carefully researched, innovative in approach
and accessibly written, it is a must-read for anyone seeking a deeper
understanding of the structural backdrop of lethal violence within the
West Midlands, and its ‘glocal’ influences.
Paisley, Scotland Professor Ross Deuchar

Assistant Dean (Research, Enterprise
and International)
University of the West of Scotland
Foreword xi
References
Anderson, C. (2017). Commission on Gangs and Violence: Uniting to Improve
Safety. Birmingham: Birmingham City University.
Boyle, G. (2017). I Thought I Could ‘Save’ Gang Members: I Was Wrong.
America: The Jesuit Review. Available at: https://www.americamagazine.org/
faith/2017/03/28/father-greg-boyle-i-thought-i-could-save-gang-members-
i-was-wrong. Accessed 10 Feb 2019.
Connell, R. W. (2005). Masculinities. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Densley, J. (2013). How Gangs Work: An Ethnography of Youth Violence. London:
Palgrave Macmillan.
Densley, J. (2014). It’s Gang Life, but Not as We Know It: The Evolution of
Gang Business. Crime & Delinquency, 60(4), 517–546.
Densley, J., McLean, R., Deuchar, R., & Harding, S. (2018). Progression from
Cafeteria to à La Carte Offending: Scottish Organised Crime Narratives. The
Howard Journal of Crime and Justice. https://doi.org/10.1111/hojo.12304.
Deuchar, R. (2009). Gangs, Marginalised Youth and Social Capital. Stoke-on-
Trent: Trentham.
Deuchar, R. (2013). Policing Youth Violence: Transatlantic Connections. London:
IOE Press.
Deuchar, R. (2018). Gangs and Spirituality: Global Perspectives. London:
Palgrave Macmillan.
Fraser, A. (2015). Urban Legends: Gang Identity in the Post-industrial City.
London: Oxford University Press.
Harding, S. (2014). The Street Casino: Survival in Violent Street Gangs. Bristol:
Policy Press.
HM Government. (2018a). Serious and Organised Crime Strategy. London: HM
Stationery Office.
HM Government. (2018b). Serious Violence Strategy. London: HM Stationery
Office.
McLean, R. (2018). An Evolving Gang Model in Contemporary Scotland.
Deviant Behavior, 39(3), 309–321.
Nisbett, R. E., & Cohen, D. (1996). Culture of Honor: The Psychology of Violence
in the South. Boulder, CO: Westview.
Office of National Statistics. (2019). Crime in England and Wales: Year Ending
September 2018. Available at: https://www.ons.gov.uk/peoplepopulation-
andcommunity/crimeandjustice/buletins/crimeinenglandandwales/yearend-
ingseptember2018. Accessed 8 Feb 2019.
Winlow, S. (2001). Badfellas: Crime, Tradition and New Masculinities. Oxford:
Berg.
Winlow, S., & Hall, S. (2009). Retaliate First: Memory, Humiliation and Male
Violence. Crime, Media and Culture, 5(3), 285–304.
Acknowledgements
Acquire knowledge and impart it to the people.

(Tirmidhi, Hadith 107)
I am mindful of the well-known African proverb—I am because we are:

we are because I am. This book would have been impossible to achieve
without the contribution of the participants in this study. They all gave
up their valuable time to partake in this research. Many had nothing to
gain by speaking to me, and I thank you all for your insight, honesty, and
wisdom.
Profound gratitude goes to Professor Ross Deuchar for writing the
articulate Foreword, and to Professor Imran Awan and Dr. Martin Glynn
for mentoring me throughout this book. Special mention goes to my good
friend Dr. Yusef Bakkali, whose pioneering work on road life has inspired
me to think critically about Bourdieusian epistemologies and its relevance
in relation to serious violence. I would also like to thank Tanayah Sam,
who is a leading practitioner on gang culture, and has always been a voice
of reason, especially during the empirical stages of this book.
My pressing debt goes to my former colleagues at Birmingham City
University and current colleagues at Nottingham Trent University. There
are too many to name, but you have all provided me with endless sup-
port and stimulating conversations, which invariably shaped the trajec-
tory of this book.
My special thanks, as always, go to my parents, family members and
friends.
xiii
Contents
1 Introduction and Methodology 1
2 History, Homicide, Organised Crime, and Theory 25
3 Contract Killers and Glocal Organised Crime: A Case

Study of the ‘Baby-Faced’ Assassin 63
4 Drugs, Guns, and Organised Crime: A Case Study

of the Journeyman Hitman 89
5 Violent Men: Trauma, Humiliation and Scenarios

of Harm 109
6 Homicide and Organised Crime in Birmingham, West

Midlands: Future Directions and Closing Comments 137
Index 147
xv
List of Figures
Fig. 1.1 An example of dash-cam ethnography fieldwork. The location

of a double homicide 11
Fig. 3.1 Aerial view of the location of the shooting of Gary Morgan 77
Fig. 3.2 The car park of Aston Hall Hotel, Aston, and Birmingham.
The picture was taken in 2016 during fieldwork 78
Fig. 4.1 David Harrison entered Richard Deakin’s home through
the black gate. The picture was taken from Meadway Street
in 2015 during fieldwork 97
Fig. 4.2 Aerial view of the location of the shooting of Richard Deakin 97
xvii
CHAPTER 1
Introduction and Methodology
Abstract  This chapter succinctly discusses the personal and professional

journey that led to the fruition of this book, and makes clear the case
for studying homicide and organised crime. In addition, it charts the
research methodologies utilised in the empirical investigations and
provides an outline of each chapter. Towards the end of the chapter, a
brief account is offered on why the content of this book offers a unique
contribution to criminology and wider aspects of social sciences.
Keywords  Birmingham · Case study · Criminological autopsy ·

Critical realism · Dash-cam ethnography · Epistemology · Ethics ·
Ethnography · Ethnographic content analysis · History · Homicide ·
Methodology · Narrative criminology · Ontology · Organised crime ·
Ultra-realism · Violence
Violence
Noun: Behaviour involving physical force intended to hurt, damage, or
kill.
Harm
Noun: Physical injury, especially that which is deliberately inflicted.
Abridged from Oxford English Dictionary
Primarily, this book is a culmination of three years of criminologi-

cal ethnographic research. It explores several under-researched areas
of the criminal underworld in Birmingham, England. Geographically,
© The Author(s) 2019 1

M. Rahman, Homicide and Organised Crime, Palgrave Studies in Risk,
Crime and Society, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-16253-5_1
2 M. RAHMAN
the journey of the book extends to the region of the West Midlands,
England, and in addition provides case examples of organised crime and
violent practice within national and international parameters. I would
argue, that most of the research encounters in this book were of high-
risk. So too, I had to keep myself in check, while reminding myself on a
regular basis that I was dealing with some of the most difficult and dis-
tasteful people in our society. Sometimes it became challenging to work
alongside these narcissistic and status-driven chancers, but let us leave
the discussion about British academics for a chat over coffee.
On a serious note, I spent prolonged periods with people who were
involved full-time, part-time, temporary, or permanently in serious
crimes. These individuals were from various backgrounds, race, and eth-
nicity. I spent time with their family members, friends, and associates. In
some cases, I attended celebrations, and sadly in other instances, I par-
ticipated in traumatic processions like funerals and burials. Some of the
individuals in this text are career-hardened offenders, who went to the
extent of running background checks on me before allowing me to enter
their world. Others operated enterprises that featured illegal activities,
while some drifted in and out of illegal practice. Irrespective of crimi-
nal involvement, most men in this book were heavily connected in the
British criminal landscape, and were not to be taken lightly.
Exploring Violent Practice: Focusing on Homicide

and Organised Crime Within the West Midlands
This book stems from funded doctoral research that I conducted

between 2014 and 2017. On a professional level, the foundations of the
study were laid out a couple of years before. After successfully complet-
ing an MA Criminology degree, I was employed by Birmingham City
University as a Research Assistant. The role was a perfect platform for
me to advance my academic curiosity about crime, harm and crime con-
trol. It also enabled me to gauge an understanding of my position within
criminological scholarship, namely in relation to violence. Violence
has been omnipresent in society since the dawn of civilisation. Indeed,
it is through violence and its judgement that one can see the heart of
darkness in civilisation (Gilligan 2000). Over the years, academics have
attempted to provide sustained accounts of violence, of which includes
violence exerted by individuals, by states, and by imbalanced societal
1 INTRODUCTION AND METHODOLOGY 3
structures. My curiosity of violence stems from my own life experiences.

On a personal standpoint, the reader should be mindful that I am the
product of the culture that I attempt to describe in this book, although
the distinction to be made is that academia in the past 10 years has
served a much-needed distance from what is depicted in the forthcoming
chapters.
Born and raised in the inner-city areas of Birmingham, I come from
a small British-Bangladeshi working-class family. While my upbring-
ing at home was somewhat harmonious, the communities that I called
‘the ends’, were often volatile and chaotic. My socialising experiences
throughout my adolescent years were like many of the participants in this
book. It is hard to imagine that 16 years have passed since my first (and
hopefully last) encounter of being a victim in hands of what I consider
to be a criminal group. One day, I was walking home from school. The
route that I took was routine, which meant that I would walk past sev-
eral socially deprived neighbourhoods. I was a few hundred yards away
from my street. As I was just about to cross a road, I felt a strong hand
grabbing the back of my neck and pulling me back. Instantaneously, I
attempted to turn around to find out who was manhandling me, how-
ever my left arm was twisted, and within a few seconds I was thrown
into the back seat of a saloon car. Sat with me at the back of the car was
the man who grabbed me. I knew him from the ends. His physique was
muscular and he always looked intimidating. Sitting in the front passen-
ger was a female, who made no eye contact with me. Sitting next to her
in the driver’s seat was Clive, an individual who was feared locally. Clive
lived in a council estate that was adjacent to the road that I lived on for
10 years. Strangely, after seeing Clive in the car, I felt at ease, and the
reason for me being in the car was because he needed my help:
Clive: Little man from across the street, I know you’re good with wires,
screens, and computers. I need you to unlock a few laptops. Can you do
that for me?
Clive was right, I knew a lot about computers from a young age,
which transpired to completing a Forensic Computing undergraduate
degree many years later. However, before I could give him a response,
the man sat next to me placed two laptops on my lap, that had the logo
of a local double glazing company. Immediately, I knew that they were
stolen. Importantly, I knew not to ask any questions. What baffled me
4 M. RAHMAN
was that I was given an official copy of a CD that was much-needed to

unlock the stolen devices. Without any hesitation, I got to work. I knew
that each laptop would take 10–15 minutes to process. During this time,
what I could not get my head around was how the CD was obtained.
Stupidly enough, I decided to ask. It was the only time I spoke, and I felt
the physical consequences immediately:
Clive: Man, leave him alone. Let him do his fucking thing. Chill.
The above was Clive’s response, after my face got slammed on the
headrest of the front passenger seat by the man who sat next to me. My
eyes welled up because of the impact, however I contained my emotions
and carried on working. I was angry, not because I was assaulted, but
because I could do nothing about it. I kept thinking: ‘If only I could
smash his face right now’. Once the laptops were unlocked, Clive gave
me a scrunched up £5 note for my troubles and I finished the rest of
my journey home with a sore nose. For me, it was a keystone moment,
which made me realise the dynamics of violence, a behaviour that I con-
sider to be a viable commodity that is often used with other interac-
tions to start, maintain and advance criminal identities and enterprises.
Growing up, despite all the pandemonium, my diverse upbringing ena-
bled me to connect with an array of communities with ease. Some of
these communities encompassed those that have deep-rooted criminal
identities. In essence, the cultural and social capital that I have acquired
over time has been useful for providing a swathe of social perspectives,
and as such, I started to consider them critically when I pursued aca-
demia to read criminology.
At the basic level, criminology has allowed me to unpack complex
social issues that I grew up experiencing and witnessing. Simply put, aca-
demia has given me the platform to ‘make sense’ of individuals whom
I share similar social upheavals with. On a superficial level, growing up
my question has always been, why them, and not me? In recent times
when thinking about violence on an empirical level, I have found asking
myself, what are forces behind these harms? Hence, I often contemplate
about the aetiology that manifests harmful behaviour.
Lethal violence within illicit networks is complex. It does not nec-
essarily fall under one strand of homicide, nor does it fall under victi-
misation studies that consider the ‘ideal victim’ (Christie 1986). Often,
however, the criminal motives of members from nefarious fraternities are
multifaceted. As such, if criminology is to develop a comprehensive anal-

ysis of the driving forces behind those that employ violent practice in the
underworld, it must borrow from cognate fields (see, Wieviorka 2009;
Hall 2012; Holligan and Deuchar 2014; Winlow 2014a; Ellis 2016).
In addition, the nature and extent of violence is one of the official indi-
cators for academics and policy-makers when classifying gangs and
organised crime groups. Gangs are often considered to use violence ‘spo-
radically’ (Densley 2014), whereas the use for organised crime groups
is ‘instrumentally to protect their interests’ (UNODC 2013, p. 42).
I would argue that these explanations are limited, as they only consider
the act of violence and therefore fail to explore the structural and
cognitive forces behind violent practice (Bakkali 2019). This further reit-
erates the need for criminology to connect with cognate and sociological
arenas for a penetrating analysis when it comes to making sense of the
backdrop to violence, namely fatal violence within criminal groups.
In the present day, the West Midlands is exposed to active, lucrative,
expansive and extreme violent forms of organised crime. Regional law
enforcement agencies are aware of the threat that organised crime poses
to national security. For instance, the aim of the Regional Organised
Crime Unit (ROCU) (2015) is ‘to reduce the impact and increase the
disruption of serious and organised crime across the region and beyond’.
At the time of writing, Birmingham is the ‘gun capital’ of England and
Wales and has been for two consecutive years (Gall 2018). To under-
stand the magnitude of gun crime in England’s second city, between
April 2017 and July 2017, there were 57 firearms discharges in the West
Midlands, compared to the 52 for the whole of Greater Manchester,
Merseyside and West Yorkshire (Rodger 2017). Furthermore, recent
figures from the Office for National Statistics (2017) report that
the West Midlands had more than double the national average of
gun crimes between 2015 and 2016, with 19 offences per 100,000
residents.
Here, it should be noted that not all gun-related incidents are linked
to criminal networks, but it is imperative to consider at the very least
that the current landscape of violent practice within illicit networks in
Birmingham and the region of the West Midlands is active, yet academ-
ically neglected. By utilising persuasive theories, this study aims to go
beyond a social constructivist focus, and towards a realist trajectory that
explores how deterministic forces have enabled individuals to exert spe-
cial liberties on others (Hall 2012).
6 M. RAHMAN
Research Philosophies and Methodologies

Before offering an overview of the book chapters, it is first worthwhile
establishing the ontological and epistemological position of this
study. This subsection also explores the methodologies used for
all the research encounters and explains why they were best suited
for a criminological study of this nature. In the present day, main-
stream criminology fails to offer convincing responses about harmful
activities within criminal groups. As Matthews (2009, p. 345) reminds
us, ‘the inability to theorise “crime” in a meaningful way is indicative of
a lack of understanding about the role of social categories and the pro-
cesses associated with their development and interpretation’. As a crit-
ical criminologist, my goal is to contextualise the relationship between
structure and agency. In doing so, I aim to locate crime, deviance and
harm within their determining contexts, which naturally means that
I endeavour to broaden the scope of analysis beyond the realms of crim-
inology. Since the concept of harm occupies a swathe of disciplines in
social sciences, I believe that there is more to be gained by borrowing
and fusing ideologies together. So too, this subsection details how real-
ist approaches can be utilised to provide a deeper exploration of harmful
subjects.
Ontology and Epistemology: Making Sense and Approaching

Harm Within Criminal Groups
Criminology as a rendezvous discipline (Downes 1983), has often
made sense of criminal groups through sociological inquiries. Most of
these studies consider the social world a ‘construction’, whereby mul-
tiple truths and realities come into play through individual experiences
within the social epoch (Shaw 1930; Shaw and McKay 1969; Anderson
1999; Venkatesh 2008; Goffman 2014). As Matthews (2009) crucially
argues, crime should not be merely considered as a ‘top-down’ or ‘bot-
tom-up’ process. Rather, it should be viewed as a complex socio-legal
phenomenon that requires extensive scrutiny. Readers should be aware
that crime has no ontological reality, for indeed it is a construct that is
contingent upon social judgements. What I mean by this is that there
are no set parameters that pertain to ‘crime’; thus, interactions that are
deemed ‘criminal’ vary across time and space. This research refutes a
nominalist standpoint and considers a critical realist ontology, which aims
to provide novel perspectives of harm. Below I provide the influence of

critical realism and then draw upon ultra-realism, a burgeoning west-
ern criminological paradigm that provides fresh insights on contempo-
rary subjectivity in its socioeconomic context. I will also draw upon how
these critical strands of social sciences compliment the utilised research
methods.
The fundamental premise of critical realism is that causal language can
be used to describe the world. As Sayer (2000, p. 14) notes, ‘in both
everyday life and social science, we frequently explain things by reference
to causal powers’. So too, critical realists position an ontological realism
that goes beyond interpretation, moral agency and language in society’s
intransitive element. In theory, critical realists venture towards a visceral
system of structures and processes ‘that produce very real consequences,
all of which can be detected and understood as probabilistic tendencies
and patterns, not iron laws’ (Hall and Winlow 2018, p. 52). An example
of this would be macro-patterns of interpersonal violence, namely during
the crime explosion during the 1980s in the UK and USA has a direct
correlation with changes in the political economy. Alongside ontology,
critical realism has a refined epistemological outline. Below are the three
layers of how critical realists derive knowledge:
1. Empirical – representative knowledge of events and their patterns;

2. Actual – events and subjective experiences;
3. Real – underlying generative mechanisms that probabilistically cause
events.
(Hall and Winlow 2018, p. 51)
In sum, critical realism empowers social scientists to excavate beneath

the empirical and actual. However, its perception of the ‘individual’ and
the ‘social’ is questionable. For instance, the premise of ‘analytical dual-
ism’ (Archer 1995) distinguishes the individual from system structures,
processes, events, and hegemonic ways of thinking. Indeed, scholars
argue this misconception and note how the everlasting moral agent set
in opposition of unfair socioeconomic structure has hindered our think-
ing over time (see, Hall 2012; Winlow et al. 2015). Put simply, while
this issue has been discussed elsewhere, the eminent critical realist phi-
losopher Roy Bhaskar (1997) failed to consider his own paradigm of
causative absence to the issue of ‘subjectivity’.
8 M. RAHMAN
Of note, ultra-realism develops from critical realism, but takes the

onus of theorising subjectivity rather than merely considering it to be
some everlasting presence that is separated from the social epoch. So
too, the ultra-realist framework does not take away the gap or figure
that is human subjectivity. Furthermore, for critical scholars, absence is
causative of harm, and certain absences such as: unity, politics, employ-
ment, welfare, and so on—are influential when considering possibili-
ties and restraints (see, Deuchar 2009, 2013; Fraser 2015; Ellis 2016;
Lloyd 2018). Futhermore, ultra-realists persuasively argue for retooling
Freudian and Lacanian thoughts, as both Freud and Lacan foretold a
lot of recent successes of natural sciences (Hall 2012; Winlow 2014b;
Winlow et al. 2015). Thus, on an epistemological standpoint, if we con-
sider crime as events and their harms as subjective experiences, it is cru-
cial to formulate a juxtaposition between the empirical and actual levels.
Often, crimes are concealed, namely serious crimes such as homicide
and organised crime. For this reason alone, criminologists should not be
dependent on quantitative methods, and instead should utilise penetra-
tive ethnographic methods practised by realist researchers who have in
recent times been successful of revealing certain aspects of the ‘dark fig-
ure’ of crime (see, Winlow and Hall 2006; Hall et al. 2008; Hall 2012;
Winlow and Atkinson 2012).
While ethnography is an established methodology in sociological
studies of deviance, its position in mainstream criminology is weak. In
recent times, scholars of pioneering research on interpersonal violence
and illegal trading networks have fearlessly used ethnographic methods
to offer rich narratives and perspectives of urban crime (Hobbs 1988,
1995, 2013; Winlow 2001; Briggs 2013; Winlow et al. 2015; Briggs
and Gamero 2017; Deuchar 2018). Indeed, the ultra-realist move-
ment advocates ‘researchers to generate rich and conceptually advanced
qualitative data that represent different subjective experiences of indi-
viduals and localised populations’. So too, ‘views of harmful events
from multiple observational positions can be used to displace stand-
ard views’ (Hall and Winlow 2018, p. 54). I echo such sentiments and
consequently in the next subsection I draw upon the value of ethnog-
raphy and its wider facets when conducting criminological research. In
addition to this, I also consider ‘case study’ methodology, which is an
established research approach that is encouraged by critical researchers
(see, Sayer 2000).
Research Methodologies
As noted earlier, this book is a three-year ethnographic study. It is eth-
nographic in the sense that I could overtly observe social interactions
as they organically occurred. In doing so, as an ‘outsider’, I benefit-
ted from gaining ‘insider understanding of people involved in criminal
activities or indeed of those who are involved in responding to criminal
activities’ (Caulfield and Hill 2014, p. 118). Essentially, ethnography
is the systematic study of people and their cultures (Atkinson 2015).
Criminologically, the pioneering studies of ethnography stem from var-
ious Chicago School texts (see, Park and Burgess 1921; Thrasher 1927;
Shaw 1930), which took its research focus on the city of Chicago, USA,
and the associated problems of urban decay, delinquency, crime, race
relations, and family unity. MacDonald (2011) observes how ethnog-
raphy immediately draws upon symbolic interactionism, as well as phe-
nomenological and hermeneutic perspectives. Based on this, if actions
are constructed and reconstructed as individuals interpret and reinterpret
in scenarios that they find themselves in, ethnography becomes a means
through which access to, and an understanding of situations, decisions,
actions, and meaning is achieved.
Moreover, ethnomethodology approaches provide cultural interpre-
tation, alongside prolonged participant engagement of specific popula-
tions in natural settings that is not achievable in quantitative approaches
(Silverman 1993). Interestingly, Hobbs (2000) considers ethnography
to be a cocktail of methodologies, which therefore makes the method a
flexible and accommodating phenomenon.
Dash-Cam Ethnography
Much academic debate has centred on collating, interpreting and ana-
lysing ethnographic data (Schensul and LeCompte 2013; LeCompte
and Schensul 2013; Atkinson 2015). Ultimately, the method of collat-
ing data constructs the interpretation and analysis. Indeed, this research
has utilised the ‘traditional’ sense of acquiring ethnographic data, which
encompassed observations of people and their cultures for a prolonged
period. Immediately after observations, I would make field notes, which
would then be interpreted and analysed accordingly. The documentation
of field notes and reflexive extracts of encounters organically fostered
a recursive ethnographic analysis. Schensul and LeCompte (2013, p. 9)
10 M. RAHMAN
consider this to be when ‘analysis is done in the field while researchers

still are involved in the data collection process’. While undertaking anal-
ysis may seem to be counterintuitive during fieldwork, the exploratory
nature of ethnographic study warrants such a process to identify, clarify
and alter initial impressions and biases.
The work of LeCompte and Schensul (2013) address several
enhanced strategies of collating ethnographic data. These include, but
are not limited to; cognitive cultural maps and consensus analysis, audio
and visual recording, collecting and cataloging cultural artefacts, dig-
ital storytelling and photo-voice, using secondary sources, and collect-
ing digital data. For this research, I identified an innovative method for
collating ethnographic data during the fieldwork of cases and biograph-
ical accounts. This was achieved through visual ethnography. While
visual ethnography is not a new concept in social sciences (Pink 2013),
the pragmatics and the technology platform that I used offers new per-
spectives to the phenomenon. I have coined this approach as ‘dash-cam
ethnography’. Dash-cam ethnography involves the observation of space
through the recording of a car ‘dash-cam’. Essentially this involves a car
journey, whereby the dash-cam records the view that the driver would
see while driving.
After establishing the cases for this research, and identifying those
knowledgeable to discuss them, I had a vested interest in visiting all the
crime scenes that this book considers. Wilson et al. (2016) consider this
exercise to be a ‘criminological autopsy’, as it helps the sense-making
around cases of homicide. Indeed, crime scene visits enable researchers
to get a sense of the flow of life around a location as people go about
their day to day activities as opposed to the abstracted snapshots that
reports of a homicide represent.
Furthermore, as a researcher, I felt that visiting all crime scenes and
utilising a ‘dash-cam’ approach would be beneficial. For instance, the
cases that I discuss in Chapters 3 and 4 were similar in the sense that
they both involved the use of cars for the commission of a homicide.
Therefore, I felt that understanding the nature and extent of the crimes
in both cases could be enhanced better through a more realistic and sim-
ulated approach. For example, through court transcripts, it was easy to
establish the driving route that the perpetrators took for both cases. To
gain further insight, I drove to all crime scenes with a willing research
participant, and essentially I did a reconstruction of events through the
lens of the getaway driver. In many ways, this approach changes the
traditional structure of ethnography. In terms of observation and space,

this is restricted to the confinements of a vehicle and the journey of the
vehicle. Irrespective of this restriction, I believe that this approach has
many benefits for acquiring rich ethnographic data (Fig. 1.1).
First, the dash-cam ethnography process becomes a reconstruction
of events, which therefore allows researchers from ‘outsider’ perspec-
tives to make sense of places and spaces that are essential for the crime
under investigation. In addition, this provides the potential to identify
additional places and spaces that may be of significance. Second, as the
process is essentially a journey of space, if the researcher is accompanied
by a participant, then there is a likelihood of narratives emerging about
spaces that are socially, culturally, economically or criminally signifi-
cant to the participant. In turn, this may prove to be beneficial for the
researcher when analysing the overarching factors of his or her subject.
Third, the process can have an impact on emotions and recollections,
and this may also prove to be crucial for the trajectory of participant nar-
ratives and lived experiences. Finally, as the journey is recorded visually,
the researcher does not have the burden of recollecting the ethnographic
encounter once it is finished, and has the luxury of replaying the foot-
age. In short, the points above identify how an innovative method can
help the collation, interpretation, and analysis of criminological data.
Fig. 1.1 An example of dash-cam ethnography fieldwork. The location of a

double homicide
12 M. RAHMAN
This therefore allows rich narratives to be attained while appreciating the

importance of space and place.
In addition to in-depth ethnography, I have also utilised a case study
approach. So too, this has allowed me to develop strong, deep, com-
plex and long-term research relationships with those researched. Also,
it allowed the ethnographic strand of the research to be ‘triangulated’
through selected case studies, which were then theoretically analysed for
in-depth subjective understandings. Subsequently, this challenges Noaks
and Wincup’s (2004) concerns of ethnography lacking ‘research rigour’.
Case Study
Denscombe (2010) argues that the real value of case study research is
that it offers the opportunity to explain why certain outcomes might
happen, as opposed to just finding out what those outcomes are. This
implies that research ‘cases’ already exist and are not artificially gener-
ated, nor is it ‘like an experiment where the research design is dedicated
to imposing controls on variables so that the impact of a specific ingredi-
ent can be measured’ (Denscombe 2010, p. 54).
The choice to employ a case study approach was strategically and
theoretically in line with the scope of the research. Yin (2009) observes
how regardless of the subject under investigation, the case study usu-
ally depends on a conscious choice about what case to select from many
possibilities. Denscombe (2010) rightly argues that cases are not ran-
domly selected, as they are often selected based on known attributes.
He also alludes that the criteria used for the selection of cases needs to
be made explicit and therefore needs to be justified as an essential part
of the methodology. For the empirical work of this book, the set attrib-
utes were: cases from the West Midlands, England, which provided the
descriptions of homicide and organised crime. The identification of cases
of organised crime in the West Midlands was aided by a Nexis data-
base search. Nexis is an electronic database that houses all major British
newspaper, including both national and regional titles. A Nexis search
of a combination of the following terms yielded 165 newspaper articles:
‘organised crime’, ‘murder’/‘manslaughter’/‘homicide’, ‘violence’ and
‘Birmingham/West Midlands’. So too, a total of 10 cases were identified
from this initial search, of which two will be critically explored later (see
Chapters 3 and 4). I would argue the benefits of conducting case study
research outweighs the pitfalls, especially when using a ‘multi-method’
approach for acquiring knowledge. Critics of Nexis would argue that

the database merely houses high-profile or ‘newsworthy’ cases (Jewkes
2015), thus it does not provide an accurate representation of the poten-
tial pool of all relevant homicides that have descriptions of organised
crime. However, here it is important to note that burgeoning crimino-
logical research has relied on the use of Nexis to generate typological
understandings of homicide (Yardley et al. 2014; MacIntyre et al. 2014);
hate crimes (Awan 2014); and in other instances, ‘case study’ based
research on homicide (Lynes and Wilson 2015a, b; Rahman and Lynes
2018) and terrorism (Awan and Rahman 2016; Rahman 2016). By
employing the use of Nexis, some pieces of scholarship have been cru-
cial in illuminating new and much-needed debates on homicide (Yardley
et al. 2014), while others have been influential in changing policy on the
use of social media (Awan 2014).
Ethnographic Content Analysis

After utilising Nexis to generate case data, I interpreted all case informa-
tion by employing ethnographic content analysis (ECA). ECA is widely
considered to be an integrated methodology, procedure and technique in
qualitative research for locating, identifying, and analysing documents or
texts (Altheide 1987, 1996). Altheide and Schneider (2013, p. 26) posit
that ‘ECA involves focusing on and collecting numerical and narrative
data rather than following the positivist convention’. While ECA may be
not ‘ethnography’ in its purest sense; before I commenced fieldwork, the
method allowed me to invest a considerable amount of time to critically
consider a plethora of information from a range of sources in relation to
the two cases that will be discussed later. Thus, I analysed 71 documents
for the murder of Gary Morgan (see, Chapter 3), and 423 documents
for the murder of Richard Deakin (see, Chapter 4). Since both cases
under investigation secured prosecution, any novel information regard-
ing the cases would emerge from primary accounts. Some may argue that
ECA is redundant as a method for this research, as it does not consider
the coverage of ongoing cases. Nonetheless, I argue that this ethnometh-
odology was crucial for achieving ‘narratives’, which organically allowed
me to be reflexive and filter those that would be viable to offer primary
research accounts.
In regards to primary accounts, alongside ethnographic encounters,
a combination of unstructured and semi-structured interviews were
14 M. RAHMAN
conducted as they are deemed to be ‘flexible’ qualitative methods that

allow the ‘interviewee to develop ideas and speak more widely on the
issues raised by the researcher’ (Denscombe 2010, p. 175). These meth-
ods were also useful for gathering life histories of violent offenders. In
total, I observed and interviewed nine individuals, of which encom-
passed: violent offenders, retired police officers, ex-military personnel
and informants. To ensure anonymity was maintained, I used pseudo-
nyms and below is the demographical information of those researched
(Table 1.1).
Access to some violent offenders was achieved through personal con-
tacts. In some cases, those researched for this book have been used for
previous unpublished research, which therefore meant that my rapport
with certain participants was strong. In some cases, I relied on gatekeep-
ers, who negotiated and facilitated contacts, namely for the two cases.
Also, on a few occasions the ‘snowball sampling’ approach was utilised,
which means that established participants influenced the recruitment of
other participants among their acquaintances.
By default and design of the methodologies, research sites varied
throughout the course of the fieldwork. Indeed, conducting high-risk
research on sensitive topics raises many ethical issues that require careful
consideration (Lee-Treweek and Linkogle 2000). The Business, Law and
Social Sciences Faculty Research Ethics Committee of Birmingham City
University approved this research in October 2015. Wherever possible,
Table 1.1 The research participants
Name Age range Occupation Ethnicity Region(s)
Murphy 60–65 Construction White West Midlands

John 40–49 Private Investigator White East Midlands/West
Midlands
Patrick 50–59 Investigative Journalist White Various
James 40–49 Unemployed White East Midlands
Steve 60–69 Retired White West Midlands
Michael 40–49 Unemployed White West Midlands
Clive 30–39 Unemployed Mixed South West/West
Midlands
Marco 30–39 Logistics Asian West Midlands
Zane 21–30 Logistics Asian West Midlands
I ensured that participants anonymity, privacy, and confidentiality was

maintained. In addition to this, I made it my priority to base my research
on professional integrity and on the freely given informed consent of
those studied. Of note, nuanced specifics about research sites, data gath-
ering, and ethics associated with research participants in each ethnog-
raphy and case study is outlined in relevant chapters. In those chapters,
excerpts from interviews and fieldnotes are made explicit and rich narra-
tives are often critically explored with insights from literary sources.
On the topic of narrative, here it is important to consider that one of
the unique contributions of this book is that it offers novel biographical
data of violent men, as well as their perceptions of violent encounters
that have the descriptions of organised crime. It is for this reason that in
the next subsection, I offer a brief, albeit a critical exploration of narra-
tive criminology and its importance for this book.
Narrative Criminology
Criminological studies that place the spotlight on offender narratives
tend to neglect harms inflicted on such individuals, and how such harms
construct violent trajectories. However, narrative criminology, a bur-
geoning framework with roots in cross-disciplinary literature, encour-
ages scholars to base their analysis on telling and sharing stories that
discuss the committing, upholding, and effecting desistance from crime
and other harm based activities (Presser 2009; Sandberg et al. 2015;
Sandberg and Ugelvik 2016). Hence, the driver for the paradigm is to
acquire an interpretation of criminal experiences. For me as a narra-
tor, it provides the opportunity to make sense of lived experiences that
offenders have attained in the social world, whether it be experiences
constructed around them or those that have been constructed by them.
Narratives are often achieved through autobiographical and biographi-
cal accounts. Indeed, some social scientists question the validity of such
materials and argue that these sources are not a complete portrait of an
individual, rather they are selections of one’s life that refer to the past
while being tailored to suit the present. So too, thoughts of reliability
come into play as to whether such encounters happened. With this in
mind, as humans we should always be mindful that validity and reliability
are contentious in relation to any claims made by criminals, victims, or
even the state. For indeed, each group presents dangers for their own
prerogatives.
16 M. RAHMAN
Taking the above into consideration, I made a habit of cross

referencing offender narratives with legal papers and other official testi-
monies. Furthermore, Presser (2009) discusses that it is imperative for
researchers to consider exploration of the emplotment of the story, that
is, to establish the different types of experiences discussed in the story,
and what they mean to the narrator. In other words, why select such
experiences and events as opposed to others. To attain rich and critical
narratives from offenders, I was required to invest time with such indi-
viduals. In turn, this allowed me to achieve ‘the growth of familiarity and
trust’ (Ellis et al. 2017, p. 2). Of note, it is important to consider that
narrative criminology aligns with Bourdieusian theory and ultra-realism;
as both paradigms advocate how language is filled with emotion, expe-
riences, and the lived experiences of individuals (Hall 1997; Harding
2014; Ellis et al. 2017; Deuchar 2018).
Overview of the Book Chapters

To contextualise this book, Chapter 2 offers a review of literary sources
exploring history, industry, crime and working-class masculinities of
Birmingham and the region of the West Midlands. The rationale to draw
attention to the history of crime in Birmingham and the wider region is
that historical studies offer the chance for a sustained analysis of organ-
ised crime with minimal personal risk (Hobbs and Antonopoulos 2014).
The best of these studies, of which are ethnographic (Hobbs 1988,
1995, 2013; Winlow 2001; Fraser 2015; Ellis 2016; Deuchar 2018),
remind us that ‘crime can only be understood by comprehending the
socioeconomic context in which it is enacted’ (Chambliss 1978, p. 2).
Chapter 2 also offers extensive insight into post-war Birmingham,
new waves of working-class masculinity, organised crime and concep-
tual ambiguities. The literature within the chapter draws attention to
advent of globalisation and its role in the development of organised
crime (Decker and Pyrooz 2014). This chapter also considers homicide
broadly, as well as within the context of criminal networks. It does this
by drawing upon the different forms of homicide, and argues how homi-
cide conducted by members of illicit networks is not necessarily restricted
to one form or type, but in some cases a fusion of two or more. While
the term ‘organised crime’ has been around for over a century, to date
there is still no set universal definition of the phenomenon. Therefore,
I offer a critical definition, which I believe justifies and strengthens
some of ongoing scholarly debates about organised crime. The chapter

concludes by considering the keystones theories that will help make
sense of violent practice within criminal groups. For many years, the UK
government has distinguished urban street gangs from organised crime
groups. It is only in recent times that national law enforcement agency
is starting to realise the nexus between urban street gangs and organ-
ised crime groups. I explore the administrative flaws of central govern-
ment, and critically consider how the nature of illicit markets has blurred
the boundaries of criminal networks. It is for this reason that I will use
the terms ‘organised crime’, ‘criminal groups’ and ‘criminal networks’
interchangeably.
Chapter 3 investigates the murder of Gary Morgan, who was assas-
sinated by Irish hitman Peter O’Toole. Once labelled as ‘Britain’s most
feared hired killers’ (Worden 2012), O’Toole within a two-year period
was linked to several national and international gangland hits. On July
2002, he lured his friend, Gary Morgan to a Birmingham car park fol-
lowing a dispute over an unsettled drugs debt. Contract killer O’Toole
had extensive links to the Irish criminal underworld within a transna-
tional context. His ties with London’s notorious Adams family has con-
nected him to the 2001 murder of Scott Bradfield, whose mutilated
body was found in a suitcase in Costa del Sol, Spain. Subsequently, with
the murder of Gary, he was found guilty of the attempted murder of
drug dealer Anthony Morecroft, who was shot twice by O’Toole two
weeks’ prior the murder of Gary. The chapter also considers the ‘glo-
cal’ nature of organised crime and draws attention to the notion that
criminal enterprises are no longer restricted in fixed terrain. Rather, they
are manifested because of local and global networks of opportunities
(Hobbs 2013).
Following on directly from this, Chapter 4 investigates the mur-
der of Richard Deakin. Richard, a 27-year-old skip hire business owner,
was shot twice at point-blank range by David Harrison as he slept in his
home in Chasetown, Staffordshire, England in 2010. Harrison, who was
61-years old at the time of murder—the oldest ‘hitman’ uncovered by
MacIntyre et al. (2014), had an accomplice, Darryl Dickens, who acted
as his getaway driver. Both Harrison and Dickens lived approximately 20
miles from the site of the hit, in Wolverhampton, England, and it was
local intelligence provided by a former criminal accomplice of Harrison
that led to his eventual arrest. Harrison denied being involved in the
murder, even though police recovered £26,000 in cash from his second
18 M. RAHMAN
home in Kent, England, which was believed to have been his payment
for carrying out the hit. The case itself has connections to Birmingham’s
illegal trading network as Harrison was a known drug dealer and the
uncle of John Anslow, an international drug kingpin who is the first man
to escape from a Category A prison in 17 years.
Similarly, to the case of Peter O’Toole, this chapter will draw atten-
tion to actors of organised crime, who make interactions within a trans-
national context to fulfil the demands of those that seek illicit products.
Through primary accounts, this chapter will explore various perspectives
of violent practice through several theoretical paradigms, and will criti-
cally analyse how violence is an alternative form of criminal justice that is
used to establish, maintain, and advance criminal enterprises.
Developing from case studies, in Chapter 5, I take readers on an
eclectic tour through biographical accounts of three men who have
spent considerable time within Birmingham’s criminal underworld.
Some of the men will have been introduced in Chapters 4 and 5 due to
their proximity to the cases. The chapter starts off by discussing Clive,
a violent offender who has previously been incarcerated for manslaugh-
ter. I have known Clive since 2002, and his biography provides psycho-
analytical and Bourdieusian understandings of violence, trauma, and
humiliation. This chapter then focuses on the biographical accounts of
brothers Marco and Zane; two violent offenders, who have previously
been incarcerated for multiple violent offences linked to Birmingham’s
underworld. Similarly, to the biographical account of Clive, their biogra-
phies provide some socio-analytical and psychoanalytical understandings
of trauma and humiliation acquired through violent and fatal encounters.
The concluding chapter draws together the findings and themes
emerged from case and biographical data, with empirical and theoretical
understandings. It concludes by summarising the study and discusses rec-
ommendations for future work.
Unique Contributions to the Field

This book will attempt to bridge the gap in criminological research on
violence by combining the conceptual frameworks of; violent masculin-
ities, ultra-realism, psychoanalysis and Bourdieusian theory. I envisage
that a fusion of approaches will aim to provide a holistic criminogenic
understanding of illicit networks in the West Midlands, and as afore-
mentioned, the need to explore this locale is timely. To date, there is no
scholarly work on the nexus between homicide and criminal groups in

the region. Notable academic work within a national context focuses on
post-industrial cities either north (see, Winlow 2001; Fraser 2015; Ellis
2016; Deuchar 2018; Harding et al. 2018; McLean et al. 2018) or south
(see, Hobbs 1988, 1995, 2013; Hallsworth 2013; Densley 2014) of the
West Midlands.
As an academic criminologist, this research has required to ven-
ture into the world of contract killings in the UK. This phenomenon is
a strand of homicide that has been academically overlooked, and both
case studies in this book offer rich descriptions of hitmen and their kills.
As mentioned above, criminological scholarship often neglects harms
inflicted on those that are simply deemed ‘criminal’. In this study, I
unpack experiences of trauma, humiliation and betrayal. In doing so, I
make the argument that there is a complicated synergy between trau-
matic experiences and deep subjective commitment to violent practice
in adult life. Moreover, by introducing the concept scenarios of harm,
I put forward the importance of criminologists unravelling harmful
thoughts that are suppressed, and ones that make individuals suffer in
silence. I believe, aside from novel data on violent practice within under-
world settings, what distinguishes this text from those that have been
acknowledged is the novel visual ethnographic approach I undertook for
street-level research.
Overall, for criminologists and students, this book offers empir-
ical analysis about the precursors of violence and homicide in criminal
groups. I am hopeful that these insights fuel my academic colleagues
to conduct further research in overlooked locales. For practition-
ers, policy-makers and others who wish to make positive change, this
book encompasses crucial perspectives on the extent to which deter-
ministic forces manifest criminal markets, and how violent practice is a
double-edged sword that requires critical consideration when seeking
interventions.
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CHAPTER 2
History, Homicide, Organised Crime,

and Theory
Abstract  This chapter offers insight into post-war Birmingham, new

waves of working-class masculinity, organised crime and conceptual
ambiguities. Furthermore, this chapter also considers homicide broadly
as well as within the context of criminal networks. It does this by draw-
ing upon the different forms of homicide, and argues how homicide
conducted by members of illicit networks in not necessarily restricted to
one form or type, but in some cases a fusion of two or more. The term
‘organised crime’ has been around for over a century, however, to date
there is still no set universal definition of the concept. Thus, I offer a
critical definition, which I believe justifies and strengthens some of ongo-
ing scholarly debates about organised crime. The chapter concludes by
considering the keystones theories that will help make sense of violent
practice within criminal groups.
Keywords  Birmingham · Bourdieu · Class · Consumerism ·

Criminal undertakers · Cultural homicide · Definition · Ego ·
Fatal violence · Field · Freud · Gangs · Government · Habitus ·
History · Homicide · Id · Industrial revolution · Industry · Kray Twins ·
Instrumental homicide · Law enforcement · Legislation · Masculinity ·
Murder · Neoliberalism · Organised crime · Peaky blinders ·
Psychoanalysis · Situational homicide · Special liberty · Super ego ·
Richardson gang · Sloggers · Theory · Ultra-realism · Working class ·
Violence

26 M. RAHMAN
In what follows, I explore key literature on criminal groups, namely

those that consider organised crime. I take readers on a ‘glocal’ under-
standing of organised crime, which therefore means engagement with
international research that identifies the nexus between neoliberal
global structures and criminal networks. I also offer a brief, albeit crit-
ical accounts of homicide. In doing so, I discuss the varied nature of
homicide and how little has been written about the phenomenon within
the context of organised crime. Of note, the rationale for adopting the
term homicide as opposed to murder for this book is because homicide
incorporates within its jurisdiction criminal manslaughter and murder.
I conclude the chapter by providing insight of key theories that will help
unpack data attained from research investigations.
Before discussing all the above, I start this chapter by shaping this
criminological inquiry within the context of history. By history, I mean
that this book will primarily draw upon Birmingham and the region
of the West Midlands, where much of England’s industrial revolution
began (Hopkins 1998; Jones 2008; Uglow 2011). It is hoped that the
socioeconomic development of Birmingham will provide a sound con-
text to discuss violent crimes within the periods of modernity and
post-modernity.
A Brief Overview of History and Industry

of Birmingham and the Wider Region
Modern Birmingham. Vibrant dynamic, exciting, innovative. A City of

constant change, adaptation, and inventiveness. A great working town,
sounding with the clash of machinery, echoing with the noise of transport,
resonating to the voices of cultures from across the world. Throw out those
dated and demeaning clichés about bleak and philistine industrial cities.
Modify those images of dark satanic mills and of a dismal, deary, and dank
environment. Birmingham’s picture is not grey and boring. It is bright and
rousing. Dinginess and drabness have not brought people here. They have
come looking for opportunity, they have arrived in the hope of a better
future, they have appeared in search possibilities.
(Chinn 1994, p. v)
The observations of Carl Chinn presented above seem very dated

in 2019. Known as the ‘city of a thousand trades’ (Dick 2005), the
industrial working class of Birmingham with strong heritage ties is now
a post-industrial epoch. In the present day, contemporary business
2 HISTORY, HOMICIDE, ORGANISED CRIME, AND THEORY 27
innovation, cultural development, and social change have allowed

Birmingham to become an international city. Nevertheless, Hopkins
(1998, p. 25) argues that it is hard to think of Birmingham without
considering its role during the industrial revolution, and without ‘attrib-
uting great importance to the role of new machinery’. Moore (1965,
p. 4) defines the term industry as ‘the fabrication of raw materials into
intermediate components or finished products by primarily mechanical
means dependent on inanimate sources of powers’. Here, it is impera-
tive to consider key variables that fast-tracked Birmingham’s industrial
development. First, and perhaps most importantly is the city’s geograph-
ical location, which is positioned central to the Midlands. Major routes
were turnpiked in the mid-eighteenth century, and such improvements
in Birmingham’s road system certainly boosted trade. However, when
roads started to deteriorate, transportation charges increased and the city
adjusted to its transport changes by building canals as a new means of
cheap transportation (Hopkins 1998).
Another driving force for Birmingham’s industrial growth was the
technological innovation of the Black Country’s iron industry. Situated
approximately 10 miles west of Birmingham, the Black Country became
one of the leading producers of finished iron in the United Kingdom
(Hyde 1977). Its ability to do so meant great demands for prod-
ucts, of which included raw materials for the gun trade (Griffin 2010;
Uglow 2011). By supplying each other with valuable markets, both
Birmingham and the Black Country rapidly grew side by side. Of note,
there is an interesting contrast between the economic changes in both
locales. While the Black Country’s technological innovations of ‘iron’
and ‘steam power’ ignited a revolution in what were perhaps the most
important industries during that period, it was Birmingham’s diversifica-
tion and thousands of workshops that separated itself from other major
cities during the industrial revolution. For instance, the Gun Quarter
during the mid-eighteenth century was the epicentre of the world’s
gun-manufacturing industry. Indeed, Birmingham’s gun trade had
become highly specialised and the ‘first available Birmingham directory,
dated 1767, lists gun-makers and pistol-makers separately, together with
the makers of different parts of guns such as barrel-makers and gun-lock
makers’ (Hopkins 1998, p. 40). This reveals the complexity of gun trade,
which by 1861 was led by the Birmingham Small Arms (BSA) company
(Dick 2005). So too, Upton (1993, p. 193) offers an impressive account
of the BSA’s contribution:
28 M. RAHMAN
…made the Lewis gun, was producing 10,000 guns a week, and Kynoch’s
25 million cartridges and 300 tons of cordite. They were engaged in
munitions; others, such as Longbridge, switched production to shells and
armoured vehicles, at the same time increasing the work-force from 2,800
to 25,000. The Mills hand grenade was a Birmingham product.
In the present day, little remains of Birmingham’s Gun Quarter.

Nonetheless, the reason why I have decided to take a strong focus on
this legitimate trade is because later, I critically explore through real
life examples of how this trade is now at centre of controversy in mod-
ern-day gangland activities. Based on what has been discussed in rela-
tion to industry, large-scale industries are characterised by the advent
of inanimate power (Moore 1965). Aron (1967, pp. 73–74) reiterates
the implications of large-scale industry as ‘the major source of produc-
tion in a society, since these implications are likely to be common to all
industrial societies’. While the city’s landscape was built on adaptability
and creativity of a highly paid and highly skilled workforce (Jones 2008),
workplace disorders were commonplace during the nineteenth century.
As Gooderson (2010) observes, employment strikes were reputed to be
infrequent and mainly non-violent. Cases of violence, namely in the form
of ‘slogging’, was traditionally rife within Birmingham workspaces dur-
ing the twentieth century. Here, it is worth noting that there is little lit-
erature on slogging. That which tends of exist are well-researched texts
by Philip Gooderson’s (2010) From the Sloggers to the Peaky Blinders; and
Carl Chinn’s (2014) The Real Peaky Blinders. Both books are thought-
fully analysed by eminent historians, who have extensive research expe-
riences in writing about local history. Before considering the criminal
landscape of working-class Birmingham, it is important to contextualise
historical patterns of crime in England.
Historical Patterns of Violent Crime, Birmingham’s

Earliest Criminal Groups and Working-Class Masculinity
If motivation and opportunity to inflict harm on others for self is to be
established as a basic ontological principle at the core of criminological
metatheory, then it is crucial for us to have a brief idea of how humans
have practised harm across time and space. Hall (2012, p. 20), in detail
reveals:
After the Norman Conquest, righteousness and justice were established

by might; victory in war and the ability to maintain some semblance of
security were the main legitimising factors. Throughout the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries, a period in which violent governance of the Norman
rulers had failed to restore order, gangs of brigands periodically exercised
control over the whole towns and rural areas, a practice that continued in
remote northern areas well into the sixteenth century. Gang rule was not
simply about power and domination but also practical economic concerns,
such as monopolizing import and export nodes, confiscating gold and sil-
ver and counterfeiting money. Kidnapping for large ransoms was common,
along with violence and torture.
While early forms brigands were entrepreneurially driven, their lack

of interest in politics, agriculture and craft production meant that they
were solely dedicated on being dominant forces in the highly lucrative
illegal trading marketplace. To restore law and order, Edward I, crowned
in 1274, reorganised the entire criminal justice system (Hibbert 2003).
This paved the way for the 1285 Statute of Winchester that emphasised
on the significance of ‘self-policing’ (Joyce 2011). Cohen’s (1985) anal-
ysis of ‘master patterns’ of the criminal justice system argues that justice
and social control during this period was decentralised and informal.
Hall (2012, p. 21), persuasively refutes Cohen’s comments as ‘dubious’
and regards this period as a time of formal reconstruction of previously
‘informal local and regional control systems that had been disrupted in
the violent aftermath of the Norman invasion’. As formalisation was cru-
cial for the pacification of a country that endured violent chaos in the
years following the Civil War, in the later Middle Ages, serious crimes
were a combination of violent brigandage and economic monopolisation.
Modern England during the mid-sixteenth to mid-eighteenth centu-
ries saw a decline in most homicides, except for infanticide. According to
Sharpe (1996), the decline in fatal violence was as a result in economic
crimes, whereas Eisner (2001) argues that homicidal rates of Europe
declined during the Middle Ages due to the ‘spiritualisation’ of tradi-
tional male honour, that was for most of pre-capitalist history, a bod-
ily form established and defended by violent practice. Eisner’s theory is
debatable in contrast to long-term empirical trends. Why would a pop-
ulation that is spiritualised or pacified involve themselves in economic
crimes ranging from petty pilfering to major fraud? This would mean
that as society became less murderous, it became richer and pacified, but
30 M. RAHMAN
potentially less honourable. In relation to ‘class’—society became less

egalitarian. As Hall (2012, p. 25) makes clear:
What we seem to be looking at is the process of social diffusion and ethical

evacuation wherein honour was relocated to the external symbolic econ-
omy to make room for motivations and practices that were by standards of
the day dishonourable vices, yet which were vital for the expansion of the
capitalist economy.
So too, the historical process that underlined the decrease in rates

of homicide was not oriented to complete the civilisation or pacifica-
tion of the soul. Rather, it is useful to consider this through the con-
cept of ‘pseudo-pacification’ (see, Hall 2012 for a critical analysis), which
argues that violent dispositions have been sublimated, channelled and
harnessed by the nascent bourgeoisie into what we now see as aggres-
sive and non-violent forms of symbolic competition. The above depicts
how gangs of brigands were early forms of criminal groups in England.
In Birmingham, joint enterprise violent crimes in the nineteenth cen-
tury were carried out by slogging gangs, who were employed in skilled
trades such as: brassfounding, bedstead-making, wiremaking, and stone
masonry (Chinn 2014). For instance, Gooderson (2010) identifies the
first slogging gang to be originated in Cheapside, in the south-eastern
part of Birmingham. He argues that the Cheapside sloggers were men
from the iron trade, who used brute force attained from laborious work
to pilfer others. This alone suggests that such men were adaptive indi-
viduals in the working sphere as well as in criminal networks. Indeed,
Eisner (2001) makes clear how pilfering was part of parcel in nineteenth-
century working-class culture, which therefore created what is now
known in organised crime studies as ‘blurred boundaries’ (von Lampe
2008)—a small degree of separation between the legal and illegal econ-
omies. Another feature that was deeply embedded in working-class cul-
ture, and is to a certain extent in the present day is hard drinking. Pubs
during the nineteenth- and twentieth-century periods were a key leisure
location for individuals of all ages and major providers of the alcohol
that fuelled much of the town’s violence (Harrison 1943). In fact, pubs
became shared spaces that allowed workplace friendships to continue,
and as Winlow (2001, p. 38) notes, they also became a ‘welcome escape
from the problems of everyday life’.
Slogging gangs, unlike contemporary urban street gangs, did not

operate on a territorial basis. Sloggers were always willing to partake in
violence, often maintained through bare-knuckle boxing. Essentially,
the workplace, pubs and street-level violence were integral components
that epitomised a slogger. Put simply, these environments allowed work-
ing-class masculinities to be re-examined, reinterpreted and reaffirmed
(Winlow 2001). Moreover, Tolson (1977) believes such behaviours may
are carried out due to physical and social insecurities. This coincides with
Daly and Wilson’s (1988) claim that men’s violence towards other men
involves a masculinity of status rivalry and boasting among peers.
After being granted ‘city status’ by Queen Victoria in 1889,
Birmingham advanced as city by improving its transport routes (Dick
2005). By being geographically positioned central in England, the city
by default became a transport hub for citizens on the motorway, rail
and canal networks. Often, this facilitated a new wave of joint enterprise
criminality, and during the early 1900s, these individuals were known as
the ‘peaky blinders’. By becoming the successors of sloggers, the peaky
blinders would ‘extend beyond the city’ (Gooderson 2010, p. 216),
as they could freely travel to other major cities to pursue their crim-
inal activities. Chinn (2014, p. 44) identifies a man by the name Billy
Kimber, whom in the early 1900s was regarded as a fearless criminal
operative:
… [he] was not a man to be crossed. Tall, powerfully built, strong and
charismatic, he feared no man but many men feared him. A tough fighter
himself, he was the key figure in a group of vicious and frightening thugs
called variously the Birmingham Gang, the Burmmagem Gang and the
Burmmagem Boys. Drawn from across the city, these were not teenaged
hooligans; rather they were dangerous men who had long led lives domi-
nated by fighting, pick-pocketing and intimidation. In the brief boom that
followed the end of the First World War, this Birmingham Gang controlled
the protection rackets on the racecourses of England and made huge sums
of money.
Although there are no reports of Kimber being in such gangs, Chinn

(2014, p. 46 All subsequent quotes are taken from Chinn) reveals that
‘he must have gain[ed] a reputation for violence because in 1901, and
as a nineteen-year old, he was in Winson Green Prison serving time
for wounding’. Kimber’s penchant for violence grew. Soon after being
32 M. RAHMAN
released, he was arrested, charged and sentenced to two months in

prison for assaulting two police officers. The Birmingham Daily Mail
of August 28, 1901, recalled how ‘he had hit one with a violent blow,
causing cut lip, and then acted in a violent manner at the police station’
(p. 47). Upon release and after his divorce, Kimber extended his criminal
activities as he ‘travelled the country doing what he did best – picking
pockets at racecourses and other big sporting events where crowds gath-
ered’ (p. 50). In 1911, he was recorded by the Census as a 28-year-old,
single man, who worked as a ‘turf accountant’. In reality, he was lead-
ing a group known as the Burmmagem Boys, who travelled the country
in the pursuit of controlling England’s racecourse rackets. According to
Chinn (2014), it is likely that loose and flexible national networks ena-
bled Kimber and the Burmmagem Boys to control protection rackets.
Of note, what Chinn overlooks is the geographical and transport advan-
tages that Birmingham offered during that period for those operating
legal and illegal markets. In sum, while some of the proletarian class used
Birmingham’s transport systems to find legitimate work, others used the
same services to identify criminal opportunities to expand their criminal
enterprises beyond fixed terrain. However, the operational activities of
gangs like the Burmmagem Boys ceased in 1914 due to the outbreak of
the First World War (1914–1918).
What is clear from the above is that slogging gangs positioned them-
selves in innovative, dynamic and expansive economies that provided
them the opportunity to employ violent practice. Indeed, the gangs
comprised rational actors that realised ‘slogging’ in ill policed areas
would maximise their nefarious pleasures (Clarke 1997). Although
sloggers would happily welcome gang-related confrontations; in most
cases, they would operate within their own ‘awareness space’, which
Brantingham and Brantingham (1981, p. 35) considers to be a ‘cogni-
tive map of their known surroundings which influences what locations
they will commit crimes’. In contrast to sloggers, Kimber and other
peaky blinders can be classified as entrepreneurial offenders (Hobbs
2013), who could dominate lucrative markets. Unlike sloggers, Kimber
and his gang were financially motivated, and therefore could be consid-
ered as one of Birmingham’s early forms of organised crime networks,
who worked on loose structures but could impose power, continuity and
rationality (von Lampe 2016). Based on historical accounts, it is evident
that the propensity of violence employed by sloggers was greater than
those that had the descriptions of being a peaky blinder. So too, it is here
that we consider the ultra-realist pseudo-pacification framework, whereby

high levels of physical violence declined and was replaced by new forms
of economically driven and useful symbolic violence that acted out in
cultures and social relations as socio-symbolic competition.
Post-war Birmingham: Working-Class Identity,

Neoliberalism, and Consumerism
Scholars of violent crimes, that have investigated working-class commu-
nities in England for criminological research, often consider employment
and housing to be the bedrock of working-class identity (Hobbs 1995;
Winlow 2001; Ellis 2016). As Britain emerged victories, albeit destroyed
from the terrors of the Second World War (1939–1945), the defining
feature of Birmingham’s political economy in the post-war epoch was
the loss of its well-earned independence and the prevention of future
growth. Various historians note that central governments bigger role
for British life meant that Birmingham’s future was often decided in
Westminster (Sutcliffe and Smith 1974; Ward 2005). Thus, the future
of planning, development and other municipal functions of the city were
dictated by legislation and national policy; of which centred around, but
not restricted to: full employment, the growth of trade union, the estab-
lishment of a strong welfare state an importantly the capitalist shift into a
consumerist phase whereby spending power of the masses became essen-
tial for economic fuel.
Here it is important to note that The 1945 Distribution of Industry
Act was introduced to redevelop areas that relied on heavy industries,
but were hard hit by unemployment in the inter-war and post-war peri-
ods. Tyler (1980) notes how this resulted in at least 39,000 jobs redi-
rected out of the West Midlands between 1960 and 1974. While the
redistribution of manufacturing shrunk employment by 10% between
1951 and 1956, employment in the service sector flourished from 35%
in 1951 to 45% in 1966 (Cherry 1994). However, the rapid growth of
the service sector also drew central government attention, who in turn
placed similar growth restrictions on industrial employment. The afore-
mentioned provides a crucial overview of Birmingham’s economic
growth. The city’s economic success over the previous two centuries was
based on the ability to adapt and innovate, which invariably attracted
businesses and industries that demanded skilled labour and a dynamic
34 M. RAHMAN
entrepreneurial culture. While central government policies restricted

economic growth, Birmingham’s existing industries grew and kept the
local economy buoyant. Cherry (1994) highlights while trade union
power flourished, Birmingham was renowned for weak trade unionism
but known for its strong cooperation between workers and management.
Often, in the post-war period, industrial conflict became commonplace.
It can be argued, that not only did central government’s economic
restructuring hinder Birmingham’s economic prosperity, but it also
increased social inequality and fragmented collective identity amongst
the proletarian class. The reason why most Birmingham’s working class
were strongly anti-establishment and united with their workforce was
often centred on ‘solidarity’. Indeed, it was unity that fostered the city to
become an industrial powerhouse in the first place, but also helped work-
ers to secure finances that would help achieve better health, housing, and
other family prosperities.
During the 1970s, Birmingham remained one of England’s prosper-
ous provincial cities (Sutcliffe and Smith 1974). As central government
still controlled economic growth by dispersing its population and indus-
tries to the Home Nations, this avowedly hindered the ‘self-regenera-
tion of businesses in Birmingham, leaving it top-heavy with the old and
infirm’ (Heard 1989, p. 28). It was during this period that the decline
of the post-war consensus, Thatcherism and neoliberalism surfaced;
which meant a restructure of working-class and criminal identities. Here,
we should remember that the term ‘consensus’ is not to ideal, as it may
suggest that there were no political differences between the centre-left
and centre-right parties. Maintaining full-time employment by Keynesian
techniques of economic management, acceptance of trade unions, state
ownership of natural resources and welfare were often challenged by
the left of the Labour party, and the free market, or right wing of the
Conservatives. The term ‘urgency’ is perhaps fitting than consensus, as
policies were pursued by both governments to acquire working-class
support to win elections. As both parties focused on reversing Britain’s
economic decline, the nation was plagued by low growth, high inflation,
and reckless trade unionism. It was during this period that Britain under-
went waves of deindustrialisation, and for the working class, Margaret
Thatcher’s 1979 election was catastrophic.
Although Thatcher eased some tension with trade unions, she caused
an ‘industrial holocaust’ (Hobsbawm 1994, p. 304) by privatising and
deregulating industries. This meant that major state regulated firms such
as: British Aerospace (1981), British Telecom (1984), National Express

(1988) and British Steel Corporation (1988) were privatised. In rela-
tion to Birmingham, this included: British Leyland (1984), Severn Trent
(1989), Midlands Electricity (1990) and Birmingham Airport (1993).
The relevance is, as neoliberal modes of doing business improved
Britain’s net assets abroad considerably, in mainland Britain, unemploy-
ment rose above three million in the early 1980s.
Critics of neoliberalism, who state that the ideology is responsible for
most of the Western world’s functional issues, claim that the concept views
competition as the defining characteristic of social and human relations
(Winlow and Hall 2006; Monbiot 2000, 2016). So too, it redefines cit-
izens as mere consumers, whose choices are centred on buying and sell-
ing. Put simply, we are now governed in a world by consumerism, which
became an established phenomenon for all cultures by the end of the
twentieth century. Hayward and Smith (2017, p. 308) argue how ‘the
consumption practices associated with a burgeoning consumer society
tended to coalesce around issues of class and culture’. Within the context
of Birmingham, the origins of class and cultural consumerism stem from
Marxist inspired views by academics from the University of Birmingham’s
Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies (CCCS). Various scholars
based their work on the premise that deviant behaviour by working-class
youths should be viewed as symbolic rebellion against a capitalist society
that imposed dominant values and social inequalities (Willis 1977; Urry
1995; Hall et al. 2013). For instance, Willis’ (1977) pioneering ethnog-
raphy on the sociology of education within a Midlands based school high-
lighted that education was longer a system that continued intellectual
and economic growth, but instead became a platform were conflict was
emitted. Willis’ observation centred on what he called the ‘counter-school
culture’; a culture that he felt could only be unpacked within the larger
framework of the working-class culture. He argued that the coun-
ter-school culture had rich indicators of rebellion and resistance against the
formal procedures of the school. Describing his participants as the ‘lads’,
Willis considers their knowledge of capitalism as limited, and considers
any meaningful insights as ‘penetrations’, whereby the lads could infiltrate
through various layers of ideological fog formed by the capitalist system.
In relation to consumerism, Willis observes that cigarette smoking
and openly drinking when playing truant were key signifiers of sym-
bolic rebellion. This marked the lads shaping their culture external
to school and therefore gravitated them towards the dominant male
36 M. RAHMAN
working-class world, and one that is evident in achieving youth identity

within the British night-time economy (Smith 2013). As Hayward and
Smith (2017) posit, members of the Birmingham School felt that deviant
consumerism was somewhat ‘liberating’. Such sentiments resonate with
the post work leisure that was often associated with sloggers during the
industrial revolution. Indeed, in the neoliberal epoch, a new set of cul-
tural signifiers shaped on mass consumption and influence enhanced a
new set of working-class identities and autonomy. This challenged con-
ventional norms and thwarted what seemed to be a burgeoning oppres-
sive social order. Of note, the growth of consumption of neoliberal
technologies fostered the explosion of a swathe of leisure and cultures.
The proliferation of youth and student cultures (from Mods to Goths,
skinheads to smoothies) to violent and masculine cultures (streets gangs
to organised crime networks), have structured politics and culture in the
post-social milieu (Ellis 2016; Deuchar 2018). Indeed, this also includes
consumerism in the night-time economy, and the wider established
Birmingham crime-consumerism nexus.
Based on the above, the changes in occupational structure, the
growth of cultures, the growth of consumption, the expansion of lei-
sure and new social movements are all series of developments that
took on greater salience as the century came to an end in Birmingham
(Webster 2004). Most of these developments, at the very least, help us
to understand oppression within the working class, and in some cases,
harmful behaviour. According to the official figures by the Office for
National Statistics (2018), the murder and manslaughter rate in England
and Wales has risen to its highest in a decade. There were 719 homi-
cides—murders and manslaughters—in the year to June 2018, a 14%
increase from 630 in the previous year. This excludes the 2017 terrorist
attacks in London and Manchester. In relation to Birmingham, over the
course of 2015–2016, the city endured 13 homicides and 50 attempted
murders, which meant an increase of 19% from the previous year (ONS
2016). Based on my impressionistic observations, I have established that
some of these fatalities have been because of gangland activities.
The need to investigate serious and fatal violence is timely, as
Birmingham’s homicide rate is likely to increase. Investigating this is not
only beneficial in making sense organised crime groups, but also crucial
in understanding the influences of social developments for an overarching
explanation of such harms. This chapter now explores the current land-
scape of homicide before discussing the phenomenon of organised crime.
Homicide
As is in many other nations, the concept of homicide in England and
Wales is varied in terms of scale. Nonetheless, the number of homicides
is relatively low in comparison to other developed nations (Brookman
2005; Brookman et al. 2017). Before offering a critical understand-
ing of homicide within the context of organised crime, first it is worth-
while considering the phenomenon within its legal framework. Indeed,
homicide refers to the unlawful taking of a human life, to which a
range of legal definitions can then be applied—including manslaugh-
ter and murder. It can be argued that whether a killing is classified as
murder or manslaughter is not necessarily reflective of the act itself,
but the nature of evidence that exists in relation to it. Brookman et al.
(2017, p. 321) note how all characteristics of homicide in the English
legal system share a common actus reus (guilty act), but are separated by
‘the extent to which the offender is deemed to have intended to cause
the victim’s death’, that is their mens rea (guilty mind). Before I offer
detailed characteristics of homicide within organised crime, below is a
brief overview of the sociodemographic characteristics of offenders and
victims.
The ONS (2016) categorises the sociodemographic characteristics
of offenders and victims in regards to gender, race, and age. Like most
nations, males dominate as offenders and victims. For instance, for the
year ending March 2015, 90% of homicide suspects were male, and 64%
of victims were male. Brookman et al. (2017) note that young males
between 20 and 24 are at the greatest risk of a homicidal act, and in
terms of race and ethnicity, those that are Black and Asian are overrep-
resented as homicide victims in England and Wales when compared to
their numbers in population. Interestingly, the Ministry of Justice (2017)
reveals that those who kill often belong to the same ethnic group as the
victim. For example, in 2011/2012 and 2013/2014, 94% of white sus-
pects killed someone belonging to the same ethnic group.
All the above is relevant for understanding the landscape of homi-
cide within a British context. Nevertheless, it fails to consider explana-
tions of homicide, particularly from a masculine perspective. Given the
diverse range of theories for homicide, it would be impossible to cover
all potential explanations. Nonetheless, in the next subsection, I consider
three theories that are prevalent forms of homicide within the context of
criminal groups.
38 M. RAHMAN
Situational Explanation of Homicide

The pioneering work of Wolfgang (1958, p. 10) argues that homi-
cide ‘involves intense personal interaction in which the victim’s behav-
iour is often an important factor’. Essentially, the foundations of his
work focused upon the interactional dynamics of violent encounters.
Wolfgang’s study has guided other studies that have considered the
broader situational identities and self-images in interaction (see,
Toch 1969), as well as wider aspects of criminological research on the
micro-environments of crime (Parker 2008; Ray 2011). The latter also
encompasses homicide studies of the interactional dynamics of offend-
ers and victims, as well as the lethality of situations (Luckenbill 1977;
Polk 1994). For instance, Luckenbill’s (1977) ‘six-stage model of con-
flict’ considers dynamic interactions involving a victim, offender and
the audience in front of whom these actors play. Within a ‘masculine’
context, Luckenbill’s (1977) stages three and five are of significant inter-
est. In the third stage, he argues that rather than excusing or ignoring
the provocation, or leaving the scene, an offender responds with ‘retal-
iatory move aimed at restoring face and demonstrating strong char-
acter’ (Luckenbill 1977, p. 181). In the fifth stage, Luckenbill (1977,
p. 184) provides a battle scenario and states that fearful of ‘display-
ing weakness in character and consequent loss of face’, the victim and
offender are embroiled in a ‘working agreement that violence was appro-
priate’. So too, both stages provide the understanding of masculine hon-
our (Rahman and Lynes 2018). Demetriou and Johnson (2016, p. 4)
state that ‘masculine honour has usually been thought to depend on the
man’s virility, martial valor, and willingness to defend his woman and
social prerogatives with violence’. This suggests that violent encoun-
ters are frequently an occasion for men to flaunt their courage and
martial excellence. Various scholarly sources have suggested that such
male on male violence features in legitimate venues of social inter-
action (see, Polk 1994; Winlow 2001; Hobbs et al. 2005; Hayward
2004; Winlow and Hall 2006), and that the construction of masculine
identities is a result of socioeconomic and cultural influences. Thus, to
acquire a comprehensive understanding of structural homicide, or vio-
lent practice for that matter, we should always consider the significance
of space (Canter 2003; Ray 2011), for as Foucault (1984, p. 252)
states, ‘space is fundamental in any exercise of power’.
Ray (2011, p. 63) highlights that ‘the spatial organization of the city is
structured by wider global socioeconomic processes which in turn struc-
ture patterns of violence’. For Birmingham, historically speaking, this
was evident during the period of those that were sloggers, whose violent
practice also inhabited the production of legitimate goods and services.
Leferbvre (1991) would argue such areas to be ‘abstract space’, that is
separated into clusters to facilitate the control of capital or the state,
which he contrasts with space that is ‘lived’ and one that can be con-
tested and reclaimed. The redevelopment of post-war Birmingham, along
with new waves of immigration introduced new spatial divides, which by
default contributed towards divisions in class and race. Ray (2011) con-
siders the importance of reordering urban space during the last quarter
of the twentieth century, which he describes as neoliberal characteristics,
creating what Soja (2000, p. 299) calls ‘islands of enclosure’. Of note,
academic work that considers violent crimes in UK post-industrial locales
argue the systematic link between structural transformations of capital
(Castells 1998), the burgeoning neglect of the ghetto, and the emer-
gence of a global decentralised criminal economy (Hobbs 1988, 1995,
2013; Ellis 2016; Fraser 2015; Pizzaro 2017; Deuchar 2018).
In sum, the above illustrates a twofold understanding of violent prac-
tice and homicide within a situational context, one being interactionist
and the other being systemic. Both understandings share the consensus
that violence is contingent upon urban spaces, which by design, creates
masculine identities. From a systemic standpoint, persuasive research
pieces argue that neoliberal restructuring has produced a culture of
terror, that manifests regular displays of violence in a de-pacified soci-
ety, which in turn inhabits an underground economy (Hayward 2004;
Wacquant 2004; Hall 2012). Moreover, below I present cultural expla-
nations of fatal violence.
Cultural Explanation of Homicide

The fundamental premise of cultural theorists is that violent individu-
als share ideologies that are favourable to the use of physical force when
insulted or contested due to an exaggerated sense of honour, pride,
courage and manliness. Indeed, cultural explanations of homicide have
been useful for cases of domestic homicide, honour killings and organ-
ised crime. As Gill (2017) argues, intra-familial honour killings are con-
sidered acceptable reactions in certain communities. To exemplify this,
40 M. RAHMAN
Arin’s (2001, p. 823) study on femicide revealed that trivial acts, such
as socialising alone or requesting a love song on a radio channel can tar-
nish a woman’s ‘virgin’ status, and such ‘beliefs are so powerful that fam-
ilies are prepared to sacrifice the life of one of their female members to
restore their honour and standing in the eyes of others’.
In the context of criminal groups, the concept of honour is often
achieved through collective practice. In their study of young Southern
Italians, who engaged in illicit networks, Travaglino et al. (2014a,
p. 799) allude to codes of honour and masculinity, as well as the ‘impor-
tant values in the context where they originated’. Further to this, they
propose that the entrenching of these values at an individual level may
reduce young men’s group-based opposition to such organisations, and
incidentally generate spaces in which such organisations can continue to
operate. Similarly, Travaglino et al. (2014b, p. 183) argue how local pop-
ulations in Italy exhibited ‘collective passivity against organised crime,
a phenomenon known as omerta’. Omerta is related to the concept
of masculine honour; that is, to fit ideological constructions of manli-
ness, individuals should display indifference towards illegal activities and
should not cooperate with legal institutions.
In his study of male aggression, Bernard (1990) observes how the
truly disadvantaged, that is those who suffer from isolation, often con-
form to the subculture of informal rules. Convincing research offers syn-
ergy and rich narratives of the circumstances under which violence, or
lethal violence is sanctioned, and how such cultures are created because
of the neglect of certain segments in society (Garot 2010; Brookman
et al. 2011). Therefore, this is a critical link between cultural explorations
of homicide within illicit networks and structural explanations (Pizzaro
2017). Having said this, instrumental violence is explicit within criminal
groups, and below is a critical exploration of this within real life examples.
Instrumental Explanation of Homicide

D’Cruze et al. (2006, p. 125) consider instrumental violence as harm-
ful practice that is ‘used to achieve a recognised objective’. The authors
argue that this type of violent practice is often employed for gain, and
while all homicides have different meanings, instrumental violence is
one that is widely associated with criminal groups (UNODC 2013). It
is however one that is often misunderstood. According to the UNODC
(2013, p. 39), organised criminal groups carry out acts of homicide for
a swathe of reasons, of which includes ‘the elimination of rivals’. This

aligns with Hobbs’ (2013) viewpoint that criminal syndicates in most
cases acquire profit and power through the deployment of violence.
Furthermore, the strategic deployment of violence, or its threat of use,
are means by which criminal syndicates exert monopolistic control over
a product or service (von Lampe 2016). Hence, to speak of strategy
implies that criminal fraternities employ the act of homicide rationally,
and thus instrumentally. Having said this, notable cases show otherwise,
and D’Cruze et al. (2006, p. 130) state:
…particular murders associated with organised crime can seem a good deal
more expressive than rational – gestures of power which assert (mascu-
line) identity and authority through their very recklessness or the excess of
violence.
Within the context of organised crime, an example of the above

can be seen in the case of the Kray Twins. Born in working-class con-
ditions in the East End between the world wars, Ronald ‘Ronnie’ Kray
and Reginald ‘Reggie’ Kray entered organised crime in London as part
of the new post-war generation and quickly built up a profitable empire
through criminal entrepreneurship (Pearson 2015). The Kray’s utilised
their penchant for violence for the acquisition of legitimate businesses,
and once they were established, they hoped to leave the world of gang-
sterism behind by pursuing legitimate and quasi-legitimate enterprises.
However, their careers from the mid-1960s were marked by catastrophic
acts of fatal violence.
In February 1966, George Connell, long known to the Kray’s as a
Richardson gang associate was shot in the face unceremoniously by Ronnie
while he sat drinking at the Blind Beggar pub in Whitechapel, London.
There are ambiguities surrounding motive of his murder, with some sources
suggesting that Connell had called Ronnie a ‘fat poof’. With the demise of
the Kray’s rival gang—the Richardson gang—Connell was no threat to the
Kray’s which meant that his killing held no logic. Hence, the explanation
of the murder is often misrepresented. The shooting of Connell was by no
means instrumental, rather it was a powerful expressive gesture, as Ronnie
demonstrated his capacity to destroy the face of a man who humiliated him.
This confrontational act of homicide (Brookman 2005) also demonstrated
his ability to publicly execute a man in front of witnesses, which therefore
illustrates his transcendent position of special liberty (Hall 2012).
42 M. RAHMAN
A year later, in 1967, Reggie murdered Jack ‘The Hat’ McVittie.

McVittie was also known to the Kray’s and was a long-term criminal.
Often, through the consumption of drink and drugs, McVittie became
unreliable. For the Kray’s, McVittie was a nuisance, and it is alleged
that McVittie was ordered to kill Leslie Payne—a former financial
adviser of the Kray’s. Although he failed to kill Payne, the motive for
McVittie’s murder is heavily contested, but the nature of his killing par-
allels Connell’s. On one evening, McVittie was invited to flat in London.
Upon his arrival, he was confronted by the Kray’s. In the first instance,
Reggie attempted to shoot him, but the gun jammed. Moments later,
he stabbed McVittie multiple times in his face, abdomen, and throat
(Morton and Dickson 2002). It was then the job of junior members
of the Kray firm to dispose McVittie’s body once the twins left the
crime scene. The killing was by no means clinical. Similarly, to that of
Connell’s, McVittie’s face was destroyed in front of individuals who were
culturally adept of their responsibilities as witnesses, that is to maintain
the code of silence (Anderson 1999).
The level of fatal violence displayed in both murders exceeds rational-
ity. That is not to say that acts of homicide in organised crime cannot be
rational or instrumental, nor is it to say that the Kray’s intention to kill
their victims did not encompass rationality in their own minds. The point
that I am trying to make is that as criminologists, we tend to categorise
explanations of homicide and overlook the complexities of subjective vio-
lence. We tend to narrow our focus on the offender and their offences,
as opposed to taking into consideration the deeper aspects of the social
world that facilitates the construction of violent practice. It is for this
reason that the situational, cultural, and instrumental explanations of
violence, namely fatal violence should not be considered separate and
unrelated. Through primary investigations, I will later argue how violent
practice requires a cognate understanding for a deeper understanding
of the forces that drive individuals to inflict harm on others. To situate
violent practice within the context of ‘organised crime’, in the next sub-
section I examine the label organised crime and some of the ongoing
scholarly debates about the concept.
Organised Crime: Definitions and Ambiguities

The etymology of organised crime as it is used in the present day is essen-
tially a United States invention (von Lampe 2016). While the origins of
organised crime date back to the nineteenth century, it was not until the
early twentieth century that a consistent meaning was attached to the

combination of the words organised and crime in the USA. Inspired by
US federal debates in the mid-twentieth century, the term has come to
use on a consistent basis in other parts of the world, namely in Europe,
since the 1960s and 1970s. In 1986, The US President’s Commission
on Organized Crime indicated that the problem of defining the concept
lay not in the word ‘crime’, but in the word ‘organised’. Indeed, while
this is a fair point that I will return to shortly, it is first worth noting that
the phenomenon is a strong example of how, in modern societies, prob-
lems are identified and placed on the political agenda. By 1990, the con-
cept reached global heights, namely during the run-up to the 2000 UN
Convention against Transnational Organised Crime, which is also widely
known as the Palermo Convention. Simply put, the adoption of the UN
Convention against Transnational Organized Crime in Palermo identified
organised crime as a key criminal policy concept on a global scale.
Of note, before adopting the UN resolution, the UK in 1993
embraced organised crime as a national policing issue. Formal dia-
logues first emerged at a conference in Bramshill Police College, where
it was announced that ‘organised crime has many definitions; this may
be because it is like an elephant—it is difficult to describe but you know
it when you see it’ (Hobbs 2013, p. 47). Often, when discussing organ-
ised crime academically, scholars immediately highlight definitional
obscurities (see, Levi 2002; Wright 2006; Hobbs 2013). Here, it is
important to note that poorly defined concepts are not simply an aca-
demic inconvenience; for indeed they have ramifications for police and
practice, which leads to constrains in multi-agency cooperation, thus lim-
iting policy evaluation (see, Marshall et al. 2005; CSJ 2009). So too, a
narrow definition can cause an ‘underestimation’; resulting to inefficient
responses, and too broad of a definition can result to an ‘overestimation’
of the problem, leading to wasted resources.
In recent years, the UK Government have argued that acts such as:
illegal drugs, human trafficking, fraud, money laundering, armed rob-
bery and theft are all associated with organised crime groups. A HM
Government (2011a, p. 3) report predicted that ‘the overall cost to the
UK from organised crime is estimated at between £20 billion to £40 bil-
lion a year. It involves around 38,000 individuals, operating as part of
around 6000 criminal gangs’. As a result, the National Crime Agency
(NCA) was established in 2013 and subsequently replaced the Serious
Organised Crime Agency (SOCA). Put simply, the NCA equates to the
FBI of UK policing. In doing so, as a national law enforcement agency,
44 M. RAHMAN
it takes regional, national and international approaches when combat-

ting serious and organised crime. Through a UK standpoint, the inter-
national dimensions of organised crime was first academically introduced
by Hobbs (1988), who coined the term ‘glocal crime’. Over the years,
Hobbs (2013, p. 153) argued how serious crimes are no longer in fixed
terrain, rather they are ‘manifested as both local and global networks of
opportunity’. The Serious Crimes Act (2015, p. 39) provides the under-
standing that an organised crime group means a group that (a) ‘has as
its purpose, or as one of its purposes, the carrying on of criminal activ-
ities’, and (b) ‘consists of three or more persons who act, or agree to
act, together to further that purpose’. As noted above, a broad defini-
tion of any global phenomenon can result to an ‘overestimation’ of the
problem, leading to wasted resources, which therefore makes the Serious
Crimes Act definition ineffective. Moreover, von Lampe (2008) persua-
sively argues that considering the sophistication, continuity, and rational-
ity of organised crime groups is key for contextualising the concept. In
addition, the work of Fijnaut and Paoli (2006) argues the importance
of making sense of the ‘structured’ and ‘unstructured’ aspects of crimi-
nal organisations when considering a definition. Furthermore, commen-
tary on the ‘organised’ aspect of organised crime extends to the United
Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (2002), which argues how transna-
tional organised crime groups often comprise of loose and unstructured
networks.
I created a working definition by critically scrutinising contemporary
legislation, policy and academic discussions that impact organised crime
in the UK on an operational level. The reason why I decided to pro-
duce a definition is because it allowed me to establish research focus, as
well as capturing precise characteristics of contemporary organised crime.
So too, I define the phenomenon as:
A self-formed association of adults that are (i) united structurally and/or

loosely within a regional, national, and transnational context, (ii) who are
bounded by the mutual interest of committing sophisticated and continu-
ous forms of serious crimes for an immeasurable period, and (iii) act collec-
tively to achieve outcomes that generally include the pursuit of profit and/
or power of a given commodity, territory, and/or enterprise.
The working definition starts by considering the construction of

organised crime and those immersed in the phenomenon. Based on
my thorough examination of literature, such descriptions have been

neglected in current definitions, but are imperative for the compositional
understanding of organised crime. In the UK, I argue that organised
crime is contrived, which makes it a self-formed phenomenon as opposed
to one that is inherited by default like the Sicilian Mafia (see, Sergi
2017). Based on the fieldwork that I have conducted for this book, as
well as established empirical work on UK organised crime, the actors are
primarily adults, and it is demographical information that law enforce-
ment chiefly consider when distinguishing members of organised crime
groups and urban street gangs. The operators for the latter are often
categorised as ‘youth’s or ‘teenagers’ (Klein et al. 2001; Densley 2013;
Decker and Pyrooz 2015).
In regards to the structural aspect of organised crime, the definition
provides an adaptable positionality, which considers that organised crime
syndicates can either form structurally or loosely, or they hold the descrip-
tions of both. The latter description of being loosely united can be associ-
ated with those operating transnationally, which some scholars argue that
organisation becomes flexible, intermittent and weak, rather than hierar-
chal and stable (Van Duyne 1996; Coles 2001; Williams 2001). In rela-
tion to criminality, the offences that are committed by organised crime
syndicates are deemed to be serious. According to the Serious Crimes
Act (2015), a serious crime carries an imprisonment of 7 years or more.
Crimes such as the illegal drugs trade, illegal firearms trade, fraud, cyber-
crime and child sexual exploitation are all categorised as serious crimes
by the NCA, and ones that can be argued as sophisticated, and occur in
continuous forms. Often, such crimes are achieved by being bounded by
mutual interest, that means in most cases there is an unwritten collective
agreement among members of a criminal entity.
Moreover, definitions of organised crime place significance on the
duration of criminal activities. Personally, I believe this to be pointless
debate, simply on the basis that the sophisticated nature of organised
crime makes it virtually impossible to consider the length of criminal
activities in most cases. For this reason, I use the term immeasurable to
depict the inestimable nature of the phenomenon. Of note, some schol-
ars have recently suggested replacing the term ‘organised crime’ with the
‘organisation of crime for gain’ (Naylor 2004; van Duyne et al. 2006;
Edwards and Levi 2008; Levi 2012). Indeed, such studies have focused
on organised crime in Europe and in some cases the pragmatics of the
crimes discussed in the studies resonate to that of organised crime in the
46 M. RAHMAN
West Midlands. Hence, the notion of organisation of crime for gain is

considered in the final aspect of the definition, thus considering an adap-
tive understanding of motive. It can be suggested that organised crime
groups operate either for profit or power, or a combination of both.
Here, it is important to briefly consider the ambiguous nature of
organised crime, namely in the UK. In 2011, the HM Government
released two strategic reports: one focusing on organised crime (HM
Government 2011a) and the other on gangs and youth violence (HM
Government 2011b). The reports essentially consider both concepts
separate and unrelated. Conversely, four years later, the same coali-
tion government combined organised criminal groups and gangs in
the Serious Crime Act (2015) under the heading ‘organised, serious
and gang-related crime’. One of the prevalent reasons for the change is
because of recent developments within the UK illicit drug market: that
is, ‘the commuting of gang members from major cities to small rural–
urban areas for the purpose of enhancing their profit from drug distri-
bution’ (Robinson et al. 2018, p. 1). This type of contemporary practice
has been dubbed by law enforcement and government as ‘County Lines’
(HM Government 2018; NCA 2015, 2016, 2017). In sum, this bur-
geoning phenomenon considers how illicit products, namely drugs, are
delivered in rural locales by youths, who may operate within a gang, but
are subordinately controlled by a wider criminal network. Interestingly,
Robinson et al. (2018) highlight how ‘exploitation’ was exercised by
criminal syndicates from major cities, and this was prevalent in activities
that had the descriptions of County Lines. Moreover, recent UK based
research considers the evolution of gangs (Densley 2014). For instance,
Densley (2014) persuasively argues that some gang members can ‘evolve’
into, or be employed by organised criminal groups, thus suggesting
a fluidity to the concept. Whereas, McLean’s (2018) empirical work
on Scottish street gangs presents an evolving gang model in which the
sequential stages are outlined as recreational, criminal and syndicate.
The above highlights the blurred, slippery and indistinct under-
standing of organised crime in the UK. Irrespective of UK law enforce-
ment and central government establishing a firm nexus between street
gangs and organised crime groups because of County Lines; it is impor-
tant to be mindful that this contemporary concept only exists because
of organised crime groups, who exert control and coercive practice on
those that are junior to them, yet beneficial for their pursuit of profit
and power. Indeed, I would argue that my definition of organised crime
embraces County Lines, as it pragmatically considers the flexibility of the

phenomenon within the context of actors, interactions and motivations.
While organised crime is a nebulous construct, the harm that it pro-
jects is ever-present. The latest Serious Violence Strategy report (2018)
notes that one of the drivers of serious violence is because of an increase
in organised criminality. Before discussing real cases of serious violence
because of organised crime, it is first important to consider the theo-
retical paradigms that will complement the data that I have attained
through fieldwork.
Theory
I mentioned in the opening pages of this book that criminologists in
the present day are finding it difficult to offer convincing responses for
criminological issues. As Winlow (2014) observes, criminologists have
now become ‘contrologists’, who spend majority of their time as social
reaction theorists. Moreover, Winlow argues that mainstream criminol-
ogy fails to address complexities of subjectivity and motivations. The rea-
son behind this is that scholars fail to explore the aetiology of criminality
(Hall 2012; Ellis et al. 2017), that is to explain the ‘causes of causes’. Of
note, ultra-realism, a burgeoning criminological paradigm influentially
argues that recent scholarly failings have occurred because of discussions
being limited to the empirical and the disregarding of the Real. Put sim-
ply, for a penetrative understanding of harm, the ultra-realism branch of
social sciences encourages criminologists to extend beyond the parame-
ters of criminology by borrowing from cognate fields. So too, keystone
discussions of this book flow over criminological boundaries, thus below
is an overview of theories that will help deconstruct precursors to violent
practice in Birmingham’s criminal underworld.
Ultra-realism
The ultra-realist branch of criminology in recent years has provided
thought provoking research on interpersonal violence, harm and violent
offenders (see, Winlow 2001, 2014; Winlow and Hall 2006; Hall 2012;
Winlow and Atkinson 2012; Smith 2013; Ellis 2016; Ellis et al. 2017).
Advocates of this paradigm stress the importance of establishing the
aetiology of crime, as well as encouraging the consideration of external
48 M. RAHMAN
forces that manifest harmful practice. Within the capitalist epoch, the
prevalent forces are consumerism and market competition. While some
may argue how such legitimate daily practices manifest harm, Hall
(2012) theorises this shrewdly within his pseudo-pacification analysis.
Hall (2012) provides a critical perspective of Norbert Elias’ notion
of ‘civilization’ by stating that the decline in interpersonal violence was
not because of an increase in Western civilization, but the ‘emergence of
a dualistic economic need for pacification in an emerging market econ-
omy’ (Hall and Winlow 2015, p. 116). In short, Elias’ prerequisites of
the pacification of the population entailed the State’s monopoly of vio-
lence, the maintenance of social interdependencies, and the development
of behavioural codes. Nevertheless, his prerequisites downplay the con-
nection between the developing capitalist economies. Below, Hall and
Winlow (2015, p. 116) note the key interactive functions of a dualistic
economic need for pacification:
1. The protection of property rights and the reduction of violent

interactions between traders to enhance safer trading activity
throughout the nascent market economy’s arteries and nodes—this
provided a crucial condition for expanding the production and cir-
culation of commodities;
2. The sublimation of destructive and repressive physical aggression
into functionally aggressive yet physically pacified rule-bound com-
petition for wealth and status represented by the acquisition and
display of sociosymbolic objects in a burgeoning consumer cul-
ture—this expanded the demand for commodities.
Point two above is of interest when it comes to the breakdown of the

pseudo-pacification process. Hall (2012) challenges ideas around the civ-
ilising process in the context of violent practice. The notion that we have
‘civilised’ ourselves out of violence, thus consequently becoming empa-
thetic and having non-violent dispositions is not necessarily the case.
Rather, violence endured during the medieval period has been chan-
nelled, repressed and harnessed by the nascent bourgeoisie into what we
now see as extremely aggressive and non-violent forms of social and sym-
bolic competition. Therefore, the core of the pseudo-pacification para-
digm is that violent practice and altruism which ordered the Dark Ages
and Middle Ages was harnessed, and converted in the capitalist epoch to
achieve a burgeoning consumer-driven economy (Hall 2012). Of note,
the pseudo-pacification theory is extremely relevant within the context of

criminal markets, namely the ‘glocal’ role of organised crime in the West.
Neoliberalism, a by-product of capitalism, has dispersed the pseudo-
pacification process across the world. By default, the nature of neolib-
eralism displaces and in some cases, eradicates traditional cultures and
their politics with the depoliticising form of consumer culture. Along
with this, innovations in technology, communication, and transport has
manifested conditions that are favourable to the development of criminal
enterprises. In doing so, the facets of aggressive capitalism have war-
ranted individuals to undertake special liberty within the global structure.
The concept of special liberty is apparent through this book in the
context that individuals surpass the Big Other’s ethical codes in order to
create wealth and crucially exercise freely one’s urges and desires. Hence,
the individual is the ultimate fantasy of liberal capitalism; an unapologetic
individual whose motivation revolves around self, which allows him to
deprive, rob, and destroy with impunity without ever acknowledging the
harms placed upon others (Hall 2012). As Winlow (2014, p. 175) notes,
rather than admitting such harms, ‘individuals who believe that they are
entitled to special liberty remain attached to an image of themselves as
the most useful circulators of commodities and the most transcendent
free individuals, the creators of a prosperous future and the pioneers of
the free expression of the full spectrum of drives and desires’. In recent
times, through case study and ethnographic methodologies, scholars
have made this concept explicit within local drug markets (Winlow 2001;
Ellis 2016; Rahman and Lynes 2018), corporate boardrooms and even
in passages of state power (Winlow and Atkinson 2012). So too, the fan-
tasy of special liberty has enabled every environment to have its rightful
purpose built criminals. This parallels Zizek’s (2006) notion of ‘fetishistic
disavowal’, which tells us of the harmful subjects that surround us, yet
we systemically repress such criminal undertakers.
Similarly, to special liberties, the notion of criminal undertakers is
visible throughout this book, and one that has become a permanent
fixture in legitimate and illicit realms. Within the context of the UK
underworld, this has been depicted in various London based research
(Hobbs 1988, 1995, 2013; Pitts 2008; Densley 2014; Harding 2014).
For instance, Densley’s (2014) well-researched ethnography on gangs in
London argues that the issue of urban street gangs is serious and one
that cannot be shunned. While loosely structured hierarchies consist
50 M. RAHMAN
of ‘the top dog’ at the top end—and ‘runners’ at the bottom end—
ranking systems are defined by criminal undertaking as opposed to
endowed titles which we often see within the Italian mafia. The concept
of the undertaker should not be mistaken with one who buries the dead,
rather it is one who gets things done in the name of business. As Densley
(2014, p. 75) observes, ‘violence is also key to maintaining leadership
during the enterprise stage. But a penchant for violence is not enough.
The leadership must also display a certain degree of entrepreneurial acu-
men because without a strategy for growth, the gang stagnates and its
members defect’.
The rationale offered by Densley mirrors boardroom entrepreneurial-
ism. For instance, the oligarchic undertakers of the 2008 financial crash,
known officially as ‘bankers’, undertook considerable economic change
which resulted in catastrophic implications for current and future genera-
tions. Here, it should be argued that the corporate gangsters responsible
for the 2008 economic crash are the epitome of ‘systemic violence’. So
too, while the violence caused by such individuals tends to be ‘invisible’,
Zizek (2008, p. 6) argues that ‘it has to be taken into account if one is to
make sense of what otherwise seem to be “irrational” explosions of sub-
jective violence’. In addition to Zizek’s thoughts, ultra-realist researchers
emphasise the importance of borrowing from cognate fields for an exten-
sive discussion on crime, harm and crime control. Hence, below I offer
the fundamentals of psychoanalysis.
Psychoanalysis
For ultra-realists, psychoanalysis is crucial in making sense of uncon-
scious thoughts, which in turn provides social scientists a critical insight
of offender motives beyond the superficial empirical world. First, it is
important to distinguish the difference between psychoanalysis and
psychodynamics. The theory of psychoanalysis primarily applies to the
work of Sigmund Freud, the founder of the paradigm, who also used
the concept as a therapeutic model. So too, psychodynamic approaches
encompass theories that have been developed because of Freud’s seminal
work (Erikson 1950). Nonetheless, the kernel of the theories argues the
importance to discharge repressed emotions; which means to make the
unconsciousness—conscious. Consequently, this means that harm can
be viewed via the mental health praxis. Freud (1923) championed the
notion that psychological problems are rooted in the unconscious mind,
thus symptoms are triggered by latent disturbances. Often, however, it is

argued that his most important work was the exploration of the human
psyche, and how one’s personality can be holistically viewed in three
major parts.
Freud (1923) labelled his tripartite system as the id, ego, and super-
ego. Here, it is important to clarify that all three stages develop at differ-
ent periods of human life and by no means are these stages physical in
any form. The ‘iceberg’ analogy is often used to simplify Freud’s (1915)
analysis, as he argues that similarly to an iceberg, the most important
part of the mind is the one that cannot be viewed. This is known as the
id. The id is the primeval component of the human personality, which
comprises of all inherited dispositions. These range from biological
functionalities present from birth, of which include the Eros—the libido
instinct, and Thanatos—the death instinct. Of note, Freud (2010) views
the id to be the ‘impulsive’ aspect of the psyche, and one that remains
functionally infantile but demands pleasure. In short, the id operates
purely in a wishful and selfish basis, and its primitive nature makes this
part of the psyche irrational, illogical, and fantasy driven.
Freud (1923) argues that the next stage developing from the id is the
ego, that acts as a portion of the id which has been altered by direct influ-
ences of the external world. Put simply, the ego floats between the prim-
itive id and the external real world. Thus, the ego works by reason, as it
is the decision-making component of the human personality, whereas the
id is unreasonable and perverse. The commonality of both personalities
is that they seek pleasure. Having said this, the ego operates on a reality
value, which means it can be at the mercy of the chaotic and unreason-
able id. For instance, Freud (1923, p. 15) makes the analogy of a horse
being the id and a horseback rider being the ego. Hence, the ego is ‘like
a man on horseback, who has to hold in check the superior strength of
the horse’. Based on the analogy, the ego (horseback rider) at the very
best can only point the id towards the right trajectory and in doing so,
claim credit as if its actions were uninhibited.
Known as the above I, the superego incorporates a person’s morals and
ethics of society which are educated by their parents and wider relation-
ships. According to the psychosexual model, this occurs around the ages
3–5 years in what is widely known as the ‘phallic’ stage (Freud 1905).
The phallic stage is regarded to be the psychosexual stage of develop-
ment whereby pleasure based sensitivities becomes more concentrated in
the genitals for both sexes. Freud (1923) states that it is the superego’s
52 M. RAHMAN
role to control the id’s Eros and Thanatos impulses, especially those that
are forbidden in society. Hence, its role is to urge the ego to conduct
ethical goals rather than realistic ones. Of note, the superego itself is a
twofold system, that consists of the conscience and the ego-ideal. First,
the ‘conscience’ can punish the ego in regards to causing feelings of
guilt. For instance, if the id overrides the ego in terms of demands, the
superego can make a person feel bad about primitive instincts through
guilt. In regards to the ego-ideal, this is viewed as the image of a perfect
self in regards to aspirations, temperament, and the overall behaviour in
society. Criminologically, this is of extreme interest, namely within the
context of actors and interactions of organised crime. Examples of the
ego-ideal are recurring in the upcoming cases, which present the under-
standing that certain members of the criminal underworld reconfigurate
their ethical and moral standards to undertake special liberties. In the
present day, psychoanalysis is an established therapeutic technique, that
is held in high esteem in social sciences. Comparatively to the work of
Bourdieu, psychoanalytical approaches help us to understand the individ-
ual and social. In what follows, I consider the work of Bourdieu, and
hope to elucidate some of the similarities between Bourdieusian episte-
mology and psychoanalysis.
Bourdieu
As a sociologist, Pierre Bourdieu’s initial anthropological work con-
cerned the dominant paradigm of structuralism. Developing from this,
Bourdieu produced a series of concepts, including field and habitus. He
considers the field as a backdrop that houses agents and their social posi-
tions. The position of each agent is configured because of engagement
between the field, an agent’s habitus, and its capital (economic, social,
and cultural) (Bourdieu 1984). By no means do the fields operate in
silos, rather they are in constant interaction, albeit subordinate to the
larger fields of class and power. What separates Bourdieu’s analysis of
social relations is that it does not restrict itself to class as a structural rela-
tion; rather he uses the agency-structure association to bridge the con-
cept of field.
In Bourdieu’s (1984, 1992) work, the notion of habitus considers
ingrained dispositions that help individuals identify their social world
and their reactions. Such dispositions are shared by individuals within the
context of economic, social and cultural capital. Of note, these capitals
within the field are underpinned by what is known as symbolic capital.

Bourdieu (1989, p. 17) defines symbolic capital as ‘the form that vari-
ous species of capital assume when they are perceived and recognized as
legitimate’. In addition, Skeggs (1997, p. 8) argues that ‘legitimation is
the key mechanism in the conversion to power’. So too, the capital that
has been developed via the habitus needs to be considered legitimate
before it can be utilised accordingly in the field. Indeed, all capitals are
context specific and the social space that we populate is historically pro-
duced. Hence, the distribution of people is contingent upon the ‘global
volume of capital they possess; the composition of their capital, the relative
weight in their overall capital of the various forms of capital and evolu-
tion in time of the volume and composition according to their trajectory
in social space’ (ibid.).
Returning to the relationship between Bourdieusian epistemol-
ogy and psychoanalysis, it is worthwhile noting that there is little by
the way of explicit references made to psychoanalysis in Bourdieu’s
work (Darmon 2016). Scholars who have raised this discussion in the
past note that Bourdieu’s texts are scattered with psychoanalytical
terms—‘unconsciousness, misrecognition, projection, reality princi-
ple, libido, ego splitting, negation, repression, phallonarcissism, com-
promise formation, and anamnesis’ (Steinmetz 2013, p. 108; see also,
Fourny 2000; Steinmetz 2006)—but without any explicit acknowledge-
ment of psychoanalysis as a standalone discipline. In fact, when Bourdieu
was quizzed by fellow social scientist Gerard Mauger about habitus and
whether there was resemblance between ‘socio-analysis’ (social uncon-
sciousness) and Freud’s psychoanalysis (unconsciousness), Bourdieu
answered without referring to psychoanalysis, but alluded at the psy-
chologisation of social problems (for a full discussion see, Mauger and
Pinto 1994). While commentators continue to discuss Bourdieu’s rela-
tion to psychoanalysis, I believe that there is much to be gained by fus-
ing both ideologies when exploring to what extent violence, namely
lethal violence is meaningful for those in Birmingham’s criminal
underworld.
To ascertain the aetiology of violence in underground settings; I illus-
trate the relevance of capital in my fieldwork, but in conjunction with the
mental health praxis of individuals, namely those who were ethnograph-
ically observed. In sum, I envision the mixture of theories contributing
towards novel perspectives of those that have committed serious and fatal
violence because of organised crime.
54 M. RAHMAN
Concluding Comments
This chapter has provided a historical and criminological account of
criminal groups in Birmingham. The understanding of early forms of
Birmingham’s criminal groups, of which we may now view as organ-
ised crime groups has mainly been achieved through historiography.
As noted, the rationale for this is that historiography allows scholars to
challenge and contest well-established assumptions about organised
crime through its retrospective nature. So too, a historiographic analysis
has revealed that there is a reputable link between criminal groups and
homicide in Birmingham, with cases dating back to the early-twentieth
century. Essentially, this chapter has demonstrated that there is a pro-
longed consistency of violent practice among criminal groups in the West
Midlands, and this has been overlooked in historical and criminological
research. Moreover, in the present day, the understanding of organised
crime and criminal groups is ambiguous in the context of policy, and is
far from clear in mainstream criminology. Hence, this book will aim to
consider the structural backdrop of lethal violence in organised crime
within a locale that is currently one of the most violent in England and
Wales. It is for this reason that this book now moves on to the first case
study.
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CHAPTER 3
Contract Killers and Glocal Organised

Crime: A Case Study of the ‘Baby-Faced’
Assassin
O’Toole was a right little bastard. That fucker was born to simply raise hell.
—John
Abstract  This chapter explores the nebulous concept of hitmen and

their position in the criminal underworld. It does this by investigating
the 2002 assassination of Gary Morgan, who was murdered by prolific
hitman Peter O’Toole. O’Toole, at the height of his criminal exploits,
was regarded as one of Britain’s most feared hired killers, and in court
was once described as a ‘professional hitman’. In this chapter, I argue
that O’Toole was by no means a professional hitman. Rather, O’Toole,
at the most, should be considered a ‘Journeyman’ hitman (MacIntyre
et al. in The Howard Journal of Criminal Justice 53: 325–340, 2014). To
offer a comprehensive account of the ambiguous position that O’Toole
held in the underworld, his role as a hitman is triangulated with the crit-
ical biographical analysis of a notorious British hitman, and the under-
standing of ‘glocal’ organised crime (Hobbs in Lush Life: Constructing
Organized Crime in the UK, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2013).

64 M. RAHMAN
Keywords  Adams family · Birmingham · Case study · Contract killing ·

Drugs · Gary Morgan · Glocal · Hitman/Hitmen · Homicide ·
Interviews · Jimmy Moody · Journeyman · Murder · Neutralisation ·
Organised crime · Peter O’Toole · Provisional Irish Republican Army ·
Richardson gang · Robert Dawes · Typology · Violence · West Midlands
A Note on Hitmen
Contract killers and their ‘hits’ are underexplored in the academic
world, although a more recent interest in the topic is now apparent. To
my knowledge, this is the first British-based academic book to consider
the concept to be associated with organised crime. Research that tends
to exist is either American (Levi 1981; Black 2000; Black and Cravens
2001) or Australian (Blackshaw 1996; Mouzos and Venditto 2003). The
pioneering work of MacIntyre et al. (2014, p. 3) defines a hitman as a
person who accepts an order to kill another human being from some-
one who is not publicly acknowledged as a legitimate authority regarding
‘just killing’, and this work is of importance, as it sketches the broader
contours of the phenomenon by offering a strong typology of hitmen in
Britain between 1974 and 2013. Of note, the typology has been useful
in recent research when critically exploring British-based hits (see Wilson
and Rahman 2015; Rahman and Lynes 2018). For instance, based on
several cases, Wilson and Rahman (2015) studied the psychological
reframing processes of becoming a hitman. Their findings resonate the
work of Sykes and Matza (1957), in the respect that hitmen drift into
this lethal practice, which involves the killers separating their morally
responsible self from the rest of themselves to strategically kill. In other
words, it is crucial for hitmen to ‘depersonaliz[e] their intended victim’
so as to be able to conduct the hit successfully (Wilson and Rahman
2015, p. 263). Moreover, Rahman and Lynes’ (2018) research on the
Hell’s Angels motorcycle gang highlights how the role of a hitman is piv-
otal when it comes to maintaining masculine honour and collective iden-
tity when confronting gangland conflict.
To contextualise what follows, it is worth briefly exploring MacIntyre
et al.’s. (2014) four-division typology: Novices, Dilettantes, Journeymen,
and Masters. According to MacIntyre et al. (2014), a Novice is a trainee,
or a beginner, although the researchers argue that this does not imply
that the hitman is unable to plan the hit, or carry it out successfully.
3 CONTRACT KILLERS AND GLOCAL ORGANISED CRIME … 65
On the other hand, a Dilettante is older than the Novice when he

attempts, or indeed carries out the hit. Most Dilettante’s do not come
from an offending background and only seem to have decided to accept
a contract as a way of resolving some form of personal crisis. In addi-
tion, MacIntyre et al. (2014) suggested that this personal crisis was
usually financial. As such the Dilettante dabbles and dips into the cul-
ture of contract killing, but not necessarily with any enthusiasm, or
indeed with much skill. For this study, the ‘Journeyman’ hitman descrip-
tion is of interest, as MacIntyre et al. (2014, p. 10) put forward that
Journeymen operators are either affiliated, or somewhat attached to the
criminal underworld, and define a Journeyman hitman as someone who
is ‘capable, experienced, and reliable but not an especially exceptional
performer’. They suggest that Journeymen are likely to be ‘organised’ in
how they go about conducting the hit, but may nonetheless leave traces
of forensic evidence at the crime scene. The reality of this assumption is
proven as this chapter progresses.
Moreover, Brolan et al. (2016) provide exploratory understanding of
contract killers in their discussion of ‘spaces’ for ‘hits’. They argue that
while homicide studies place heavy emphasis on victim and offender rela-
tionships, this relationship is disrupted in contract murder, and therefore
the significance of ‘space’ becomes more notable. Brolan et al.’s (2016)
investigation of two cold cases, which have the descriptions of ‘doorstep’
killings, reveal that hits that occurred on doorsteps had several pragmatic
and instrumental advantages. Using an informant for primary insight of
the practicalities of hits in certain spaces and the state of mind of victims,
Brolan et al. (2016, p. 11) note:
…our informant perceived the intended target as being distracted by ‘con-

centrating on their door’, perhaps ‘fumbling for keys’ to get into their
house and is, therefore, ‘not on the ball’. This suggested state of mind
ensured that the intended target was ‘at ease’, ‘safe’ and ‘very comfortable
with where they are’, ‘going through a familiar ritual’, and therefore would
not be concentrating on what was going on behind him/her and so would
therefore be less vigilant than they might have been about watching who
was behind them, and what might be about to happen.
To a certain extent, this chapter parallels the work of Brolan et al.

(2016), as it seeks to investigate ‘hits’ that occurred in circumstances and
spaces whereby the victims, namely Gary, would have had a false sense
66 M. RAHMAN
of security. The hitman in question is Peter O’Toole, a Birmingham

born and raised contract killer, who had extensive contacts in the crim-
inal underworld on an international scale. On 3 July 2002, Gary was
lured into the Aston Hall Hotel Car Park, Aston, Birmingham by Peter
O’Toole. He was shot at point-blank range. Based on primary data of this
case, the hit was connected to an organised crime group that O’Toole
worked for as a hired gun. I argue that O’Toole’s role as a hitman was
freelance, which therefore positioned him in an ambiguous place within
the criminal underworld. Similarly, the work of Shaw and Skywalker
(2016) investigates the role of South African hitmen, who are often
recruited by gang bosses on the order to kill. Shaw and Skywalker (2016)
argue that hitmen, often referred to as ‘hammermen’ in Cape Town, have
an equivocal role in the South African gangland scene. To shed light on
hammermen, Shaw and Skywalker (2016) provided understanding of
the functionality and socialisation of these gang-based hitmen. In regard
to the function of hammermen, the authors suggested that it is mainly
related to the control of the illegal drugs market. According to one of
the gang bosses used in the research, targeted hits are partly symbolic,
which resonates with Gambetta’s (2009) viewpoint of how violence needs
to be demonstrated in order to be effective. Shaw and Skywalker (2016,
p. 385) highlight the uneasy truce between police and gangsters in South
Africa, which means that hammermen can ‘kill in a limited way that
demonstrates that [they mean business], without excessive bloodshed’.
In relation to the socialisation, Shaw and Skywalker (2016, p. 387) con-
sider the position of hammermen in the criminal underworld, and suggest
that they are a part ‘of a gang, but in many ways are independent from it’.
They reflect on this through recruitment, training, and maintenance pro-
cesses of hitmen. According to their research findings, there is no formal
recruitment for hammermen, but there are desirable characteristics often
required, such as firearms experiences. Shaw and Skywalker (2016) note
that some hitmen have previously been ‘recruited’ or ‘identified’ while serv-
ing a prison sentence. The prison recruitment example is widely accepted for
various forms of serious crimes, and as research participant Murphy puts it:
Prison is a fucking university for criminals, my friend. It’s a space where

some of most dangerous men are put in one place, who are caged for
years. This obviously allows them to share stories and contacts. It also
allows them to think about crimes that they can commit together when
they get out, or crimes that they work together on while inside.
(Murphy)
Nonetheless, similarly to MacIntyre et al. (2014), Shaw and Skywalker

(2016, p. 388) allude that some hitmen are equipped with military train-
ing, which therefore suggests the acquisition of professional skills that
are much favoured to ‘weed out individuals who may not have the char-
acteristics to perform the function’. Of note, to investigate the nature,
extent, and meaning of homicide within organised crime, this chapter
will explore the underpinning factors leading up to the murder of Gary.
Approach to the Case

While O’Toole was once considered ‘Britain’s most feared hired killers’
(Worden 2012), there is little secondary information about him and his
crimes. To fill this void, I acquired primary insights from an individual
who met O’Toole on three separate occasions. The individual who pro-
vided information in regard to O’Toole has been anonymised as John.
I assessed John as a credible source, as he showed physical evidence of
his interactions with O’Toole. Additionally, John comes from a deco-
rated law enforcement background. Some of his verbal accounts were
either verified via court transcripts, or were corroborated by Murphy,
an ex-criminal, who was made aware of O’Toole through several social
gatherings. Indeed, it was during this period that O’Toole was at the
height of his criminal activities.
In regard to the background of John, he has over three decades of
experience as a law enforcement agent, who first worked as a police
officer during the peak of the Irish troubles and then served as a sol-
dier during the Iraq war. In the past 15 years, John has worked as
a close protection officer for high-profile celebrities and has also oper-
ated as a freelance investigator. His expertise as an investigator has also
been used by members of the criminal underworld for countering police
surveillance. It was during his time as an investigator whereby he met
O’Toole. John was interviewed for this case on two occasions, and both
interviews were conducted in remote areas in the Midlands.
To strengthen the primary understanding of O’Toole as well as
moving beyond an exploratory understanding of hitmen, O’Toole’s
murder of Gary will be triangulated with his ‘glocal’ role in organised
crime, and a biographical account of Jimmy Moody, a notorious hit-
man who seemingly operated similarly to that of O’Toole. Here, it is
important to note that the biographical account of Jimmy Moody enti-
tled: Moody: The Life and Crimes of Britain’s Most Notorious Hitman
68 M. RAHMAN
(written by the ‘true crime’ author, Wensley Clarkson, and published

in 2003), has previously been used by Wilson and Rahman (2015) for
their research on the psychological reframing process required to become
a hitman. Nonetheless, for this case, the biography will be explored to
acquire a criminal, functional, and social understanding of Moody, and
how this can be compared to O’Toole and his experiences in the crim-
inal underworld. Indeed, Wilson and Rahman (2015, p. 258) rightly
consider Clarkson’s account of Moody being a credible source, as it was
‘painstakingly researched and has the added advantage of being able to
build up a detailed picture of Moody’s life, crimes, death, and the rela-
tionships that he had with his family and friends’. Moreover, Clarkson
interviewed all the surviving members of Moody’s family and his criminal
associates. Similarly, to this research, he also triangulates his information
with what is known about Moody from more official sources, such as
police and prison files.
This chapter now continues by critically exploring the biographical
account of Jimmy Moody, before investigating the death of Gary and the
ambiguous role that O’Toole occupied in the criminal underworld.
Jimmy Moody: A Legacy of Fear

James Alfred Moody was born in Looe, Cornwall, on 27 February 1941.
His father, Richard Moody died during the Second World War. After
the war, his mother Rosina Moody married Freddie Mills, although nei-
ther Moody, nor his elder brother, Dickie, were fond of their ‘discipli-
narian’ stepfather (Clarkson 2003, p. 18; all subsequent quotes in this
section are taken from Clarkson). By the time Moody reached age 13,
he was almost 6 feet tall, and possessed an aggressive streak that made
him appear worse tempered than his classmates. It was during this period
when his dislike for his stepfather became intolerable, to the extent
where a violent confrontation took place, which led to Moody, Dickie,
and their mother leaving Mills.
Moody’s promise of never to struggle financially led him to become
criminally entrepreneurial from an early age. By 15, he was handling sto-
len bicycle parts, which warranted him to boast to his schoolmates that
he earned more money than some of their dad’s. His criminal trajectory
soon moved to stealing cars, partly because he was obsessed with cars
and considered them to be the ultimate status symbol. After a brief stint
in the Merchant Navy, Moody started to acquaint himself with members
from the criminal underworld. By the age of 19, standing at 6 feet 1,

with a muscular and intimidating look, ‘Moody was known as a useful
strong-arm man who dealt with scrap metal – lead pipe, copper sheet-
ing, cast iron and steel – old and new’ (p. 27). During this time, Moody
was always conscious that his physical stature and connections with vil-
lains from London would soon enable him to associate with the upper
echelons of the south-east London underworld. Seemingly, Moody
spent time drinking extensively with some hard characters, before being
deemed fit to join the underworld. As former Kray Twins associate
Freddie Foreman puts it: You’ll meet a certain person and you’ll get a
rapport with them, you’ll like them and the best way to get to know that
they’re OK is through the belly of that man. You get drunk with them.
You have a night out and then you see the way they perform and handle
themselves:
if he doesn’t get soppy and start running off at the mouth, or get insulting
to women or in company, and if he can conduct himself with or without a
drink. Then you know he’s a good guy.
(p. 29)
In relation to Moody’s criminality, his involvement in the scrap

trade meant that sooner or later he would encounter the Richardson
brothers. In the upper world, Charlie and Eddie Richardson were run-
ning a company called the Peckford Scrap Metal Limited. However,
in the underworld they were feared as extremely violent criminals who
recruited Moody as a ‘henchman’. The Richardsons were dubbed the
‘Torture Gang’, as they would employ sadistic forms of violent prac-
tice on their victims. This brutal practice of ‘justice’ was carried out in
‘trials’ that were held in rundown warehouses that they called ‘court-
rooms’. In September 1966, aged 25, Moody was indicted with 15 other
defendants including the Richardson brothers, all accused of torture.
Fortunately for Moody, he was found not guilty, but the brothers were
found guilty on many accounts and were imprisoned.
With the Richardsons incarcerated for a lengthy time, ‘Moody was
like a solider without any commanding officer’ (p. 55). The word on the
streets of London during this period was that Moody was up for ‘chal-
lenging’ jobs, which included contract killings. As one retired criminal
put it: ‘We all knew that Jimmy Moody was capable of anything. He’d
proved that with the Richardson’s. So he was offered contract killings
70 M. RAHMAN
of other criminals’ (p. 56). It is speculated that Moody received any-

where between £5000 and £10,000 per hit. His first assignment was kill-
ing Scotch Jack Buggy—an American gangster who was lured into the
Lederer’s Bridge Club, in Mount Street, Mayfair. The club was a regular
stomping ground for Moody during his days with the Richardson’s, and
once inside the club, Buggy was shot twice in the head at point blank
range. Moody’s reputation as a freelance contract killer, who was a pro-
fessional in what he did, earned him respect from crime bosses dotted all
over the UK. In other words:
He’d slip into a city, carry out his ‘assignment’ and be gone before anyone
had even worked out he was there in the first place. The key was that he
wouldn’t be recognised. As such he became, in effect a commuter killer
who could melt back into the Smoke [London] before his crimes had been
discovered.
(p. 77)
Moody’s fearless reputation was recognised by organised crime

groups, namely the London-based Thursday Gang, who used him as an
enforcer for violent robberies during the mid-1970s. Eventually, Moody
was apprehended for a string of armed robberies and while on remand
in HMP Brixton for his part in several armed robberies; Moody escaped
from the prison in the company of Gerard Tuite, a senior member of
the Provisional Irish Republican Army (PIRA) and Stanley Thompson,
who was renowned for having escaped from other prisons in the past.
Thompson, Tuite and Moody tunnelled through the walls of their
respective cells until they were able to drop down into the yard below.
As Tuite remembers, given Moody’s fearsome reputation, he was ‘a man
I need[ed] to get to know’ (p. 139). During his time on the run, Moody
taunted police officers, who were always one step behind. As one detec-
tive explained:
A lot of us wished that Moody would just go away and stop taunting us.
We knew he was around cooking a snoot at us but we also knew we had no
chance of getting to him. I remember one senior detective said he wished
somebody would take Moody out and pull us all out of our misery.
(pp. 167–168)
Quite soon, through his connections with Tuite, Moody was working
with a PIRA internal security unit known as ‘the nutting squad’, who
tortured suspected informers before shooting them in the back of the

head, otherwise known as being awarded the ‘OBE’, or ‘one behind the
ear’ (p. 162). It is claimed that Moody may have killed up to 50 people
in this way and was described as ‘a perfect secret weapon for the IRA’
(p. 162). However, while PIRA members used violence because they
were committed to ‘the cause’ for political and cultural reasons, Moody
simply ‘looked on the Provos as nothing more than another gang of vil-
lains paying him some decent wedge’ (p. 162). Indeed, Moody was con-
nected with several hits that were seemingly ordered by crime bosses that
were rooted in the Irish Republican Army. Many years later, according to
an old face: ‘Moody was a gun for hire and all those killings had his call-
ing card stamped all over them’ (p. 171).
In his later years, Moody’s temperament became unpredictable. After
being on the run for almost a decade, Moody was extremely paranoid
and insecure. By this point, Moody’s status as a premier criminal was
secured. As former criminal Bernie Khan puts it:
We all knew Jimmy was a hitman. Obviously, we didn’t know which people
he’d done. Even before the Chainsaw jobs he was known as a heavy fella. I
would never ask him anything awkward. Villains just don’t do that to each
other. They can volunteer if they want. If I hear things I don’t want to
know I just tell ‘em to stop rabbiting’.
(p. 209)
Despite his volatile and paranoid nature, Moody was heavily connected
to the Irish underworld, and it is alleged that he was the primary hit-
man for Irish criminals if they needed someone to be killed in London.
Moody remained on the run until June 1993, when he fell victim to a hit,
executed in his favourite pub, The Royal, on the edge of Victoria Park,
Hackney. What is clear from the above is that Jimmy Moody was an indi-
vidual who exercised the notion of special liberties (Hall 2012) in search
of a super status in London’s criminal underworld. In the next subsec-
tion, I contrast the crimes of Jimmy Moody to that of Peter O’Toole, a
criminal operative whose interactions in the underworld were ‘glocal’.
Peter O’Toole: The Baby-Faced Assassin

Little is known about the childhood of Peter O’Toole, but from a young
age he was a violent individual who was fully immersed in Birmingham’s
illegal drugs scene. Originally from Frankley, Birmingham, he received
72 M. RAHMAN
his first custodial sentence at the age of 17 for grievous bodily harm after
stabbing a security guard who caught him shoplifting. Three years later
in 1998, at the age of 20, he appeared in court for the same offence.
This time the victim was a 16-year-old, who was left needing 118 stitches
after being savagely attacked at a chip shop in Rubery, Birmingham.
Knowing this time that he would face a lengthy sentence, O’Toole
escaped from court before sentencing could be passed. He vaulted from
the dock at Redditch Magistrates Court, and jumped into a waiting Ford
Montego.
O’Toole fled England, and for the next few years resided in southern
Spain. It was in Spain where John first met O’Toole:
I first met him in the early 2000s. Back then I was doing a lot of close
protection work for some high-profile celebrities. I worked for this firm
that was based in the US, so I’d often look after a lot of hip-hop rappers
when they’d come over for concerts and stuff. Whenever I was off work,
I’d head to Fuengirola. Usually you’d find all the Brits there fucking piss-
ing the locals off and what not. But in the mix, were some heavies from
back home and O’Toole would hang around some of them. In total, I met
Peter three times. He would hang out in bars, and often get involved in
silly brawls. That was his forte.
When asked how O’Toole was as a person, John responded:
He was a nightmare. I was an Intelligence Officer for the Intelligence Unit

back in Northern Ireland. I studied body language for three years. And
when I met O’Toole, after a few drinks I knew he was a right little bastard.
They used to call him ‘baby face’, because he looked fucking eight years
old. I didn’t rate him at all. I can tell you now, all the stabbings and face
slashing that happened in Fuengirola, Benalmadena, and Torremolinos
during the 2000s were mostly done by him. He was doing most of them.
He was a loose cannon, and a loud mouth too. Put it this way, O’Toole
was a right little bastard. That fucker was born simply to raise hell.
The above narrative of O’Toole resonates the temperament of Moody,

who was renowned in his close quarters as an individual who was not
shy to employ irrational forms of violence. Indeed, recent cases of organ-
ised crime firms based in the UK have revealed social connections to
Southern European countries, namely Spain. When asked why this was
the case, Patrick, a journalist provided a multifaceted response:
Well there’s a few instrumental reasons as to why underworld operators

set base in Spain. The obvious one being that law enforcement in Spain,
especially in the remote and southern parts is appalling. They are so behind
with what’s going on, my God it’s incredible. So in essence you have these
criminals running away from law enforcement in England, who are hot on
them, to ones that don’t even know what on earth is going on. Living out
in Spain is a pragmatic approach when it comes to operating as a drugs
baron internationally. If you’re thinking about flooding the streets of
England and Scotland with drugs, and continuing your operations on a
vast scale, you need to remember that this encompasses a global operation,
which southern Spain often plays a transient role in.
Patrick’s analysis of the advantages for criminals residing in south-

ern Spain mirrors theoretical understandings of criminals and organised
crime. His thoughts on criminals fleeing to Spain from England provides
the descriptions of ‘rationality’, that is, for criminals to progressively
move forward their criminal operations, they are continuously required
to weigh up the risks and rewards which are presented to them (Cornish
and Clarke 1986). Moreover, Murphy’s sentiments echo the work of von
Lampe’s (2008) work which argues that ‘continuity’ is one of the charac-
teristics needed to conceptualise organised crime. Additionally, Murphy
offers long-term and target-driven motives of why underworld operators
‘set base’ in Spain:
You also often find that a lot of these top end criminals set up legitimate
businesses in southern Spain, ranging from gyms to real estate. Plus,
there’s that end goal aspect to it too. These criminals come from rough
estates in the UK, and for them to be living in luxurious areas in Spain is
like making it to the promise land.
The above is a glimpse of what Hobbs (2013) has recently charac-

terised as the gangster’s ‘lush life’. Returning to O’Toole, his escape to
Spain allowed him to forge alliances with the Adams family, a powerful
North London notorious organised crime firm who have been dubbed
the ‘modern-day Krays’ (Wells 2005). The Adams family comprises of
three brothers; Terry Adams, Patsy Adams, and Tommy Adams, who
come from a large Irish Catholic family of 11 children. Terry, the eld-
est brother, who is renowned for his ‘genteel persona’, has been widely
referred to as the ‘British Godfather’, and it has been reported that the
three brothers have amassed a fortune estimated at £200 million through
74 M. RAHMAN
a vast racketeering and drug trafficking empire that has been linked to
25 murders (Whittington 2010). It was this connection that made
O’Toole a key suspect for Scott Bradfield’s murder. Bradfield at the time
of his murder was living in southern Spain, and was wanted by Scotland
Yard for the murder of James Gaspa, who died after being shot in the
abdomen with a single handgun bullet in Islington, north London, on
8 May 2000. In October 2001, 17 months after the murder of Gaspa,
Bradfield’s dismembered body was found in two suitcases, which were
found dumped in a rubbish tip in Torremolinos, Costa del Sol, Spain.
Scotland Yard linked Bradfield as a drug dealer who was associ-
ated with the Adams family, and believed that he was killed to keep his
silence, as he was due to be extradited to England. O’Toole, who was
also linked to the Adams family at the same time, was heavily suspected
of committing the murder, but was never formally charged. According to
John, speculations remain of him being the perpetrator:
I know O’Toole wasn’t charged for the murder, but I can tell you now,
there’s a dozen violent and serious crimes that he’s committed in
that Malaga strip and he’s never been called up for it. I remember a time
when this one guy stole a kilo of cocaine from a guy. But the repercus-
sions of that involved O’Toole. I was with him at a bar whereby he was
instructed to send out a message. He tracked down that guy’s sister and
slashed her face to shreds. At the end her face was something out of Zorro.
That’s the kind of person he was, and never afraid to get a blade out and
do a job on someone. One minute he’s drinking and causing nuisance, and
the next he’s involved in a serious incident.
O’Toole was also linked to the February 2002 shooting of Alan

Southern. Alan from Liverpool, England, was a holidaymaker who was
left paralysed after being shot in the neck at a bar in Benalmadena, 5.5
miles southwest from Torremolinos. Detectives have said that O’Toole
had been ordered to leave the bar by the landlord after he began
throwing snooker balls at passers-by, only for him to return armed for
revenge. They believe that he came back with a shotgun and sprayed bul-
lets, which tragically caught Southern in the crossfire (Worden 2012).
O’Toole was put on trial for Alan’s attempted murder, however the case
was thrown out after a key witness failed to identify O’Toole in court,
and all other known witnesses that were present at the bar were either
dead or missing. In court, while denying attempted murder, O’Toole
admitted that he was at the bar on the night of the shooting, but could
not explain as to why he left Spain the day after the shooting (Jones
2012). According to John, it is this type of behaviour that enabled
O’Toole to acquire an ambiguous position in the criminal underworld:
The only reason why he was able to get away with the bar shooting was
because the Spanish authorities are weak, and because someone higher
than O’Toole was looking out for him. But at the end of the day, he was
a guy that was used consistently by bigger fish. He was a loose cannon
that everyone knew who couldn’t be trusted because of his volatile nature.
He’d never be involved in the ‘business side’ of criminal operations. But he
was a guy that you could rely on to do your dirty work. In a weird way, he
was good at it too. Because he’d always go fucking overkill on his victims,
the police would often think the victim was personal to him, and would
often overlook the fact that a hit or whatever you want to call it, was in fact
ordered by someone high above. But at the same time, those high above
would look out for him in case he went AWOL.
Based on the above accounts, there are parallels to chart with Moody
and O’Toole. Both individuals acquired a penchant for violence from a
young age, which they successfully transferred in various underground
settings as a commodity that enabled them to earn the kudos and respect
of established criminal operatives. It is also clear that their role in crimi-
nal networks was the role of an enforcer, whose task is to follow instruc-
tions and employ violence to maintain or advance a criminal enterprise.
Moreover, the violence employed by Moody and namely O’Toole often
extended beyond underworld settings, which reiterates John’s sentiments
that O’Toole was a ‘loose cannon that everyone knew who couldn’t be
trusted because of his volatile nature’.
Returning exclusively to O’Toole, he left Spain the day after the
Benalmadena shooting. He returned to Birmingham, England, unde-
tected for the first time since his escape from Redditch Magistrates Court
in 1998. During his time away, his extended family had found itself at
the centre of a high-profile murder. His uncle, Sean O’Toole, was shot
at point-blank range at PJ’s Bar (now called Reflex), in Birmingham’s
Arcadian Centre, after a £175,000 cannabis deal went wrong. Sean, 34,
was gunned down by narcotics boss Nelson Forest, who blamed him
for betraying a drugs deal that he belonged to (BBC News 1997). Even
though O’Toole was a wanted man by British authorities, he was still
76 M. RAHMAN
active in the criminal underworld. Within months of the Benalmadena

shooting, O’Toole prepared himself for his next hit. On 12 June 2002,
he shot Anthony Moorcroft twice in broad daylight on a canal side in
Brindley Place, Birmingham.
The prosecution’s case alleged that Gary Morgan, an associate of
O’Toole acted with him in the shooting of Moorcroft, who was a known
drug dealer. Moorcroft was shot twice. He had a bullet hole in his chest
and right buttock. Luckily he survived by diving into the canal. When
rescued, he declined to cooperate with the police and refused to give
evidence in trial (R v. O’Toole 2006). There were several eyewitnesses
to the shooting, of which none picked out O’Toole as the gunman in
an identification process. Patrick believes that this ‘botched attack’ on
Moorcroft would have had implications for O’Toole and Gary in the
criminal underworld, and it is for this reason why O’Toole was perhaps
pressurised to execute a hit on Gary:
Put it this way, O’Toole fucked that one up bad. His intentions were fatal,
which involved him blasting Moorcroft and then kicking his body into the
canal. Forensically it would have been a perfect hit if it happened that way,
but unfortunately for O’Toole, Moorcroft survived. Now the problem is,
the issue is still outstanding in the underworld. Questions will be asked,
which means soon everybody connected to O’Toole nationally and inter-
nationally are gonna get fucked. Now it’s all about survival of the fittest
and what’s best for business, and someone has to go. O’Toole must have
felt that even if Moorcroft kept his mouth shut, sooner or later, Morgan
would start speaking like Scott Bradfield, and being a wanted man already,
O’Toole probably felt he no choice but to take Morgan out.
Indeed, Patrick’s viewpoint of Gary’s death can be considered more

plausible than the official account. The police believe that Gary ordered
Moorcroft’s hit, and then did not pay O’Toole, leaving the baby-faced
assassin fuming (Wells 2005). On 3 July 2002, with the help of geta-
way driver Thomas Geohegan, O’Toole lured his once friend and crim-
inal associate Gary Morgan to the car park of the Aston Hall Hotel,
Birmingham. He was shot twice in the head while sitting in his car.
A .38 calibre pistol had been used. There were no witnesses to the
shooting and no CCTV evidence. It has been alleged by the prosecu-
tion that O’Toole received £2900 to carry out the hit, which was com-
missioned by a drug lord whose operations extend beyond the Midlands
(R v. O’Toole 2006). Once arrested, O’Toole was charged for the

attempted murder of Anthony Moorcroft and the murder of Gary
Morgan. He was found guilty on both counts, and the prosecution heav-
ily relied upon cell site and the testimony of Gary’s wife. O’Toole is cur-
rently serving life in HMP Frankland.
According to Wells (2005), a murder squad detective who inves-
tigated Gary’s murder stated that O’Toole was more dangerous
than any member of Birmingham’s feared gangs, and concluded
(Figs. 3.1 and 3.2):
He was clearly a very dangerous individual, based on the fact he pulled out
a gun and shot a man in the back after walking around with him for half
an hour and shot another man in the head twice. He got mixed up with
people involved in criminality while on the run from this country. The only
way we can protect the public from someone like that is to put them in
prison for a very long time.
This subsection has revealed how O’Toole’s criminality extended

beyond the West Midlands because of the hits that he was either
accused of or involved in. However, little is known about his association
Fig. 3.1 Aerial view of the location of the shooting of Gary Morgan

78 M. RAHMAN
Fig. 3.2 The car park of Aston Hall Hotel, Aston, and Birmingham. The
picture was taken in 2016 during fieldwork
with Robert Dawes, a Nottingham-based drugs kingpin. It is through

this case, I draw attention to the concept of ‘glocal’ organised crime.
The ‘Glocal’ Underworld

Based on the above, it can be said that O’Toole’s role in the criminal
underworld was ‘glocal’. This means that a criminal who is part of an
organised crime group has interactions that are beyond fixed terrain. The
glocal viewpoint of organised crime considers how the advent of globali-
sation has increased the individuality and viability as a context for a dis-
tinctive social order (Roberston 1992). Moreover, Pakulski and Waters
(1996, p. 110) note that ‘the dissolution of the traditional working class
milieu with its particular domestic arrangements, organisation of leisure
time, neighbourhood patterns and oral networks’, has led to the disso-
lution of ‘traditional’ forms of organised crime which were heavily reli-
ant upon working class milieus, and upon traditional family structures.
The London-based Richardson gang is a prime example of how organ-
ised crime was once localised, and was inherited and adapted from the
indigenous socioeconomic sphere (Block 1991). Indeed, the changes in

the criminal market have influenced the glocal nature of criminal prac-
tice, as drug networks for instance, constitute ‘continuous paths that lead
from the local to the global’ (Latour 1993, p. 117), unlike armed rob-
beries that are quite often local and static. This viewpoint is also echoed
by Murphy, who was a prolific bank robber during the 1970s:
Organised crime in my day was just your armed robberies on banks and
the odd one at the bookies. No one got hurt and no one was killed.
Innocent public or bystanders would never get hurt. These days you’ve got
feral little bastard around about your age waving around shotguns like a
flag and fucking killing each other over drug disputes and drug deals. I
see them every day, and sometimes I feel like getting a chainsaw a fucking
slicing their hands off. They’re getting these drugs from Europe and far
beyond, and feeding all these drugs to people over here, and it ain’t right.
With the above in mind, the new entrepreneurial arena of organised

crime markets are supportive of networks that function as fertile terrain
for a range of entrepreneurial options, both licit and illicit. As Potter
(1994, p. 12) notes, these networks are ‘…flexible adaptive networks
that readily expand and contract to deal with the uncertainties of the
criminal enterprise’. Here, it should be noted that the most what sep-
arates O’Toole from Moody is his glocal position in organised crime.
While it has been widely established that O’Toole was affiliated with the
Adams family during his time in Spain, the primary investigation into this
case has revealed that O’Toole was also connected to an international
drugs ring that was headed by a much bigger and relatively unknown
operator called Robert Dawes.
Similarly, to O’Toole, little is known about Dawes’ early years.
Originally from Sutton-in-Ashford, East Midlands, England, Dawes
started his career in organised crime by committing sophisticated acts of
fraud in the early 1990s. One of his associates during the 2000s, who
will be referred as ‘James’, provides a brief overview of his relationship
with Dawes and his criminal activities:
I’ve known Robert Dawes since the late 90s through another chap who
I was in prison with. I can tell you that Robert Dawes is one of the most
intelligent blokes you’ll ever meet. If you want to know one person that’s
80 M. RAHMAN
connected illegally as much as legally, it’s Robert. He was doing things

in the early 90s that people are only picking up now. He started off in
fraud, and that’s pretty much where he got his finances to go into the
drugs trade. The thing with Robert was, he was never afraid to graft. What
I mean is he wasn’t afraid to go and make contacts and connections in
different countries. That’s what helped him get into the drugs trade on
a massive scale. He was a businessman. He made businessman like deals.
I got myself into a sticky situation once, and he helped me out to the
extent I’ll always be indebted, you know. I did a brief stint of bird [prison],
and while he was in Spain he sent over money to my family to see them
through.
Equally to the Adams family and O’Toole, Dawes resided in

Benalmadena, Costa del Sol, Spain. According to James, Dawes loathed
O’Toole, but used his services as an enforcer on a few occasions:
Robert couldn’t stand O’Toole. He considered him a liability, but used

him a few times. I’ve been told that O’Toole has often associated himself
with being a person in Robert’s inner circle. That is a complete lie. Robert
would never put himself in such a position because he’s too clever to have
a ticking time bomb like O’Toole in his close quarters. But for Robert he
did come in handy a few times, and he’d use him if he ever wanted to get a
violent message across to someone.
Known as ‘The General’, Dawes has been connected to transnational

underworld murders. According to press reports, the British authorities
regard Dawes a ‘person of interest’ linked to the October 2002 assassina-
tion of Nottinghamshire businessman David Draycott. Moreover, Dawes
has been considered the man who ordered the November 2002 murder
of Dutch school teacher Gerrard Meesters. Gerrard was killed by Dawes’s
foot soldier Daniel Sowerby, after his sister Janette Sowerby and her
friend Madeleine Brussen stole a haul of drugs that belonged to Dawes.
Sowerby is currently serving life in an Amsterdam prison, and refused to
say in court who ordered him to commit the hit (Fellstrom 2014).
In 2015, Dawes was arrested by Spanish authorities after being
linked to a transnational drugs operation. French authorities have since
charged Dawes after they seized 1.3 tonnes of cocaine that arrived at
Paris’ Charles De Gaulle airport. The intended destination for the drugs
was Nottingham, where according to law enforcement it would then be
distributed across England and Scotland. Dawes is currently in French

custody awaiting a trial date, and while James refuses to discuss the case,
he said the following when asked how Dawes has managed to forge
criminal career estimated to be worth a 9-figure sum:
You have to remember, Dawes isn’t your typical modern day crime lord
who spends hundreds and thousands on cars, watches, jewelry and what
not. I remember being out with him once, and he made me pay for my
own coffee because he was so vigilant about whether he was being
watched. This is a guy who would wear hoodies and joggers, who looked
like a normal guy from the estate, but made his criminal operations work
like a legitimate business. Because of that, it’s probably the reason why he’s
been able to invest his money in legitimate companies all over the world.
He has connections in Spain, Holland, Dubai, Malta, and there’s even
talks of him having direct connections to the President of Afghanistan.
The above confirms Bauman’s (1992, p. 52) thoughts of how contem-

porary serious crimes are the ‘arch enemy of uniformity’. It was Dawes’s
initial ‘connectedness’ approach that has allowed him to operate in a
transnational capacity (Le 2012). Various sources consider criminal net-
works to be highly adaptable and fluid networks comprised of individu-
als with various skills and characteristics, who are recruited for complex
assignments. In addition, Le (2012) notes that the pooling of resources,
including individual skills, contacts, and knowledge, is a significant
advantage when undertaking trafficking activities within a criminal net-
work. Of note, members of sophisticated criminal networks organise
themselves around ongoing criminal enterprises, thus they may not nec-
essarily be connected by social or ethnic ties (UNODC 2002). Indeed,
this was the case for Dawes, who is reported to have reached out to the
Medellin Cartel of Columbia, and the Italian Mafia for his drugs opera-
tions. With this in mind, the UNODC (2002) suggests that the main-
tenance of criminal networks is heavily dependent on personal ties and
loyalties between participants and to the criminal enterprise. As James
puts forward, this for Dawes roots back to local, social, and ethnic ties:
At the end of the day, Robert could now be in prison for life, if for exam-
ple [Daniel] Sowerby was to turn around and say: “yeah he gave the
green light for that Dutchman’s hit”. Even Peter O’Toole for example;
although he’s one mad bastard, and even though he wasn’t involved much
82 M. RAHMAN
with Robert, he still could have said quite a bit about Robert when he
got arrested by the Spanish [authorities]. Robert Dawes, like O’Toole, like
the Adams family and the rest are from a run-down housing estates. So,
Dawes, regardless of his criminal accomplishments would naturally be loyal
to his own, and in return he would have got back respect. Don’t forget, he
didn’t just wake up one day and become an international drugs kingpin.
In his early days, would have gravitated and worked with individuals from
similar cultural and family backgrounds. He would have associated him-
self with individuals from his secondary school, and from pubs and gyms.
I know this because some of his nearest and dearest are lads the he’s been
friends with since his school days. It would have been these kinds of people
that were pretty much the springboard of his successes and current situa-
tion, you know.
Interestingly, James refers to public houses as a hub for facili-

tating criminal networks, and seemingly this was also the case for
Jimmy Moody during his stint in organised crime. This further reiter-
ates Winlow’s (2001) assertion of how public houses act as a hub that
strengthens working-class customs, of which in some cases includes the
development of criminal identities. Based on primary data, it can be
said while O’Toole by his own rights was a glocal criminal, albeit being
on the periphery when it came to Dawes’s criminal operations. Both
O’Toole and Dawes share the commonality of operating within multi-
ple, interwoven illicit networks that comprise certain spatial, social, and
ethnic ties, which invariably allows them not to limit themselves to the
parameters of a specific neighbourhood or locale.
Discussion
Based on the primary and secondary data in relation to Moody and
O’Toole, there are some parallels to consider. In regard to functional-
ity, both hitmen engaged themselves in violence from a young age.
The violent crimes that they committed before affiliating with organ-
ised crime syndicates was achieved through physical coercion, which
often had the hallmarks of power and dominance. As Hearn (1998,
pp. 35–36) puts it, ‘violence is a means of enforcing power and control,
but it is also power and control in itself’. It was this power and dom-
inance that allowed Moody and O’Toole to develop criminal reputa-
tions that appealed to members of the underworld. While both men are
from different generations, they both experienced similar socialisation
experiences, which in hindsight became pivotal for them to undertake

‘special liberties’, which according to Hall and Winlow (2015) means
that these individuals would feel a sense of entitlement when committing
harm in order to advance their instrumental or expressive desires.
Both Moody and O’Toole have been known to frequent pubs and
bars, a custom that has often been associated with men from work-
ing-class cultures (Winlow 2001). While the pub has been considered a
welcoming escape from the problems of everyday life (Cavan 1966; Gill
1977), the link between alcohol and men’s aggression is well established
(Hobbs et al. 2005; Winlow and Hall 2006), which seemingly is also
embraced and accepted by criminals themselves. Establishing whether
a man could ‘conduct himself with or without drink’ was essential for
serious criminals like Freddie Foreman. For instance, in the case of
Moody, it can be said that the large consumption of alcohol was Freddie
Foreman’s litmus test which Moody passed, and one that determined he
could ‘perform’ and ‘handle’ himself when drunk and vulnerable, and
invariably this allowed Moody to enter the armed robbery scene. Pubs
during the era of localised organised crime can be viewed as recruitment
hubs that validated and forged working relationships.
In the case of O’Toole, his socialisation experiences in drink ven-
ues was pragmatic. It can be suggested that the bars which O’Toole
‘often got involved in silly brawls’ in were in the Malaga strip that
catered for tourists who sought leisure. With O’Toole, his position with
British organised crime groups operating in Spain was on the periph-
ery. However, it can be assumed, his role as a commodifier of death in
the criminal underworld, meant that ‘someone higher than O’Toole
was [always] looking out for him’. Having said that, O’Toole was never
involved in the ‘business side’ of transnational organised crime oper-
ations. This is perhaps due to his erratic and irrational temperament,
which may have been perceived by someone like Robert Dawes as an
individual who is bad for business (Hobbs 1988). As such, there was a
role for O’Toole in the division of labour. This line of thought resonates
with the work of Shaw and Skywalker (2016, p. 389), who see restric-
tions to the growth of organised syndicate hitman, and state, ‘they are
well paid to maintain loyalty, but do not constitute the core of the gang.
This suggests that a hammerman is ultimately expendable’. Additionally,
in O’Toole’s case, ‘those high above would look out for him in case he
went AWOL’, which depicts that the superstructure of support from a
criminal syndicate seems to be essential for the longevity of a hitman.
84 M. RAHMAN
O’Toole’s glocal role as a hitman meant that his support mechanisms

extended beyond national borders. His affiliation with glocal criminal
syndicates like Robert Dawes, as little as it may be, suggests that g local
hitmen like O’Toole are linked to licit businesses. This sketches the
paradox of his ambiguous and tenacious role in the underworld. While
O’Toole’s role in the criminal underworld is restricted, he is still likely to
have a wider set of contacts with licit businesses than a low-level organ-
ised crime member.
Concluding Discussion
This chapter depicts how the need for Peter O’Toole to achieve, and
appear to be in possession of a form of violent masculinity in the under-
world, was always crucial for his criminal status (Ellis 2016). His fracas
in a bar, which resulted to an innocent man being shot dead illustrates
O’Toole’s prerequisite of exerting dominance and power over others
when confronted and when in need to defend his ‘manhood’ (Fraser
2015; Ellis 2016). As Kimmel (1996, p. 25) states:
[H]egemonic definition of manhood is a man in power, a man with power,

and a man of power. We equate manhood with being strong, successful,
capable, reliable, in control.
Indeed, being strong, successful, capable, reliable, and in control

enabled Moody and O’Toole to enter the contract murder scene. They
became men who could, by the virtue and rarity of their specialism,
establish themselves in a rarified niche within the criminal labour mar-
ket (Hobbs 1995). Based on the findings, both Moody and O’Toole
dealt with the ambivalence of being ‘inside-outsiders’ when operating
as hitmen on behalf of criminal syndicates. While Moody had estab-
lished strong links with the IRA during his time on remand, there are no
established records of him travelling to Ireland. By default, and design,
it would have been difficult for Moody to be associated with the IRA
due to his English heritage. However, he was still able to be as effective
on the periphery as a perfect secret weapon for the IRA by executing
hits in England that were ordered by crime bosses (Clarkson 2003). As
one enforcer stated: ‘Moody was a gun for hire and all those killings had
his calling card stamped all over them’ (Clarkson 2003, p. 171). Shaw
and Skywalker (2016, p. 389) point out that operating as a hitman on
behalf of a criminal syndicate requires ‘discipline and the ability to con-

trol fear, and support from gang structures’. While this was not clarified
by Clarkson (2003), it can be assumed that Moody was supported by the
IRA financially and when it came to receiving firearms for hits.
O’Toole’s crimes, and the various primary accounts about him in
this investigation would indicate that he was a man who always aimed
to maintain a violent presentation of self. In sum, as O’Toole was often
restricted from entering the higher echelons of organised crime; for him,
the presentation of toughness became the production of street capital,
a commodity that he used to distinguish himself in the criminal under-
world. In the next chapter, I continue to place the spotlight on contract
killings by examining the murder of Richard Deakin.
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grilled-over-Spanish-murders. Last accessed 22 May 2019.
CHAPTER 4
Drugs, Guns, and Organised Crime: A Case

Study of the Journeyman Hitman
Ain’t no one gonna talk. It’s like us – you’re using me for your research, but you
know what will happen to you if you reveal who I am. I’ll destroy you.
—Michael
Abstract  This chapter explores the 2010 assassination of Richard

Deakin that was executed by David Harrison in Chasetown, West
Midlands. The case study uses this murder to consider those contract
killings which have been described as the work of ‘Journeymen’ hitmen
(MacIntyre et al. in The Howard Journal of Criminal Justice 53: 325–
340, 2014). In the previous chapter, I stated that there has been little
academic research about ‘hitmen’ and the phenomenon of ‘contract kill-
ing’, with Schlesinger (Journal of Forensic Science 46: 295, 2001) forced
to describe this form of murder as a ‘poorly understood type of homi-
cide’. In this chapter, the tragic murder of Richard is used to reflect on
criminal interactions in organised crime within the West Midlands and
the nexus that organised crime has with fatal violence.
Keywords  Case study · Contract killing · David Harrison · Drugs ·

Entrepreneurship · Guns · Hitman/Hitmen · History · Homicide ·
Interviews · John Anslow · Journeyman · Murder · Narratives ·
Nexis · Organised crime · Richard Deakin · Typology · Violence ·
West Midlands

90 M. RAHMAN
Approach to the Case

I first came across this case in 2013 when I was working as Research
Assistant with several academics on British contract killings. As such, I
decided to visit the crime scene to make sense of space, as murders of
this kind are few and far between in Chasetown. Soon after, I conducted
a Nexis search, and the search terms ‘Richard Deakin’ ‘David Harrison’,
‘Murder’, and ‘Hitmen’, produced 123 newspaper articles. A further
search specifically about John Anslow—a drug kingpin—and the nephew
of David Harrison, produced over 300 articles. The relevance of inves-
tigating Anslow will be discussed shortly. All of these articles were then
analysed and coded into ‘individuals’ and ‘offences’ so as to familiarise
with what was known about the hit. Two additional research visits to the
site of the murder was undertaken, so as to familiarise with the geog-
raphy and pragmatics of the hit. Interviews were conducted with police
officers who worked on the case, as well as a local journalist who wrote
about the murder. Access with one of the offenders who sprung Anslow
out of prison in January 2012 was achieved. The individual provided two
brief interviews about his role in the prison van escape. In addition, I
attended the court proceedings of John Anslow in 2014. I decided that
no contact should be made to any member of Richard’s family, although
the family liaison officer attached to the case was informed about the
research.
Like any limited qualitative sample, it is accepted that for several rea-
sons using secondary sources and interviewees can only take the research
so far in building the picture that is endeavoured to be presented. As
discussed, most research about illegal trading networks and the violence
associated with deviant entrepreneurial culture in post-industrial Britain
is unashamedly ethnographic. Much of this research has been undertaken
by younger academics who are often fortunate to already have access
to the subcultures which they seek to analyse (Winlow 2001; Williams
and Treadwell 2008; Treadwell 2012, 2013; Fraser 2015; Ellis 2016).
Winlow (2001, p. 14), for instance, in building his ethnography of pro-
fessional criminality in his native Sunderland, describes how ‘acquaint-
ances were all-important’, to the extent that he became aware of how
insular the world that he wanted to describe was, as ‘everyone seemed to
know everyone else, or, at least, there existed some link based on friend-
ship and acquaintance’. Such acquaintances were crucial in facilitating his
research. Unfortunately for this case, these connections or acquaintances
4 DRUGS, GUNS, AND ORGANISED CRIME … 91
were limited, and perhaps this was why my interest in this case seemed
to prompt anxiety—sometimes hostility—on almost every occasion when
spoken with interviewees, whether from the police, or from individuals
classed as informants. As noted, there is the added and considerable diffi-
culty of wanting to discuss ‘hits’ and ‘hitmen’, and therefore attempting
to enter a criminal world which has largely avoided academic scrutiny. In
short, there was a reluctance to discuss this hit, especially when explained
that the case will be researched within the context of organised crime
within the West Midlands. However, despite this reluctance and the lim-
itations of sources, it is still possible to offer a contribution to the grow-
ing literature about how violence is changing in response to growth and
change in the criminal marketplace and a corresponding expansion of
criminal opportunities.
The Murder of Richard Deakin

In trying to build a further understanding of the modus operandi of the
Journeyman hitman, this chapter presents a case study of the murder of
Richard Deakin. A brief description of that murder is presented here,
before discussing the hit in greater depth. On 5 July 2010, Richard, a
27-year-old skip hire business owner, was shot twice at point-blank
range by David Harrison as he slept in his home in Chasetown, England
(McCarthy 2012a). Harrison, who was 61 years old at the time of mur-
der—the oldest ‘hitman’ uncovered by MacIntyre et al. (2014)—had
an accomplice, Darryl Dickens, who acted as his getaway driver. Both
Harrison and Dickens lived approximately 20 miles from the site of
the hit, in Wolverhampton, England, and it was local intelligence pro-
vided by a former criminal accomplice of Harrison that led to his even-
tual arrest. Harrison denied being involved in the murder, even though
the police recovered £26,000 in cash from his second home in Kent,
England, which was believed to have been his payment for carrying out
the hit (The Guardian 2012). To date, the contractor of the hit remains
unidentified.
A third man, John Anslow, was also charged and subsequently tried in
2014 for having been involved in Richard’s murder, after escaping from
the prison van that was carrying him from HMP Hewell to his appear-
ance at Stafford Crown Court in January 2012. Anslow is Harrison’s
nephew. He was found not guilty of this murder charge in March 2014
at Woolwich Crown Court. Two others were also arrested and charged
92 M. RAHMAN
for the murder of Richard—Leigh Astbury and Andrew Hill—although

these charges were later dropped. Of note, Leigh Astbury was Richard’s
brother-in-law at the time of the murder. Astbury is currently serving a
ten-year prison sentence for being part of a gang who hijacked some 40
lorries in the West Midlands, with loads totaling £6 million (Express &
Star 2011). Anslow, while found not guilty of murder, remains in prison
serving a lengthy sentence for drugs offences.
As the above details suggest, the choice to consider this murder as a
case study is because it offers rich opportunities to further describe the
traits of a Journeyman hitman, as well as enabling the understanding
of the broader workings of organised crime within the West Midlands.
This was an issue commented upon at the time of the murder, with one
local newspaper describing the hit as having ‘ripped open to public gaze
the stinking underbelly of organised crime on our doorstep’ (Lockley
2012a). In particular, the case reveals levels of complexity that are absent
in other hits identified by MacIntyre et al. (2014), but seems to amplify
their suggestion that Journeyman hitmen are often associated with the
enabling culture of organised crime.
So too, this case will help better understand how Journeyman hitmen
might operate, and by placing this murder into the broader context of
organised crime within the West Midlands, the case contributes to the
ongoing debate about the relationship between lethal violence and illegal
trading networks. In this respect, we might also see hitmen as an exten-
sion of Hall’s (2012, p. 204) criminal undertakers who ‘get things done
regardless of the harm inflicted on others’, or as badfellas, who use crime
and violence as ‘careers in themselves’ (Winlow 2001, p. 66).
Organised Crime, Local Geography, Local History

The descriptions ‘organised crime’ and ‘illegal trading networks’ have
already been used within this case, and will often be used interchange-
ably. As mentioned in the literary chapter of this book, there are ongo-
ing scholarly debates about what is actually meant by the description
‘organised’ in the term ‘organised crime’ and how there are various ways
of answering this question, including the suggestion that this so-called
organisation is intermittent, flexible, and weak, rather than hierarchical
and stable (Coles 2001; Van Duyne 1996; Williams 2001; Naylor 2004).
In this chapter, there will be no engagement in this debate, although it is
accepted that it is often difficult to conclude authoritatively about these
matters given the blurred and slippery world of organised crime and the
violence that accompanies it, or at least provides an enabling context.
Nonetheless, the approach throughout this book has been to accept that
organised crime—covering a wide range of activities in different crime
sectors—is not an ‘illusion’, and that ‘people really do get murdered’
(Levi 2007, p. 713).
Developing from what was discussed in regard to history in Chapter 2,
it should be acknowledged that these local, regional, and national illicit
networks are created by geography and by historical patterns of settle-
ment, industry, employment, opportunity, and crime. So too, a brief
description of Chasetown is therefore required. Known previously as
Cannock Chase, due to its proximity to a nearby forest, the village of
Chasetown is in Staffordshire, England. After becoming a coal mining
village in the mid-nineteenth century, the settlement of miners began
around Rugeley Road, which in 1881 was renamed as ‘High Street’. The
High Street runs north towards Chase Terrace and is positioned in the
heart of Chasetown, which is approximately 900 yards from the murder
site. Since the 1960s, following the closure of the last mine, there has
been extensive residential development around Chasetown and neigh-
bouring Chase Terrace, along with some industrial growth. The east and
north-west parts remain scenic and agricultural, and the area more gen-
erally can be characterised as desirable and suburban. With an area size of
5.41 square miles, Chasetown is in the district of Lichfield, which has a
population of 32,219, and is conveniently situated near the M6 motor-
way (ONS 2013). This proximity to the motorway (and to the vehi-
cles which use it) provides accessibility to neighbouring vicinities such
as: Walsall; Wolverhampton; West Bromwich; and central Birmingham.
There is no doubt that Harrison and Dickens used the M6 motorway
as their route into and out of Chasetown on the day of Richard’s mur-
der. Indeed, Marco draws towards the importance of geography when it
comes to the supply and distribution of drugs:
Everything runs through Birmingham. Even if it doesn’t run through it,

Birmingham is still somewhat to connected to it, you get me? If the boys
in London want to do business with the boys in Manchester or Liverpool,
then they need to come through Birmingham. There’s been times where
I’ve got myself involved in deals with out of city crews only because it can
convenient in terms of transport and location. I didn’t necessarily trust
them, but trust would often be overruled by the chance of making some
good money and convenience.
94 M. RAHMAN
Finally, by way of introduction, situating the murder of Richard

as the second of three incidents, all of which is believed to be con-
nected to each other in one way or another, we are beginning to ten-
tatively sketch the details of organised crime in the West Midlands. The
connections between these incidents are interpersonal, historical, or
based on business relationships, but they also serve to reveal the flexi-
ble, dynamic, and often chaotic nature of crime opportunities and the
networks that can spring up to make these opportunities become via-
ble. However, throughout, the focus remains to better understand
the hit itself, and therefore contributing towards the development of
MacIntyre et al.’s (2014) hitman typology. Therefore, it is of interest
to establish how the hit might have been planned and carried out, as
well as uncovering how Harrison and Dickens were eventually brought
to justice.
Investigation Results
I have sketched above the basic details of Richard’s murder and the fact
that this was uniformly described and reported upon as being a ‘hit’.
In other words, following Calhoun (2002), Harrison and Dickens had
accepted an order to kill another human being from someone who is
not publicly acknowledged as a legitimate authority regarding just kill-
ing. Here again are echoes of Hall’s (2012) criminal undertaker—an
individual who values business more than human life. Indeed, Hall sug-
gests that this type of criminal undertaker has been normalised through-
out capitalist history, so that the hitman could be viewed as merely an
individualised and extreme practice of a more general assumption. It was
impossible to determine from the newspaper accounts who might have
contracted the hit, although the price for carrying out this murder would
appear to have been £26,000, which is significantly higher than the aver-
age values of hits uncovered by both Cameron (2013) and MacIntyre
et al. (2014). This higher than average cost may be an indication of
either the complexity and danger of the hit to Harrison and Dickens,
or of the ‘value’ to the contractor in having Richard murdered. Several
newspapers speculated that the hit was the result of ‘skip wars’. In other
words, Richard, who owned a skip hire company called ‘On Time Skip’,
was thought to have fallen foul of a rival skip hire company. An inform-
ant, identified as Michael also suggested that Richard knew that he was a
potential target for harm, and therefore attempted to increase his safety
with the installation of multiple CCTV cameras, which covered the

boundaries of his family home:
He knew it was coming and did things to prevent it, but obviously
didn’t do enough. From what I know, his skip place got burnt down
a few weeks or like a month before he got shot. And after he died I also
heard things like his [family] home was up for sale before he got killed, so
for me that’s saying he knew he was a target and he knew he had to disap-
pear ASAP!
For this case, Michael provided rich and in-depth narratives. My

research encounters with Michael was mediated by a gatekeeper. After
months of negotiation, I conducted two face to face interviews in an
undisclosed locale that was chosen by Michael. Before meeting him, I
was made aware that he had been imprisoned several times for minor
offences, and spent a lengthy period in a Category A prison for several
armed robberies. Also, before my research encounters with him, he
requested to see my driving licence. In addition, I was notified by my
gatekeeper that he had extensive knowledge about Birmingham’s ille-
gal gun trade. As I mentioned in Chapter 1, the city of Birmingham
currently holds the unwanted tag—‘gun capital’ of England and Wales
(Gall 2018). In conjunction with the fact that England and Wales have
some of the strictest gun control laws in the world, as well as the cases
described in this book which involve the fatal use of firearms, I was
intrigued to find out the accessibility of firearms in the underworld:
MR: This country prides itself when it comes to having some of the tight-
est gun control laws in the world. What do you make of that?
Michael: Well that’s a load of bullshit isn’t it? Guns may not be used much,
but that doesn’t mean that we don’t have enough of them. I can make
one call right now and I’d have a gun in front of you within 15 min-
utes. One call, that’s all it’ll take.
MR: I see. What a kind would it be? Would it be new or used?
Michael: It’d be most likely used, but clean as in not on police radar. To
get access to something squeaky clean may take me a little longer.
Maybe a few hours or something like that. But, yeah I can make one
call to a lad of mine and he’d ask no questions. It’d be here.
MR: It appears that you’d have to be well connected, like yourself, to get
access to a gun so quick. Except using it on someone, what is the pur-
pose of an individual having access to a gun in the underworld?
96 M. RAHMAN
Michael: What do you mean, like carrying or being in close distance to a

gun?
MR: Both.
Michael: Well it depends. Some guys like me that are connected can get
hold of a piece, but they don’t really have any reason to have one.
Others won’t necessarily need one, but will have it close to them just
in case. They’re the stupid ones that you hear about whose place gets
raided for drugs and then the police end up finding a gun. And then
obviously, you got those that will want one to inflict harm. It varies, but
it’s all about who you know. If you’re trusted and known by many, it
ain’t no big deal. You’ll trust them to deliver and they’ll trust you not
to get them in trouble.
The above depicts a narrative of the underexposed nature of access to

illegal firearms. While it is problematic to generalise the nature of guns in
the underworld based on one account, Michael’s ability to use his social
capital as a resource that facilitates the access to a gun is quite concern-
ing. He draws attention to the concept of ‘trust’, a quality that is recip-
rocal in interpersonal relationships, and one that clearly acts as a broker
when it comes to being in possession of a firearm, which in England and
Wales carries a maximum imprisonment of 10 years.
Returning to the case, the hit itself was organised and well planned.
On Monday 5 July 2010 at 0830 hours, Harrison entered Richard’s
detached home through an unlocked back door immediately after his
fiancée Megan had left for the morning school run with their two daugh-
ters. Armed with a sawn-off shotgun and wearing a balaclava, Harrison
walked into Richard’s bedroom and shot him twice—once in the chest
and then in the leg. Conscious of not wanting to leave forensic evidence
behind at the crime scene, Harrison wore a pair of blue, surgical gloves.
This was later confirmed by a witness who saw the gunman emerging
from Richard’s home sporting blue surgical gloves (Lockley 2012a)
(Figs. 4.1 and 4.2).
Meanwhile Dickens waited in the getaway vehicle, which was soon
abandoned and subsequently identified as a stolen, black, Vauxhall Corsa.
It was later revealed that, minutes before the killing, Richard’s fiancée
had seen the Corsa drive past the house as she was putting her daugh-
ters into the family car to take them to school (Express & Star 2012a).
I believe that this might also be evidence of the planned and premedi-
tated nature of the hit, given that the time to commit the murder would
have been small. The fact that Harrison waited until Richard was alone
Fig. 4.1 David Harrison entered Richard Deakin’s home through the black
gate. The picture was taken from Meadway Street in 2015 during fieldwork
Fig. 4.2 Aerial view of the location of the shooting of Richard Deakin

98 M. RAHMAN
might indicate that he did not want to have to involve his fiancée or their
two children, or that he was aware that his target would have been at
his most vulnerable while alone and asleep. The issue of vulnerability is
emphasised by Michael who said:
He had no fucking chance. The man [David Harrison] went in and blew
Richard to bits. But he knew what he doing, because that kind of thing
ain’t easy, you get me. He even used a swan-off, which I personally would
have avoided because it can get messy with them.
Indeed, Harrison pulled off the assassination successfully without leav-

ing any forensic evidence behind at the crime scene. The police therefore
relied on the grainy CCTV footage captured on cameras, which Richard
had installed at his home and which captured a man entering through
the garden gate. Initially the police withheld these pictures but they were
subsequently aired on the popular BBC TV show Crimewatch. A former
criminal associate of Harrison—Alan Cash—identified Harrison as the indi-
vidual in the footage shown on the programme because, it was claimed, of
Harrison’s distinctive swagger, although there is no evidence as to why he
offered this information. Alan is now in a witness protection scheme.
Along with Alan’s testimony, a number of other evidential discover-
ies after Harrison had been identified led to his eventual conviction. For
example, once arrested, the police discovered: the payment for the hit;
newspaper cuttings about the murder; facial disguises; and blue surgical
gloves identical to those used in the hit. Cell site analysis of Harrison’s
mobile phone also confirmed that he was at, or near, the scene on three
mornings prior to the hit. According to detectives he was ‘casing’ the
crime scene. This is also indicative of the levels of organisation and
planning within the murder. As for Dickens, he was later identified by
Richard’s partner in an identity parade held by the police almost a year
after the hit had taken place. The motive and the contractor of the hit
have still to be definitively identified although Richard’s mother Carol
has vowed that she ‘won’t rest until the Mr Big who paid for her son’s
execution by sawn-off shotgun is caged’ (Stacey 2014). Thus far, the
details provided about the hit resonates the ‘Journeyman’ definition
provided by MacIntyre et al. (2014). Indeed, Harrison was ‘capable’ of
committing the ‘hit’, as he once proposed to Cash to be his driver for
a hit he wanted to execute on a man called Michael Reegan (Express &
Star 2012b). Moreover, he was also ‘experienced’ and ‘reliable’ in fire-
arms use, as it was previously reported that Harrison would often use
a garage inspection pit to test out various weaponries (Lockley 2012a).

Ultimately, however, Harrison was not an ‘exceptional performer’, as he
was unable to ‘cover his tracks’ according to Michael, who adds:
Like most cons, he got carried away and didn’t do the job properly. He
was so concentrated on killing the man that he forgot the basics. I know
for a fact if you’re going for a house, whether it be a theft, robbery or even
this, you’d ‘case’ the scene. Harrison must have done that, and must have
known the CCTV’s were there, but still forgot to leave the house with the
CCTV hard drive. Madness, absolute madness.
Two Other Incidents

There are two other incidents which I believe can be related to this
hit. The first incident is connected through intra-familial relationships
and the second by the murder itself. The first incident involves a series
of armed robberies the West Midlands. These armed robberies were
committed by a gang of ten men who targeted lorries carrying copper,
bronze, and nickel. Gang members, often wearing fluorescent jackets,
would tap on the window of the lorry driver who had parked up for the
night, supposedly to warn them that the curtains on the sides of their
vehicles had been slashed. The driver would then exit his cab to inves-
tigate, which allowed the gang to attack the driver, steal the load and
then dump the lorry. Many of the lorries were subsequently found in
Willenhall (10 miles south of Chasetown) or Shenstone (5 miles east of
Chasetown). In total, some 40 lorries were robbed with the total value
of the goods stolen estimated to have been £6 million.
One such robbery involved Dennis Clarke of Middlesborough, who
was dragged out of his vehicle by four masked men, after parking his
lorry at an overnight stop in Pope Street, Smethwick (15 miles south of
Chasetown). The men were armed with hammers and wrenches, who
bundled Dennis into the boot of a car before dumping him some twenty
minutes away, after stealing his load of nickel ingots valued at £200,000
(Express & Star 2011).
Two members of this ten men gang were subsequently jailed—Peter
Saunders (37) and Leigh Astbury (29). At the time of his imprisonment
in May 2010, just under two months prior to the hit, Astbury was in fact
Richard’s brother-in-law, having married Marie Deakin. Marie Deakin,
Richard’s sister, also admitted to perverting the course of justice by dis-
posing of some of the property stolen in these robberies. Leigh Astbury
100 M. RAHMAN
was sentenced to ten years in jail and was later charged with being part
of the hit conducted on his former brother-in-law. This charge was
subsequently dropped, although it has also been reported that Marie
later divorced Astbury (Lockley 2012b). The second incident involves
Anslow’s escape in January 2012 from the prison van that was taking
him from HMP Hewell in Redditch, Worcestershire, to Stafford Crown
Court, where he was also facing charges of having murdered Richard.
The prison van was ambushed by a three-man gang wearing balaclavas
and wielding sledgehammers, just after it had left the prison. The win-
dows of the van were smashed and the van driver was hit in the face.
A member of the staff was forced to release Anslow, who was quickly
transferred into a silver, Volkswagen Sirocco, which headed in the direc-
tion of Birmingham at speeds estimated to be in excess of 100 miles per
hour. The police were later to characterise the escape as ‘well orches-
trated’, ‘sophisticated’, and ‘perfectly executed’ and noted that Anslow
had strong connections to London and overseas (Lockley 2013). It is
worthy to also note the similarity between the prison van ambush and
the lorry hijackings that had taken place earlier. In regard to the prison
van ambush, a retired police officer, whom I have anonymised as Steve,
provides brief understanding of its organisation:
There was a lot of desperation from John Anslow’s end. He knew that
we were on to him and once we arrested him he knew that we had over-
whelming evidence against him. We knew him as Skitz, as a drug king-
pin, as a national distributor and the nephew of David Harrison. I can’t
say much because of the Official Secrets Act, but his escape was very well
executed through his contacts inside and outside of the prison walls. He
would have needed equal amount of support from both ends, and I’m
assuming he was able to forge that type of success because of his major
links with men from Birmingham’s underworld.
Indeed, the level of sophistication required for a prison van escape

orchestrated from a Category A prison would have been complex and
intricate. Stuart Reid—now a convicted fraudster and drugs baron,
helped communicate the escape by sending Anslow a coded Christmas
card that ended with: ‘Wishing you a very Merry Christmas filled with
fun and surprises, love from Stratford’ (Express & Star 2016). With this
in mind, Marco, an associate of one of the men who sprung Anslow out
of prison, is sceptical about the official account of the escape, and pro-
vides an alternative account, which can also be considered plausible:
Man, are you telling me that a few letters, Christmas cards and a few
phone calls was enough to pull that kind of job off? No fucking way, man.
People have been played because only a minority know how transportation
works in prison. On the day of the escape, out of that prison there would
have been dozens of prison vans going to different courthouses holding
different offenders. How is it that the guys who busted Anslow knew what
van it was? Police are saying that he made a phone call in the van. No way
man, get the fuck out of here. It ain’t that fucking simple, because the
amount of times a man like Anslow would have been searched would have
been ridiculous. Or maybe he never was [searched]. Maybe he was allowed
a phone, but what I am saying is, there was an inside element to it all.
While there is no direct quotation to illustrate this, it was alluded

from the interview with Marco that prison officials, would have, to a
certain extent facilitated Anslow’s escape. Of note, in recent years there
have been cases of prison officials in England and Wales found guilty
of corruption (Bennett et al. 2007). Anslow was eventually captured in
Northern Cyprus in November 2013, which underscores his abilities to
organise and coordinate fleeing from Britain, without being apprehended
and establishing himself in another country. He had hoped to start a
new life with his wife and son in Cyprus and was at large for thirteen
months. He was extradited back to England and further details emerged
at the time of his extradition about how the escape had been planned.
These details involved a mobile phone that had been smuggled into
the prison; coded messages; reconnaissance trips to the prison and to
Stafford Crown Court; false passports; and, finally, a series of ‘handovers’
of Anslow to different accomplices, so as to deter, or at least confuse
the police. The police noted that ‘the [escape] required a large team to
make it work. A team of people he trusted, people he knew wouldn’t talk
and would be able to follow orders to the finest detail’ (Express & Star
2013). Such sentiments by the police were also reaffirmed by Marco,
who was able to exemplify the unwritten ‘code of silence’ within the con-
text of criminal entrepreneurship:
It obvious people ain’t gonna talk init, you know how it goes man.
Doesn’t matter if you’re white, black, brown; if you’re on road, then
you’re on it until the end. If you look at who was involved in it, you’ll see
how some of these man’s didn’t even know each other properly. Most of
it is prison connect[ion]. At the same time these man’s might work on the
streets as it may make business sense you get me? So why would someone
102 M. RAHMAN
talk? … Ain’t no one gonna talk. It’s like us – you’re using me for your
research, but you know what will happen to you if you reveal who I am.
I’ll destroy you … But I know the guys that busted him out were serious,
and it wasn’t necessarily a swift transaction. Anslow paid them well, and
may have paid more than expected.
Fatal Violence, Organised Crime and Criminal

Entrepreneurship
There is an understandable, popular, temptation to employ Schlesinger’s
(2001) characterisation and simply describe Harrison as a ‘profes-
sional’ hitman, who would plan and organise his offending. This was
exactly how he was described in court with the prosecution noting that
Richard’s murder was a ‘professionally executed contract killing’ (The
Guardian 2012). However, while it is important to acknowledge the
level of planning and organisation within the hit, applying MacIntyre
et al.’s (2014) typology of British hitmen, would seem to allow us to
better understand this particular murder. At the most immediate level, it
is clear, for example, that Harrison was neither a Novice or a Dilettante
hitman (see, Chapter 3) for, at the very least, the shooting itself demon-
strated his experience with firearms. This was later confirmed when
police informant Alan Cash told the jury that Harrison had claimed to
have previously shot a drug dealer with a crossbow (McCarthy 2012b).
In short, Harrison did not seem to dabble in the world of organised
crime and the violence that is associated with it, but fully embraced that
world and the opportunities that it could provide.
Again, by applying MacIntyre et al.’s (2014) typology, nor would it
appear that Harrison was a ‘Master’ hitman. Not only do Master hitmen
avoid arrest, they would also appear to enter a community to commit the
hit and then leave that community shortly afterwards. This ensures that
there is relatively little—if any—local intelligence about the case. So too,
with the hit conducted on Richard, a variety of local intelligence ulti-
mately brought Harrison to justice, albeit prompted by the police’s use
of Crimewatch, and it is also clear that he had many connections to the
local community in which the hit took place. In all of this, we might
note the recurring and seemingly inevitable disintegration of social and
business networks, with all its associated acrimony as participants attempt
to squeeze a surplus out of each other, or outcompete for opportunities
and market share (Jameson 1991).
Within this case study the criminal networks uncovered were

revealed in several ways. First, through intra-familial relationships,
but also, secondly, through trading and business associations, some
of which could be legitimate, while others were less so. So too, many
key players from each of the three incidents that were identified can be
linked to Richard’s murder. For example, it is important to note Leigh
Astbury’s role in 40 lorry hijackings within the space of 18 months,
which exemplifies both his ability to plan and organise and how rou-
tine violence is used in the furtherance of his criminal entrepreneurship.
Richard was undoubtedly aware of his brother-in-law’s involvement
in this form of organised crime, although this is not meant to imply a
motive for the hit.
While I am certain about the roles of Harrison and Dickens in the
murder of Richard, we need to be more circumspect about the roles of
Astbury and Anslow in this hit—even if both were, at one stage, charged
with murder. Nonetheless, their respective and proven offending histo-
ries suggest something of the opportunities for criminal entrepreneurship
within the West Midlands and how some of these entrepreneurs perform
on a national and international stage. Anslow, for example, described by
many newspapers as ‘Britain’s most wanted man’, was eventually tried
in London at Woolwich Crown Court for the involvement of Richard’s
murder, rather than at a court in the West Midlands. This suggests some-
thing of his abilities to plan and organise an escape, given that Woolwich,
is seen as one of the most secure courts in the country, with under-
ground access to prisoners located in HMP Belmarsh.
It is also clear that the police were keen to prosecute Anslow. That
case was mainly built on cell-site analysis, revealing an exchange of phone
calls and text messages between Harrison and Anslow before and imme-
diately after the murder. In total, Harrison had spoken to, sent and
received text messages to Anslow on 163 of the 180 times the phone
was used (McCarthy 2014). The prosecution claimed that these com-
munications had been made on ‘dirty phones’, suggesting that Anslow
and Harrison frequently changed mobiles and sim-cards to avoid police
attention. However, Anslow was not in Chasetown on the day of the
murder, and nor was he involved in the ‘facilitation or disposal’ of the
getaway vehicles. It is also important to note that Anslow voluntary gave
evidence during the trial and ‘denied ever hearing of Mr. Deakin’, sug-
gesting that his ‘phone contact with Harrison had been about drug deal-
ing’ (McCarthy 2014).
104 M. RAHMAN
Having been found innocent of Richard’s murder, Anslow remains in

prison serving 29 years for his previous offences, including playing a ‘piv-
otal role’ in the supply of drugs and a further seven years for his escape
from police custody in 2012 (Lichfield Mercury 2014). It is interesting
to note that the full extent of Anslow’s previous convictions was only
publicised after the murder trial. Here it should be remembered that
Anslow’s escape from a prison van by a sledgehammer-wielding gang,
was the first Category A prisoner to escape in 17 years (McCarthy 2014).
Indeed, his lengthy prison sentence for drugs offences suggests that
he was far more than an ordinary, street-level drug dealer, but was in
fact, a major player in a UK-wide network which had been distributing
huge quantities of cocaine and cannabis (Express & Star 2014). This ille-
gal trading funded what was described at court as his luxury lifestyle of
expensive cars and watches—a life style recently characterised more gen-
erally by Hobbs as a lush life (Hobbs 2013).
Furthermore, Anslow’s acquittal for Richard’s murder brought jubi-
lation in the communities of Tipton and Dudley—both areas being
described as family strongholds in a number of local and regional news-
papers. One family member styled Anslow as a ‘Robin Hood–style’ char-
acter and insisted that he was respected rather than feared. As evidence
to support this narrative, Anslow’s financial generosity within the Tipton
estate was described with local football teams, boxing clubs and musically
talented locals, all welcoming and acknowledging his sizeable charitable
donations (Lockley and McCarthy 2014). This form of philanthropy has
been a strategy used by a number of men who were seen to have been
involved in organised crime (Pearson 1972; Hobbs 1995).
This chapter reveals how David Harrison would seem to conform to
MacIntyre et al.’s (2014) Journeyman hitman in several key areas.
First, there is evidence of planning in relation to where and when the
hit would take place, with the police providing evidence that Harrison
had been in Richard’s home on several occasions prior to the murder.
Second, the crime scene itself was organised, with little or no forensic
evidence found, however we might speculate whether a Master hitman
might have disabled the CCTV which was covering Richard’s house and
which is obvious to anyone in the street. It was, after all, this CCTV
footage which was later used to help the police identify Harrison. Third,
it should be noted that Harrison was ‘geographically stable’—in other
words, he lived just 20 miles north-east from the scene of the hit. Finally,
it is important to remember Harrison’s previous offending history
and his involvement with firearms. All of this would seem to confirm
MacIntyre et al.’s (2014) assumption that although they are not excep-
tional performers, Journeymen are capable, experienced and reliable. In
other words, they are able to carry out their hit successfully, although
they will eventually be apprehended.
While the newspaper clippings that the police recovered from
Harrison’s home, was at the most, one of the many forms of circum-
stantial evidence for being involved in the hit, criminologically this
depicts him as a sadistic offender. The concept of sadism has been long
attached to murderers, as it involves indulging in cruelty, by deriving
gratification from inflicting harm, suffering, or humiliation to an indi-
vidual (Ray 2011). Psychoanalytically, it can be argued that sadists
like Harrison are able to repress and push outside their consciousness
behaviours that would be considered distasteful in mainstream society.
However, we should be mindful that repression does not mean that the
sadistic impulse has gone. Rather it is ‘rationalised’ by the offender, or
as Wilson and Rahman (2015) consider ‘neutralised’ in the context of
hitmen. Put simply, for a sadistic offender like Harrison, rationalisation
involves a believable pretence that the impulse can be expressed freely
with impunity (Winlow 2014) without the associated guilt that would
accompany the conscious awareness of its true nature. So too, offenders
like Harrison would rationalise his sadism by first viewing his offend-
ing as righteous slaughter, which was carried out for the sake of ‘Good’
(Katz 1988). Therefore, Harrison views himself within his conscious-
ness as what Hall (2012) would call a ‘criminal undertaker’, an individ-
ual who has the adversarial attitude of inflicting harm under the rubric
of justice.
I now turn attention to the biographical accounts of violent men
in Birmingham’s underworld. Through several accounts, I provide
Bourdieusian and psychoanalytical understandings of trauma, humilia-
tion and crime within the context of harm. So too, I offer an exploratory
suggestion of how there is a complicated juxtaposition between experi-
ences of victimisation and a deep commitment to violent aggression in
adult life.
106 M. RAHMAN
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CHAPTER 5
Violent Men: Trauma, Humiliation

and Scenarios of Harm
By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail… If you’re prepared to fight, then
when it comes down to it there won’t be no problems.
—Clive
Abstract  In this chapter, through numerous in-depth ethnographies,

I explore the biographical accounts of several violent men that have com-
mitted serious criminal offences. Some of the men in this chapter have
served custodial sentences for committing acts of homicide. All the men,
however, have been part of organised crime networks, with some being
involved in criminal operations beyond the West Midlands. In addition to
exploring their criminal activities, I present rich narratives of these men
through their life histories, which in turn provides an understanding of
harms inflicted on them, and the harms that they have inflicted on others.
To provide a persuasive analysis, theoretically I decipher biographical and
reflexive accounts of these men through psychoanalysis and Bourdieusian
epistemologies. Indeed, it is through narrative accounts that I present what
I have coined: scenarios of harm, and how imaginary situations contribute
towards the shaping of an individual’s street habitus (Wacquant in American
Journal of Sociology 107: 1468–1532, 2002; Sandberg and Pedersen in
Street Capital: Black Cannabis Dealers in a White Welfare State. Policy
Press, Bristol, 2009; Fraser in Journal of Youth Studies 16: 970–985, 2013),
and how this then valorizes their capital and position within the field.
Ultimately, I draw towards a speculative suggestion that the containment of

110 M. RAHMAN
harmful dispositions becomes integral for a person’s behaviour, interaction

and trajectory in the underworld.
Keywords  Biography · Bourdieu · Capital · Consciousness ·

Criminal entrée · Drugs · Ego · Ethnography · Field · Freud ·
Guns · Habitus · Harm · Homicide · Humiliation · Language ·
Latent · Narrative criminology · Organised crime · Psychoanalysis ·
Reflexivity · Scenarios of harm · Semi-structured interviews ·
Spectator violence · Street capital · Street field · Street habitus ·
Trauma · Unconsciousness
Before delving into the biographical accounts of several underworld

figures, it is worthwhile alluding to the significance of narrative crimi-
nology. Advocates of narrative criminology have a vested interested
in how storytelling depicts cases of harmful behaviour (Presser and
Sandberg 2015). Researchers that have utilised semi-structured inter-
views and ethnographic frameworks in recent years have persuasively the-
orised rich narratives of violence in street level settings (Bourgois 2003;
Fraser 2015; Deuchar 2018). Interestingly, Bourdieusian theories have
been consistent in some of these contemporary studies. Offender based
studies have amplified Bourdieu’s framework of capital when consid-
ering Norwegian drug dealer’s street smarts as street capital (Sandberg
and Pedersen 2009), whereas others have considered the role of gender
for this capital (Grundetjern and Sandberg 2012). In a British context,
Winlow and Hall (2010) explored the notion of habitus when discuss-
ing the influence of industrialisation on working-class men, which Fraser
(2015) later developed through the notion of street habitus to offer a
thought provoking perspective of gangland culture in Glasgow, Scotland.
Irrespective of the Bourdieusian frameworks that the above studies have
considered, the common thread that they all share is the importance of
language when exploring harmful practice and social inequality. In his
notion of symbolic violence, Bourdieu (1990, 1991) refers to linguis-
tics, by considering how those with capital naturalise social inequality
through the effective use of language. Even in Bourdieu’s (1985) field
theory, Hanks (2005, p. 73) argues that the field encompasses ‘…a
language game in which certain ends are pursued with certain discursive
resources according to established guidelines’. In their seminal work on
‘street field’, Shammas and Sandberg (2015) theorise how fields revolve
5 VIOLENT MEN: TRAUMA, HUMILIATION AND SCENARIOS OF HARM 111
around social games which are underpinned by certain rules. Here, it

is important to note that the use of ‘street’ is intended in a non-literal
sense, as ‘the field is defined with reference to criminal and deviant activ-
ities which can take place anywhere and are not physically confinable to
the street’ (ibid., p. 201).
Similarly, to Bourdieu, I acknowledge the creative force of language,
namely the discourse that stems from thoughts that are harmful and often
suppressed. So too, below, through biographical accounts of violent men,
I chart how hypothetical scenarios of harm consist of situations that are
found to be favourable to the individual, but are often shaped by real
encounters that have been unfavourable to the individual. In most cases, it
is impossible to repress harrowing experiences into one’s unconsciousness,
hence such experiences are sublimated through hypothetical scenarios. It
is this interplay that becomes a stimulus for shaping the street habitus and
field relations of a person, and their legitimate and illegitimate practices.
‘Never Show Love on the Streets, Love Can Get You

Killed’: A Biographical Account of Clive
In the opening chapter of this book, I introduced Clive. I have known
him since 2002, and at the time of my empirical work, he is in his
mid-thirties. His late twenties to early thirties were spent in several pris-
ons after being found guilty of manslaughter. The victim was a rival
drug dealer, who attempted to ambush Clive on one winter night, as he
thought Clive was in possession of ‘a distribution level of cocaine’ (all
subsequent quotes are from Clive). Standing just under 6 feet tall, Clive
claims that his 14-stone muscular physique has remained consistent for
‘the past 15 years’. In my first interview with him, he recalled how on
the night of his ambush, his victim was armed with ‘a Rambo knife’, and
attacked him twice before he disarmed the individual and smacked his
head several times against a metal pole. The injuries that Clive inflicted
were so horrific, a police officer testified in court that she ‘fainted’ when
she attended the crime scene. Bleeding profusely after being stabbed
in his right shoulder blade, Clive staggered a few yards from his victim
before being found unconscious by paramedics.
Clive’s foundations of physical violence started at home. He is the
youngest of three brothers, and growing up he would often find him-
self ‘play fighting’ with his siblings, which would often result in ‘blood
stained tops’ and ‘bruises’. He developed his reputation for violence
112 M. RAHMAN
in secondary school. During the middle years of his secondary school

education, he was known as the guy ‘not to be fucked around with’ after
winning a series of ‘back to back fights’ against older and bigger peers.
It was during this time when Clive started earning what he described
as ‘serious money’ by selling marijuana to fellow classmates, and ‘spent
more time with girls’ than he did ‘in the classroom’. Throughout my
time with Clive, I observed that he was forthcoming about his family life
in comparison to the others that I researched. I put this down to the
fact that I lived near Clive for a few years in the early 2000s. When Clive
was five, his parents separated, and he met his father for the first time in
his mid-twenties when he was hospitalised after being shot twice in the
leg over a drugs dispute. Clive denied having any ill feelings towards his
father and said the following about his family life:
My dad’s dead now. But to be honest, for me he’s been dead to me since
I was 5. Like, majority of us ain’t got dads, you get me? They’re either
gone, in prison or dead, so I don’t feel like I missed out on much in that
respect because I never had him in the first place. You can’t miss what you
don’t have, you know. But what I can say is not having him meant that
my mum was everything during those [childhood and adolescent] years.
She worked, put food on the table, and had to look after three rough
boys. Even when we did wrong, she always backed us up, you know.
Man, the amount of times I put hurt on people and she backed me up
was unbelievable. There were times when she’d fucking convince me that
I didn’t do the things that I did, ha! And for her it must have been diffi-
cult. Us boys were all born in the 80s and back then shit was tense on the
streets. So, can you imagine my mum? A white woman with three little
ones that were mixed race. She must have got shit from black and white
people… Growing up, my relationship with my siblings was fine, I guess.
It was normal. They were older than me, but by the age of 15, I outgrew
and outmuscled both of them. I hear that’s quite natural anyway, that the
youngsters tend to outgrow the elders.
Clive recalls the social difficulties that his mother endured as a sin-
gle parent at a time when Birmingham experienced three race riots.
Whilst he did not speak about this in length, he seemed to be mindful
about the racial oppression that his mum suffered for having ‘three little
ones that were mixed race’ as a ‘white woman’. He proudly comments
on how his mother would support him irrespective of his wrongdoings.
Additionally, he provides what I judged as an interesting, albeit honest
account of his father. Scholarly sources have indicated how a lack of

fathering or father absence can contribute towards negative social rela-
tionships for some men, which invariably increases the chances of crim-
inality and gang-related activity (Roy 2006; Glynn 2014). However, it
seems that Clive internalised the absence of his father by comparing his
parental situation to that of his peers and acknowledges this void in social
capital as commonplace. Moreover, studies have revealed that gangs
provide a surrogate family for youths that are alienated from a social or
familial aspect (Thrasher 1927; Deuchar 2009). Clive comments on his
relationship with his brothers as ‘fine’ and ‘normal’, and offers a physical
description of himself in comparison to his brothers. Whilst he starts off
by stating that he ‘outgrew’ and ‘outmuscled’ his brothers by the age of
15, he concludes this description in a modest manner, by suggesting that
his growth is indeed organic.
It was on the topic of brothers that I established two keystone
moments that were of extreme interest and what I believe contributed
immensely towards shaping Clive’s trajectory of violent practice. Both
encompass what I consider to be spectator violence, that is, physical vio-
lence which is exhibited within an audience, and one that can be crucial
for the acquisition of street capital (Sandberg 2008) and the subsequent
positioning in the street field. The first traumatic experience recalled by
Clive was on his 10th birthday:
Man, growing up, birthdays were the one! Because I’m a summer baby,
my birthdays were always good. Good weather, nice food, loud music and
a whole lot of fun. On my 10th birthday, my uncle bought two pairs of
these massive inflatable boxing gloves. It’s like one of those things that you
can play with the family you get me, and no one will get hurt. They were
like ‘one size fits all’, so even adults could get involved. Obviously, they’re
designed for fun, but at the age of 10, I was like wow, I want to beat peo-
ple up with them, even if it is for fun. Plus, on that particular day, I was
hyped up because I turned 10. Double digits and all that, and loads of my
school mates, and neighbours and all came over. I remember on that day
I wasn’t even interested in cutting the cake, I was just looking forward
to play fighting with the inflatable gloves. So, after all the food and cake
cutting was over, I was play fighting with some of my school mates and
friends in the garden while my mum was inside with all the other mums.
Mum has always said to me that I used to piss off my eldest brother, and
to be honest I never knew if I did. Anyways, on that day I kept winning in
the play fights, and any time I’d win, I did a victory lap around the garden,
114 M. RAHMAN
which meant I had to run past my eldest brother. As a joke, you know how
it is, I said to my brother “I’m gonna beat you up”. At this time, he was
already in secondary school and there was no way I could even lay a finger
on him. However, it must have annoyed him because moments later he
got me into a chokehold and didn’t let go until I fainted.
The second encounter occurred a few years later when Clive was in
secondary school. He comments on how majority of his fights in school
were often race related, which did not bother him:
Them [school] fights were crazy. All the motherfuckers back in school
were wild. And even though the fights now seem petty, back then they
were important because it was all about creating and maintaining a
rep[utation], you get me? Like for example, the fights would take place in
the school playground, and would then be spoken about on road within
a day or two. And that’s how people in the ends would know about you.
And when you get that rep[utation], you get everything that comes with
it, like drugs and girls. It’s a bit like the movies you know, something like
Scarface when Tony Montana talks about getting ‘power’. Back then we
didn’t have no camera phones ‘n’ shit, so the word of mouth was always
the way to keep updated about fights and stuff. Being mixed race was a
complex thing, because in my school the black guys would always fight
the whites. And I was slap bang in the middle, but most occasions I rolled
with the blacks because they were the ones who I grew up with in the
streets, and were also the ones that I sold drugs with.
Above, Clive provides a progressive viewpoint of partaking in violent

practice. He considers the importance of combat within a subsection of
the educational field (Bourdieu 1985, 1989), the school playground.
This resonates with Polk’s (1999, p. 22) viewpoint of how ‘in most social
milieus, a man’s reputation depends in part upon the maintenance of a
credible threat of violence’. For Clive, and his comrades, violence was a
commodity, which developed character and reputation. Of note, equally
important to acquiring a violent reputation was marketing this reputa-
tion. He implies on how ‘word of mouth’ was the primary marketing
tool, and it can be suggested that this method influenced the growth of
his violent reputation at a time when mobile phones and social media
were virtually non-existent in mainstream society. Coming back to Clive’s
second traumatic experience, it occurred in school at the age of 15.
By this point, he was over 5 feet 8 inches and weighed over 12 stones.
He would often associate with boys who were older than him, and was
selling marijuana on a regular basis. Clive would only attend mathemat-
ics classes which he recalled as his ‘favourite subject’. Trouble brewed in
school after Clive discovered that one of his classmates was robbed by a
sixth former:
…Things were going fine in school. You know, Moe, I did my full GCSE
maths in year 10. A year before everybody else, and I got an A. I was
buzzing, and then I heard from this one girl at school that my friend got
robbed by this one sixth former that was in my [eldest] brother’s class.
They were actually mates, and I was fucking livid, especially because
my mate was a soft guy. So, I got the understanding that this guy was a
bully, and I fucking hate bullies. Bullies and pedophiles, I can’t fucking
tolerate them. Well actually bullies, pedophiles and woman beaters. I
see red mist, when I think of them. When I think of them, I think about
how I can go about smashing their faces to bits. Anyway, I track this fucker
down within the hour. I walked into his class, and my brother was there. I
didn’t make eye contact with him and walked straight up to the guy who
jacked my mate, and I said to him “after school I am coming for you, and
I am going to rip your heart out and rape you in front of everyone”. I
didn’t even know what the fuck rape was back then, but I knew it was
something bad, and so did he. More to the point he knew that he needed
to get ready for a fight, and I could tell that he could fight.
Clive stormed out the classroom and recalls telling his peer to ‘spread
the word’ about an after-school fight. Alongside a dozen of his class-
mates, he patiently waited for the sixth former, and when he did, he was
ready for the showdown:
I was ready to hurt him, and when I saw him, I felt like gasoline was run-
ning through my veins. I was on fire. Between when I found out what
happened to my mate and the fight itself, I couldn’t stop thinking about
tearing him up. The punches I’d throw and the knees that I would land.
Even though he was bigger than me, I was still ready to put a beat down
on him. But he was game, [at the beginning of the fight] he came out
swinging, before I speared him down. I went straight through his torso,
pinned him to the ground, and I was pounding him like a piece of steak.
Fists, knuckles and elbows—they were all going in, and he could do fuck
all about it. It was just like how I pictured it. He made a pathetic attempt
to gauge my eyes, but it failed when I put my fist through his mouth
and broke his front two teeth. He was choking on his teeth before I was
116 M. RAHMAN
separated by some of my mates. I searched his pockets, and took his wallet
and keys and threw them over a nearby fence… To add insult to injury, I
even pulled his trousers down. He was one of those motherfuckers that
would have his pants hanging down his backside, so I thought why not go
the full mile.
When asked how Clive felt moments after the encounter, he said that
he felt ‘powerful’, ‘vicious’ and that ‘justice had been served’. However,
Clive’s triumph was instantly diminished, as he became a victim of an
assault:
After the fight, I walked up to my mate who was holding my coat and bag.
My brother was standing behind me and was looking at me looking all
pissed off. I looked at him and said, “What are you looking at?” Honestly,
hand on heart, I didn’t say it in a threatening manner, but he clearly took
it the wrong way because as I was walking towards my girlfriend at the
time, he came behind me and got me in a [rear neck] choke. For a few
seconds, I was like, what the fuck? I knew it was him and I was telling him
to back off. My bag was tangled on my right arm, and my left hand wasn’t
strong enough to get him to release the choke as I hurt it during the fight.
I couldn’t believe it and moments later and I passed out and smacked my
head on the concrete. I was told after by some lads that my girlfriend was
screaming at him when I was on lying on the floor, because she thought
that he killed me because I wasn’t moving.
When I asked Clive his thoughts on why his brother would do such a
thing, his response was:
…you know it’s been over 20 years since that incident, and I still don’t
have an answer. What you gotta remember is the guy that I beat up was
his bredrin, it was his friend. So, after that incident happened, I thought
to myself that it was probably his way of letting me know that I can’t get
away with beating up his friend. But I would always come to the conclu-
sion of how could he do that to me. I was his kid brother, man. His lit-
tle bro. His family. His blood. And the man does that to me in front of
everyone, knowing that his bredrin was in the wrong. Back then I never
confronted him about it, but it’s disturbed me for a long time. People at
school spoke about it for time, and plus I missed out on a lot of school
because of my head injury. Time to time, I have bad spells of dizziness,
and I put it down to that. I should have confronted him about it before he
died, but I never.
A few years after the incident, Clive’s brother was killed after being
mistaken for a local drug dealer. He was shot at point-blank range five
times. Clive never attended the funeral, and recalls how the school yard
incident changed his demeanour towards violent practice:
It made me feel vulnerable. Like, I knew no one would ever want to pick
a fight with me, but at the same time I didn’t want to fight anymore even
though I knew I could. Passing out, and the way I did scared me, man.
For a while I felt vulnerable. At first, I found it difficult to lock off the
incident, you get me? But over the years I didn’t think too much of it.
But after the incident, every time I looked at the mirror, the forehead scar
would always remind me of the ringing noise that I heard when I was lying
on the floor. At the age of 19 I started to carry [a gun], and I hated doing
that because of the risk of getting caught. That’s easily a minimum of 10
(years in prison), and that’s if you’re lucky.
This traumatic experience required Clive to renegotiate his course

towards violent practice. After leaving school, Clive worked in a delivery
depot before taking the role of enforcer for an organised crime group
that had a transnational outreach. This organised crime group required
Clive to work alongside the Jamaican Yardies, who in the early 1990s
were widely regarded as fearsome Jamaican born gangsters that imported
drugs and employed lethal violence in several English cities, including
Birmingham. Clive was conscious that his involvement with the Jamaican
Yardies posed risks for his well-being:
Between 17 to 20, I served some time inside for a few assaults and drug
related offences. From 20 onwards, I was involved full time with hard
men. The other thing was, I became a dad at 21, so my priorities changed.
My first born was my daughter, and I wanted to make sure that I could
always be there for her, and not be like my dad. Her [Clive’s daughters]
mum was like my mum, a solid and strong woman, so I had to make sure
that I stepped up. However, I was on the hustle, and there was no way
of getting out. The thing with the drugs trade is, it’s good money. Like
everything in life, you must do it for the sake of good. I was all about the
money. I wasn’t interested in cars, jewelry or clothes. For me, it was a job.
But like you said before, it’s a risky business. And my outlook obviously
changed being a dad. When I started on the hustle full time as an enforcer,
I was told by a guy who I saw as my mentor that violence was bad for busi-
ness. And I was like “yeah, you’re right”. However, most in the crew wer-
en’t singing from the same hymn sheet. Especially the ones that couldn’t
118 M. RAHMAN
handle themselves. The ones that would talk shit, would be often be the
ones that would get fucked up. And then I’d have to step in a deal with
things, even though I didn’t want to. Man, I had no choice, and I was
known to put in the work.
On many occasions, Clive spoke about how his rationale for enter-
ing the illegal drugs trade was entrepreneurial, and the primary goal was
‘strictly money’. As he grew older, his propensity violence became cal-
culated as he knew it was ‘bad for business’. On many occasions, Clive
has proudly discussed his monetary gain during his heyday in the illegal
drugs trade. He once commented how he almost went two years with-
out any meaningful violence against those involved in the underworld.
However, things drastically changed one autumn evening when he was
attacked by a rival drug dealer. He was on his way to a family birthday
party when he was attacked from behind with a knife. To this date, Clive
believes that the offender’s intention was to stab him in the neck. He has
previously shown me his keloid scar from the incident, which in length is
approximately 2.5 inches, and spreads vertically across his right shoulder
blade. Clive admits retrospectively that his response towards the situation
was excessive, but at that time he saw no other alternative:
When you get into the kind of work that I did, you should expect to get
stabbed or shot. Anyone that says otherwise is full of shit. Anyone that
thinks that they’re invincible is also full of shit. I expected [to be targeted],
but not in that kind of manner. For me it’s just the nature of the inci-
dent that ticked me off. He came from the back. He wasn’t that tall, that’s
why he couldn’t get my neck, but he was going for it… At one point, he
grabbed my neck, and it reminded me straight away about my brother. It
was a split-second thing, but that was enough to bring back memories. In
jail, I thought about it more. When I smacked his head against the pole,
I could have stopped the first time because that was enough, but I hurt
him a few more times. I used to think in jail, what if I hit him the once
and then passed out myself and he finished the job? I think about these
kinds of things daily. It kept playing on my mind. In court, I remember
the judge saying that I wasn’t remorseful. For a few years, I thought what
the fuck was I supposed to be remorseful about? I was the victim! Me,
man! … When I was in jail, I wasn’t pissed off that I was serving time.
I was more pissed off with my brother. He’s dead now, so I shouldn’t talk
about him like that, init. But what I can say is, some of the hurt that I’ve
put on people has been because of him. But thankfully, now, in the last few
years I’ve been able to channel myself much better, you know.
As Ritchie (2014) suggests, understanding why catastrophic assaults

take place is vital for a psychosocial lens perspective on violence. Clive’s
biographical account depicts three major incidents of violent practice,
of which one was fatal. His language highlights experiences of trauma
and betrayal. He was predisposed to violence from a young age. During
months of observations, I attentively listened to his stories of spectator
violence, most of which were in-depth descriptions of his victories. The
more detailed accounts were those that took place in school and on the
streets during his time as an enforcer. Anggard (2005) notes that ‘boys’
stories’ tend to focus on heroism and fighting, and that even the physi-
cal characteristics of ‘boys’ toys’ are designed for fighting games. By his
own admission, Clive on his 10th birthday was simply interested in ‘play
fighting’ with his school mates with his ‘inflatable boxing gloves’. Thus,
by default and design, the nature of the combat for Clive was no more
than mere competitive fun, on a day centred on the celebration of his
birth. However, for his older brother, who at this point was in second-
ary school, combat was no fun. Rather, it can be argued, for him, the
engagement of combat, especially within a spectator standpoint becomes
a means of ‘doing gender’ and ‘doing masculinity’, especially in the pres-
ence of peers (Muncie 2009; Deuchar 2013).
Winlow and Hall (2010, p. 298) highlight that the ‘presence of an
audience can put further pressure on the individual to perform’. So too,
it can be suggested that during this time for Clive’s brother, spectator
violence, irrespective of purpose, was an ‘honour contest’, which there-
fore required him to exert dominance to acclaim this honour. Hence,
it is plausible that his brother’s perspective of spectator violence along-
side his trivial taunts led him to employ a chokehold. Like most schol-
ars who conduct ethnographic investigations, I made a habit of regularly
writing reflexive notes. This exercise is useful for the integrity aspect of
the research process, the quality of knowledge accumulated, the ethi-
cal treatment of those researched, and measuring my own well-being
and personal growth. In one of my entries, I offer insight of a research
encounter with Clive:
Moments ago, I finished spending half of the day with Clive. Majority
of my time with him was spent at the cemetery, as we both contributed
towards the burial of an elderly woman who he knew from a young age.
Afterwards, we visited two places; his secondary school, and the exact
spot where he was stabbed many years ago. Many months ago, I asked
120 M. RAHMAN
him whether he would feel comfortable visiting such places, namely the
location where he was stabbed. He made it clear that he had no prob-
lems. After observing Clive for several months, I have concluded that
he is a reflective individual, who is quite forthcoming with his thoughts.
I’ve noticed in previous car conversations that Clive is quite relaxed and
is prepared to speak about pretty much anything. He is aware that I get
the most out of him in these situations, and today he spoke extensively
about his perspectives on street level violence, namely the thoughts that he
keeps to himself. On several occasions, what took me aback was the level
of detail that he went into when discussing violent encounters. When I
asked him how he could retain so much information in detail, his response
was: “Because sometimes that’s all I think about”. I found this extremely
intriguing, and decided to ask Clive several questions before dropping him
off to his family home.
(Reflexive Extract)
MR: You’ve said to me previously that your thoughts of violence have usu-
ally been longer than the encounters themselves. There seems to be a
lot of reasoning and thinking behind your interpretation of violence.
Why is this the case?
Clive: By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail. My preparation is
always in my mind. I don’t speak out loud. When I was on road, I was
always thinking. The best of those who make it on road are always
thinking. You think about your strengths, weaknesses and your threats.
My threat and weakness on road was that my rivals were carrying
[weapons], and were after me. So, I had to make sure that mentally I
was always ready for combat. If you’re prepared to fight, then when it
comes down to it there won’t be no problems. We live in a world that
comes down to, kill or be killed.
MR: People would argue that thinking about violence is negative, and
therefore it’s not good for the mental state. In the underworld, did it
work in your favour? If so, how?
Clive: Oh, for sure. In most cases it worked in my favour. Weirdly, in
encounters where I ended up being the victim, it also worked in my
favour. An example I can give is when I got stabbed. Had I not inter-
nalised what my brother did to me, I could have ended up dead when
I got stabbed. I internalised it as something that happened to me, but
something that could never happen to me again. I could never let
someone put me in a state of vulnerability.
MR: Most individuals tend to block out thoughts of being a victim. It’s
easier said than done, but seemingly you have internalised your harms
and actualised them in various activities when you acted as an enforcer

in the underworld. How important was this for you?
Clive: Man, you have to take your L[oses] the same way that you take your
W[ins]. I’ve told you before the chances of you getting hurt in this kind
of world is relatively high, and therefore you need to always be on your
toes. It was important for me to recognise that I could be a victim at
any given point. But the question that I’d ask myself was, what am I
going to do about it? At the end of the day, I am a realist, you get me?
People know that I am a realist, and therefore before being true to oth-
ers, I had to be true to myself and realise that my shortcomings had a
purpose, and that purpose would help me in whatever I would go on to
do.
MR: Do you think in many ways that being a realist, and not repressing
your trauma or violent encounters worked in your favour when it came
down to being accepted in the underworld?
Clive: On road, people are just looking for your weaknesses. They’re look-
ing for ways to use, manipulate and control you. Never show love on
the streets, love can get you killed. I learnt that the hard way. Some will
say, keep your weaknesses to yourself. But the thing is, nothing can be
kept away from the streets. Eventually, everything comes out and you
will get exposed. People know what I am capable of, or I wouldn’t be
rolling the way I was. But for me, towards the end, it was about accept-
ing myself before being accepted. In many ways, those that I was work-
ing for knew that and may have seen it as a weakness.
MR: You make references to what’s known as the ‘road’ and the ‘streets’.
How influential is urban space when it comes to your understanding of
violence and criminal activities?
Clive: It’s everything, man. The streets are spaces where things start and
things end. Everything leads to the streets. You don’t even need to
think about the streets. You just know that you’re part of it and it’s part
of you. The reality is, it’s the streets that pay, but also that contribute
towards pain. You’re the most vulnerable when you’re on road, and in
many ways, that’s the space that you occupy the most.
Through ethnographic observations, Clive depicts that his motives for

engaging in violent practice changed in secondary school. His intimidat-
ing physique, alongside his tenacity to engage in combat with whomever
was presented to him, earned him a reputation that legitimated him to
enter the illegal drugs trade from a young age. He marketed his violence
in a manner that transcended in various social milieus (Polk 1999). In
doing so, violence for him became a form of social engagement, and the
122 M. RAHMAN
fusion of this practice, and crime became a central prop for his masculin-
ity. Here, it is important to note that Clive is the product of north-west
Birmingham, a milieu that has already been considered in this book to
display violent forms of masculinity since the nineteenth century. Mullins
(2006) observes in his ethnographic research that masculinity does not
sit within the social setting as a monolithic set of demands and behav-
ioural expectations, rather a locale produces multiple masculinities.
Moreover, it can be assumed that Clive’s brother acknowledged this
rapid growth of masculinity, and attacked him as he felt insecure about
his own masculinity after witnessing his younger brother beating his
friend. Where other older siblings would naturally support and defend
their younger siblings, Clive’s brother viewed the after-school encoun-
ter as a threat to his own manliness, and took special liberties to tran-
scend Clive’s masculine competitiveness without any consideration of its
impact and harm (Hall 2012). While those who witnessed the retaliation
may have found it difficult to comprehend, for Clive’s brother, it can be
assumed that this intrinsic behaviour was carried out righteously for the
sake of ‘Good’ (Katz 1988).
Clive openly admits that the betrayal by his brother had a profound
impact on his physical and mental well-being. While physical injuries
healed, damage to his reputation affected him more. He acknowledges
that he found coping mechanisms to repress his humiliation and to
reduce his vulnerabilities. For instance, his approach to violence changed
drastically. From using his physical capabilities that earned him the rep-
utation of a man ‘not to be fucked around with’, he started to carry a
firearm for a short period. In their study of violent men, Winlow and
Hall (2010) also observed how humiliation does not dissipate, rather it
becomes a driver for some men to chart their future approach towards
violent practice. With prompt, Clive discussed how his trajectory towards
violent practice changed because of his priorities. Based on his comment
of violence being ‘bad for business’, he knew that to provide for his
daughter, the use of violence needed to be employed for progressive acts
as opposed to trivial. However, he acknowledged that he would often be
dragged into violent encounters to defend those associated with him. In
essence, the nature of his involvement in the underworld required him
to adhere to the code of the streets (Anderson 1999), of which encom-
passes defending one’s peers.
Freud (1923) suggested that for one to truly forget something, they
must summon up the courage to remember it properly. It is evident that
Clive has found it difficult to overcome the humiliating experiences that

his brother endured on him. His attempt to ‘lock off’ his recollection
of the school incident implies that he has faced an ongoing battle with
his unconsciousness and consciousness. It can be argued that this abuse
and betrayal was repressed in his unconsciousness, and was not capable of
becoming conscious in the ordinary way (Freud 2010). Seemingly, Clive
could repress his traumatic and betrayal encounter to the best of his abil-
ities; however, the nature of the attack executed by the rival drug dealer
triggered his repressed unconsciousness, forcing him to retaliate with cat-
astrophic measures.
Furthermore, what is explicit in Clive’s narratives are unconscious
attachments to urban space, or what he refers to as ‘the streets’. So
too, he reveals the inhabitation of what is known as street habitus, that
is ‘the fusion of space and self, developed through repetition of behav-
iours in physical space’ (Fraser 2015, p. 44). The concept was first used
by Wacquant (2002), when noting, that the cognitive dispositions of
inner-city American blacks who resided in marginalised neighbourhoods
can be theorised as permanent and sometimes unconscious dispositions
of individuals in the street economy which is valorised and produced by
spending time in the field. Bourdieu (1984, 1993) argues that habitus
is contingent upon an individual’s social world and their reactions. So
too, Shammas and Sandberg (2015, p. 205) rightly put forward that
‘the concrete manifestation of street habitus will vary between empirical
domains’ and ‘although a street habitus will tend to hold certain charac-
teristics in common, including dispositions toward violence or drug use,
its tangible contents must be specified empirically’.
In relation to this empirical work, I also consider how habitus is
produced by historical and social conditions (Bourdieu and Wacquant
1992), and argue that street habitus should be considered as a temper-
ament, that serves as a basis to discover the visceral subconscious jux-
taposition of an individual and their experiences of harmful practice
when making sense of their interactions and positioning in the under-
world. For instance, Clive’s biographical account reveals his outlook on
the uses and restraints of violence during certain aspects of his life. As a
self-proclaimed ‘realist’, he is not oblivious to the nasty realities of physi-
cal harm, and makes clear of the encounters that one may face when sub-
merged in illicit settings. Furthermore, his narratives illustrate violence
in the first half of his formative years as a spectacle function that was
learnt through peers and shaped in social settings. In the second half, his
124 M. RAHMAN
temperament towards violence earned him a fearless reputation, which

served as a dispositional form of street capital that was legitimated in the
eyes of a transnational syndicate who used him as a commodity within an
enforcer role. Also, his engagement in violence enabled him to acquire
objectified forms of street capital, that is access to weapons and drugs, as
well as inscribed markers, which in his case was a keloid scar from a seri-
ous stab wound. In addition, there is the institutionalized form of street
capital that is much needed for one to be legitimated in the eyes of those
who are embedded in the underworld. Clive’s criminal record of multi-
ple offences denotes him being part of the criminal world, which is rein-
forced by serving time in custodial settings. So too, in essence, his street
capital allows him to acquire a criminal entrée in a glocal underworld.
Based on his accounts, it is evident that employing violence was one
of his repeated behaviours and a currency that served as a deep commit-
ment to the street field. Unlike most, from a young age, Clive under-
stood the business imperatives of the underworld. He makes clear that
providing for his daughter was his priority, which therefore meant that
he needed to renegotiate his role and interactions in the underworld.
This also required him to reevaluate his defining characteristic; violent
practice and everything that came with it in the street field. By prior-
tising his daughter, Clive realised that sustaining his longevity in the
underworld required minimal use of violence, namely with weapons.
Indeed, ‘the risk of getting caught’ when carrying a weapon demon-
strates forward thinking and the weighing of rewards and risks when
considering the use of violence. It also demonstrates the rational side of
an underworld operative, and theoretically reinforces how one’s inter-
actions extend beyond fields. Fields maintain relations with other fields.
Shammas and Sandberg (2015, p. 203) state how ‘particularly salient
for the street field is the bureaucratic field, which may attempt to con-
trol and regulate the street field’. Defining characteristics by the bureau-
cratic field include passing legislation, court decisions and the creation
of regulation and policies. So too, via legislation, the bureaucratic field
defines the street field, which therefore shapes the interactions of actors
in underworld settings.
Of note, Clive provides accounts of latent thoughts of trauma, humil-
iation and violence. While his intrusive thoughts reveal a deep commit-
ment and obsession towards violent practice, it should be noted that the
accumulation of violence against him is disturbing. So too, in most cases,
it is impossible for individuals to repress harrowing experiences into
one’s unconsciousness, hence such experiences are sublimated through

hypothetical scenarios. In Clive’s case, it is this interplay that became an
incentive for shaping his street habitus and subsequent criminal trajectory.
The chapter now moves on to the biographical accounts of broth-
ers Marco and Zane. Both brothers present narratives of harm, trauma
and violence. They also offer narratives of hypothetical scenarios of vio-
lence, which will be contrasted with Clive’s accounts in the concluding
comments.
‘Emotions Alone Can Get You 35 to Life’: Biographical

Accounts of Marco and Zane
During the time of this research, brothers Marco and Zane are in their
thirties, and rank the youngest out of eight siblings. Both men stand
over 6 feet tall, with Marco sporting a slender athletic build, in com-
parison to his younger brother of three years, who is stocky but muscu-
lar. Both men have served custodial sentences for serious crimes. Marco
served almost three years in a young offender’s institution after being
found guilty of violent disorder, and later served a sentence for armed
robbery with his brother, Zane. In the violent disorder incident, Marco
was part of a mob of youths who targeted a man inside a house party and
beat him to death. Marco and his codefendants were due to stand trial
for murder, but the case was dropped to violent disorder due to a lack of
evidence. It was Marco’s first experience of incarceration that influenced
his criminal trajectory:
My time at the youth offenders was quite rough. Imagine, I’ve witnessed
a lot of horrific things, and I’ve never seen myself to be a violent person.
I made one stupid fucking mistake in the heat of the moment, and now
suddenly you’re in this cage, locked up and always on edge, looking over
you if any crazy bastard is going to come up and stab you. People obvi-
ously saw me as this monster, but at the most, I was just running with a
crew and selling a bit of drugs on the side. On my first night inside, I saw
a guy get dragged out by medics because he was stabbed in the eye… And
because I made it obvious that it affected me, a few days later I was beaten
in my own cell and my things were stolen… That’s when I knew like I’d
be an easy target if I didn’t step up. It was about surviving, and it was
about getting to the man before he could get to me, yeah. I started rolling
with some of the mandem (group of associates) that I knew of from the
streets and week in week out I saw guys get hurt.
126 M. RAHMAN
Indeed, Marco’s sentiments resonates Robinson and Ryder’s (2013)

psychosocial understanding of ‘courage under fire’, where the term ‘fire’
alludes to destructive factors, that is, violence against Marco. In Marco’s
narrative, the institution was a place of ‘battle’ and the ‘survival of the
fittest’ (all subsequent quotes are from Marco and Zane). Being insti-
tutionalised required him to be violent, even though he ‘was never a
fighter’. Marco describes how violence was imposed upon him: ‘…it was
about getting to the man before he could get to me’—and justified this
as a ‘surviving’ mechanism. While Marco was serving his sentence, Zane
would spend his time after school on the streets under the watchful eye
of his retired father, who worked in the scrap metal industry for almost
40 years. Zane recalls how his father’s parenting style was often a mixture
of authoritarian and disciplinarian, and this exacerbated after Marco’s
imprisonment:
My dad was a tough guy to please, so no one bothered pleasing him. Out
of all of us, mum says that he spent the most time with me. He was a
dominos man, and enjoyed playing with the other old men on most nights
at the local social club. He enjoyed his drink, horses and boxing. He
couldn’t stand any other sports… I’d go to the social time to time after
school to show my face, but I would nip around the back and neck down
a few Shandy and Hooch bottles. I’d also play some pool with some of the
lads. It was fun times, man, a good laugh… Even though home life and
school was rough, and trouble was always around, you know how it is in
the inner-city. You don’t have much but life back then was good.
According to Zane, spending time with his father meant that he was
always earwigging on customary social conversations about work, sports,
women and local affairs. Being close to his father meant that Zane was
also exposed to familial relations. In Marco’s gym, Zane tells me the
complexities in his family life:
I noticed from like an early age, he couldn’t stand one of my older broth-
ers. I never understood why because he was a diamond guy. You know, a
top man. He was a grafter and always worked hard. And when he didn’t,
he was always keeping himself in shape and working out. Plus, he was nice
to me. He would call me the “the little bastard of the family”, which was
true, because I was all over the place. But my dad couldn’t stand him man,
he would curse him at any given chance and you know, put him down.
Mum wouldn’t say anything, probably in fear of getting smacked.
One particular evening, Zane was able to witness his father’s distaste
for his older brother. His brother fought in an exhibition boxing match,
of which Zane attended. Zane’s brother lost the fight and was knocked
out in the process. To his surprise, after the fight, Zane watched his
father laugh at his brother frantically while the defeated sibling was being
treated ringside. He confronted his father and kicked him in the shin.
Zane’s father retaliated, and assaulted him in the boxing gym in front
of others, before taking him home and making him an example in front
of his mother and his siblings. Zane was also scolded with an iron rod, a
mark that is visible whenever his left forearm is exposed:
He was a bully, and a piece of shit. The fucked up thing was for a while
I was just an angry person. I started doing shit at school and fighting with
anyone that reminded me of my dad. It’s funny because, how can a school
boy remind you of your dad? But somehow, anytime I thought about
him, or someone spoke about him, I’d just want to hurt someone close
or next to me really bad. It was messed up, man. He completely fucked
me up. And I didn’t have much respect for him after that. I started doing
my own shit. I was robbing people and other type of craziness, yeah. But I
can’t explain it. I was also missing Marco, and I know that half of the bad
stuff I did back then was because he wasn’t there for me… But things just
worse when he came out. We started doing [armed] robberies, and all that
madness…
Marco provided a vague description of him as an armed robber with his

brother, Zane:
We were involved in a string of armed robberies. Some of our hits were

even featured on TV. We were hitting [cash-in-] transit drivers who would
collect funds from banks, supermarket and that. First it started out as a
means to put food on the table you get me, but after it was strictly about
money. We made some good funds, man, and it was because those jobs
were carefully planned. But we spent money on stupid and silly things. In
the end that’s what screwed me and Zane up. More so Zane, because he
could have got away with it, but got careless because like me he thought
he was too much of a big man. We just got too greedy to be frank, and we
didn’t know when to stop…I can’t explain, but there was a time when like
the adrenaline of going for a job was more of a buzz than actually making
money. And that got us nabbed!
128 M. RAHMAN
In a psychoanalytical context, Zane’s victimisation experience and his

father’s authoritarian and disciplinarian parenting styles, reside within his
preconsciousness (Freud 1923), which means that the unconsciousness is
latent, and capable of becoming conscious at any given time with ease. In
the standard Freudian manner (Freud 2010), the preconsciousness is closer
to one’s consciousness than the unconsciousness, which therefore explains
that while Zane was consciously aware that being a ‘bully’ was ‘messed
up’, he was unconsciously troubled by his inability to repress his disturbing
urges. While Zane discussed other traumatic familial experiences, he often
returned to this experience as a reference point, of which he also blames for
being expelled from school. Interestingly, Zane mentions his absent rela-
tionship with Marco at the height of his difficulties. Robinson and Ryder
(2013, p. 438) in their psychosocial perspective on violence argue:
Those who experience unsuccessful attachment may continue to perceive

others as self-objects to use for their own needs, not recognizing those of
others, and producing maladaptive defenses. Failure to form empathy or
empathetic failure is one such defense. Violence is another.
Based on the above, it can be said that Marco and Zane’s development
of violent practice occurred because of enduring traumatic experiences
in chaotic environments. For Marco, being imprisoned required him to
adhere to the unwritten prison value systems (Ohlin 1956; Sykes and
Messinger 1960; Einat and Einat 2000; Einat 2004), of which includes
the prescriptions that inmates should hold anti-authority views, frat-
ernise as little as possible with the prison regime, and be loyal to fellow
inmates—i.e. display emotional fortitude and physical manliness, which
invariably encompasses violent practice. In great depth, Marco discussed
with me how most violent encounters during his first stint of impris-
onment was because of ‘grassing’, which Sykes and Messinger (1960,
p. 7) define as the ‘betrayal of a fellow captive to the institutional offi-
cials’, and alluded that ‘in general, no qualification of mitigating circum-
stance is recognised’. He provided me with multiple examples of inmates
that were considered to be a ‘grass’, and how in the grand scheme of
prison culture, those fitting the description of a grass are considered equal
to sex offenders and paedophiles, which in his own words are ‘scum’ and
the ‘lowest of the low’. Furthermore, he noted the gravitas of violence in
the penal system, however it could be assumed that to a certain extent,
the transition from his social environment to the prison environment in
regards to principle was simplistic, given the fact that prisoners who are
integrated into organised criminal cultures, or those that are from urban
knit communities, social; professional; and progressive reputation may
hinder on one’s ability to keep his mouth shut (Parker 1970). Of note,
during reflexive observations of the brothers, I could identify their transi-
tion of violence from what was initially a defensive mechanism, to some-
thing that later became a commodity and physical capital:
I found it interesting how Marco and Zane have been able to rationalise
their violence, and how they have been able to reflect on such acts from
two extreme ends of the spectrum. On one side, they discuss cases of
violent practice as something that was forced upon them to engage into
avoid victimisation and maintain survival in their respective chaotic milieus.
And on the other hand, the brothers reflected on how they employed
violence to become feared players in Birmingham’s criminal landscape.
Theoretically when I reflect on their positions, the conclusion that I come
to is that these are not ‘most men’, but men who felt it was necessary to
reaffirm and impose their superiority in what Agamben (2005) calls ‘state
of exception’, whereby the dominant force refutes ethical codes.
(Reflexive Extract)
Indeed, the above reflexive extract presents the understanding that the
values and beliefs that these men own are rare in mainstream society, and
can only be ignited through a profound conversion of the individual’s
psyche, which therefore separates them from ‘most men’ (Polk 1998;
Maruna 2001; Hall 2012; Holligan and Deuchar 2014). Through my
ethnographic observations, periodically I would have intense discussions
with Marco about the business side of crime, namely organised crime. In
such conversations, his views would often provide descriptions of capi-
talist undertones. As this empirical research required me to unravel the
meanings of violent practice, on one particular day at his gym I decided
to ask Marco a series of questions that considered the entrepreneurial
aspect of his criminality. In doing so, I hoped to further chart his motives
of being submerged in the underworld.
MR: One thing that fascinates me with your story is your focus on money
and the acquisition of money. You talked about how you got involved
in a string of armed robberies when you got out of prison. I know it’s
easier said than done, but did you ever think about going straight by
getting yourself a normal job?
130 M. RAHMAN
Marco: Hmm. The reason why I think about money is because everything
revolves around it. We can no longer function without it. When I was
inside, it did cross my mind to go legit, and when I came out I did
try. I applied for a few delivery jobs, but every company wanted expe-
rience. Some of them would give me lame reasons. And then I used to
think to myself, people with degrees and no criminal records around
me are finding it difficult to get jobs, so what fucking chance do I have?
Money was a big thing for me, and my thing was one way or another,
I’d be getting me some money. I grew up with no finances and my
thing was that I didn’t want my adult life to be the same. Soon after,
I went back on road again.
MR: I see. When you think about money and income generation, what
goes through your mind?
Marco: A lot of things. Growing up, the family would suffer badly during
the winter. We lacked the basics, like heating and hot water. At times,
we would go hours or days without electricity because the family had
no money to top-up the meter. As a child, these things wouldn’t cross
your mind too much, but for me I knew it was happening because the
family lacked finances. I would go with my mum to the council office
when she’d complain to the officers about damp and other property
related stuff. For me to see my mother go through that was painful,
and I would always think to myself, even back then, that this could
never happen to me.
MR: It appears that you knew a lot back then about day-to-day living and
finances. How much of that played in your mind during childhood and
your adult life?
Marco: Of course, it played as a massive part during my childhood. School
made it worse. You’d compare yourself to other children and realise
how little you have. My family was so broke that me and three siblings
used to share one school bag. In different ways, it bothers me emotion-
ally and it’s because I’m from a marginalised background. And I think
emotions is a powerful thing, because if you find it difficult to channel
your emotions, then you’re absolutely fucked.
MR: Do you think emotions play a significant role in the underworld, and
if so to what extent did emotions impact you as a person?
Marco: Mmm [brief pause]… I think so. A guy in prison told me, that
emotions alone can get you 35 to life. We all have emotions, right? I
guess on road, you’re not meant to show them, but one way they’ll
come out. I think for me, a lot of my problems, including money prob-
lems are because of emotions. Growing up, I couldn’t afford the basics
because I was broke. Even when I had a legit job, I was still broke. I
couldn’t afford to buy a car, and instead would take the train [to work],
and you know how inflated train fucking prices are. People pick up on
these things, and see you differently, especially when others are driving
and you’re not. And then you got stress on road, especially when you’re
involved and surrounded by badness and madness. You need to keep in
check those emotions, as you don’t want to do anything on impulse…
On road, I used to always vision the future and think about how to get
myself out of the struggle, and I would always start off with thinking
about money and would end on money… After all, once you’ve got
money, you’ve got everything, or everything falls into place. The thing
is, you think about these things, but never speak out about them, and
that is a massive struggle itself. You only stop thinking about them once
you’ve got all the things in front of you.
Marco and Zane provide the understanding that violent practice was
not initially part of their identities; however, their participation in vio-
lence, albeit victims or offenders, were facets that they are seemingly
unable to repress. While this may be the case, within a Freudian context,
their reasoning to partake in violence was exacerbated by their super-
ego, which incorporates the values and moral of society. For the broth-
ers, this is the acknowledgement of traumatic experiences witnessed in
their respective milieus, which have fostered upon them the need to
engage in violence to survive and avoid further victimisation (Freud
1923). Based on the above excerpt, Marco shows deep concerns about
the social inequalities that have occurred throughout his life, chiefly
due to the advent of neo-liberalism and all that it entails. Indeed, the
privatisation of services, such as jobs, housing and transport has created
‘creative destruction’ in the Western world (Harvey 2005). The reduc-
tion of state services, such as social security, has resulted in favourable
private alternatives that are driven by economic gain. By default, this
marginalises those that are mainly from working-class backgrounds, and
it is accumulative experiences that exacerbates individuals to feel physi-
cally and symbolically devalued. In my lengthy discussions with Marco, I
grasped the material and symbolic successes that he craves. He grew up
during the New Labour era that championed raising aspirations, albeit
under neoliberal values of meritocracy. However, the Third Way was
implemented over a backdrop of toxic structural inequalities that offered
young marginalised people a ‘cruel optimism’ (Berlant 2011).
In addition, he reveals the importance of economic capital for his pur-
pose of being submerged in the underworld. However, Marco rational-
ises his position as an offender by offering examples of his attempts to
132 M. RAHMAN
‘go legit’. His unsuccessful attempts of becoming a law-abiding citizen

seemingly affected his masculine currency. By not being able afford a
car when ‘others are driving’ depicts how emasculated Marco felt when
he occupied a position in the upperworld. So too, the need for men to
possess a level of masculinity has significant relevance when it comes to
displaying and exerting dominance and power over their peers. In the
previous subsection of this chapter, I offered examples through Clive’s
biographical accounts of hypothetical scenarios of harm. Whilst Clive’s
scenarios of harm were physical and psychological, it is evident that
Marco’s scenarios of harm are underpinned because of symbolic strug-
gle in the everyday. Individuals like him are seduced by the possibilities
of hope and aspirations, yet they battle to embrace the material bases to
actualise self, which then leads them to think deeply about their purpose
in life (Bakkali 2019). Indeed, such existential worries accompanied by
everyday exposure to road life, namely underworld activities, contrib-
utes towards a vicious cycle of mental trauma and existential insecurities.
As Marco puts forward, ‘emotions alone can get you 35 to life’. This
powerful statement alone returns to the central argument of this chapter,
which is that the containment of harmful dispositions becomes integral
for one’s behaviours, interactions and trajectories in the underworld.
The biographical accounts in this chapter have provided in-depth under-
standings of violent men and their criminal interactions. Through the-
oretical inputs, this chapter charts a strong synergy between traumatic
and humiliating experiences during childhood and adolescent years, and
the propensity of acquiring a violent identity during adulthood. The nar-
rative accounts have been useful for providing an array of meanings for
one’s standpoint in the field, and the transmission of values and com-
mon ‘schemes of perceptions’ (Bourdieu 1990, p. 60). The acquired
biographical accounts depict the significance of how stories convey
understandings of social structures and causal relationships.
Scholars and critics may argue the relevance of narratives to social
structure, but here we should recall the unspoken and internalised
thoughts of Clive and Marco, whose harms are visceral and subsequently
deep-rooted in their habitus. So too, stories, as well as scenarios of harm
reflect one’s position in the social and their perspectives. The ‘scenarios
of harms’ discussed in this chapter were not voiced explicitly. Rather,
understanding one’s latent forms of harm came because of interrogating

silences. Indeed, it is the ‘suffering in silence’ (Glynn 2014, p. 43) that
shapes a person’s street field and the kind of narratives that are told.
Where most men would walk away from violent confrontations by
viewing situations as physical risk, the men in this chapter saw such sce-
narios as challenges that needed to be dealt with head on. Where most
men may ‘talk the talk’ about responding to violent encounters, the men
in this chapter ‘walked the walk’, and at the same time ensured that they
impose their superiority and manliness in full effect. Where most men
would be content in having defective social and familial relationships and
dead end jobs, those described in his chapter have constructed them-
selves of what Ellis et al. (2017, p. 4) consider ‘titans of a free market’,
and present the narrative of self-pleasure, which in the grand scheme of
things presents one as having a self-centred and self-righteous view of
what they inhabit.
This chapter concludes the empirical aspects of the book. In the next
chapter, through theoretical underpinnings, I revisit the cases and bio-
graphical accounts to provide summarised accounts. I conclude by recap-
ping the study and discussing recommendations for future work.
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CHAPTER 6
Homicide and Organised Crime

in Birmingham, West Midlands: Future
Directions and Closing Comments
Abstract  This chapter summarises the book and reiterates the main

arguments that have been drawn from empirical research. Towards
the end of the chapter, recommendations are offered on how we can
improve our understanding of organised crime within the context of
policy, law enforcement and academia.
Keywords  Biography · Birmingham · Case study · Ethics ·

Ethnography · Glocal · Hitman/Hitmen · Homicide · Industry ·
Law enforcement · Masculinity · Methodology · Organised crime ·
Recommendations · Scenarios of harm
This book has been about the nature, extent and meaning of violent
practice, namely homicide and organised crime in the West Midlands.
The arguments and evidence presented in the final few pages sketch
out that violent practice, namely fatal violence is a recurring feature in
Birmingham’s criminal landscape, and this has been the case since the
late nineteenth century. It is difficult to think of the industrial revolution
without thinking of the West Midlands, namely the city of Birmingham,
which has a longstanding history of being Europe’s epicentre of com-
merce and industry since the eighteenth century. As this book points
out, with Birmingham’s bustling economy came violent conflict from
subordinate men, who would happily display toughness in a collective
capacity. However, the advent of globalisation in a de-industrialised

138 M. RAHMAN
epoch has caused major shifts in masculine identities as well as the

functional make up of violent practice and organised crime.
The shift from industrial to post-industrial masculine identities, and
from collective toughness to entrepreneurially driven violent practice
has been unsteady. So too, the empirical findings of this book illumi-
nates that criminal identities, of which entails the use of violence, has
been influenced by the demise of traditional structures and the provi-
sion of illicit goods and geopolitical influences. Pitts (2008) and Densley
(2014) agree that the advent of globalisation has changed the business
models of traditional criminal enterprises to accommodate youth gangs.
This book has considered how some individuals, who had descriptions
of being part of youth fraternities, made the successful leap to criminal
enterprise and governance. With this leap came the unavoidable world of
violence, and in some cases, fatal violence. Indeed, when masculinity and
collective identities are challenged, and contested in street-level organ-
ised crime, the masculine readiness to engage in physical violence in
response to such challenges is paramount. Simply put, there is no room
for compromise or negotiation, as in some cases, it is kill or be killed.
This book has also identified the ‘glocal’ influences of homicide
within organised crime. The murder of Gary Morgan depicts how fatal
violence transcends beyond international borders, and how the ‘glo-
cality’ of this catastrophic crime parallels with the business imperatives
(Hall 2012). Through primary accounts, this book established the
extent of O’Toole’s violent behaviour in the underworld. Moreover, the
accounts have been fruitful to identify his role within criminal organisa-
tions. John’s intimate account highlighted that O’Toole never had the
temperament of being part of ‘the “business side” of criminal opera-
tions’, which invariably means the higher echelons of organised crime.
With that being said, John noted that O’Toole was a guy who ‘you could
rely on to do your dirty work’. These perspectives parallel the European
Commission’s (2001) understanding that traditional hierarchal struc-
tures are now being replaced by loose networks of criminals. Moreover,
Europol (2006) also argue that criminal groups are also becoming
increasingly heterogeneous and dynamically organised in structural
terms, moving towards loose networks rather than pyramidal monoliths.
Furthermore, law enforcement agencies fail to explore what types of
individuals are involved in loose networks. Therefore, it can be argued,
that contract killers like O’Toole fit into loose networks for various
reasons.
6 HOMICIDE AND ORGANISED CRIME IN BIRMINGHAM … 139
Of note, organised crime groups that operate within a transnational

context are likely to be vigilant of law enforcement due to the expan-
sive nature of their enterprises. The core functionalities of their criminal
enterprises mirror regional and national criminal syndicates, which is to
acquire profit and power. Second, and as discussed in previous chapters,
the maintenance of enterprises requires the use of violence, a commodity
which is the common thread for an alternative form of criminal justice.
Thus, the role of the hitman is to essentially ‘slip into a city, carry out
his “assignment”’ and disappear. In the underworld labour market, con-
tract killers, like O’Toole, are essential commodities for criminal organi-
sations, who will hire out this fatal service, to distance themselves in cases
of homicide.
Here, it is important to consider the psyche of O’Toole. From the nar-
rative accounts, he was a prolific violent offender who had a penchant for
inflicting serious harm. His crimes offer the understanding of extreme
hedonism and hyper-masculine behaviour. Indeed, he would have been
aware that these traits would earn him respect in the criminal underworld,
and therefore the need to maintain this idealised image was essential for
his role as a commodifier of death. In Lacanian terms, Zizek (2006) con-
siders this to be the representation of the ‘ideal ego’, whereby an indi-
vidual constructs their identity in a manner that they wish be perceived
in the eyes of others. Moreover, the ‘overkill’ nature of his violence illus-
trates the understanding of painful jouissance, whereby the pleasure for
aggressively rectifying a situation becomes a risk worth taking, which in
most cases is barely considered (Winlow and Hall 2009). For O’Toole,
as exemplified through his career of violence, this ideal ego has been
moulded by wider socio-cultural experiences, which Ellis (2016) rightly
argues to be connected to the notions of self-worth and dignity, and the
willingness to confront any threats with displays of physical aggression. In
short, a contract killing is a trait in the underworld that is employed to
maintain a set of relationships. While it is accepted that all contract killings
are not carried out by gangland-affiliated hitmen, hits are, therefore, a rel-
atively niche function, essential pragmatically and symbolically.
The case study of Richard Deakin is one that entails murder and com-
plex webs of organised crime. Organised crime, violence, and hits spe-
cifically tend to be blurred, slippery and indistinct phenomena, and are
therefore fiercely resistant to absolute and authorative statements, no
matter how tempting these might be. That having been said, it is also
possible to use Richard’s murder to reveal a little more about the modus
140 M. RAHMAN
operandi of Journeymen hitmen and suggest something of their role

within organised crime in the West Midlands. So, in using this murder in
this broader way, this book has endeavoured to place it within the con-
text of two other incidents, which was established through intra-familial
links and illegal trading networks. Similarly, to O’Toole, the weapon of
choice for David Harrison was a firearm. It can be argued that this is
a point of interest, given the fact that the United Kingdom has some
of the toughest gun control laws in the world, and specifically for
Birmingham; a city that was once a proud manufacturer of weaponry in
the industrial era, that is now renowned as UK’s gun capital due to a
spike in firearms related incidents. In many ways, Harrison almost com-
mitted the perfect assassination. He left no forensic evidence at the crime
scene and successfully disposed of the used shotgun, which to date, has
not be recovered by the police.
Interestingly, albeit unsurprisingly, Harrison did not cooperate with
police when it came to establishing who ordered Richard’s hit. This
characteristic is not foreign with actors in the underworld, and aligns
with the notion of omertà (Gambetta 2009), which essentially means to
adhere to a code of silence about any criminal activity. By successfully
adhering to a code of silence, criminal fraternities can then take control
of an alternative criminal justice process, which often entails homicidal
reprisals. Thus, by positioning themselves as ‘criminal undertakers’ (Hall
2012), individuals aim to journey from the ranks of the exploited to the
exploiters (Winlow 2014). Taken as a whole, the incidents leading up to
Richard’s murder would seem to reveal both personal and commercial
relationships and an often chaotic world of loyalty, distrust and calcula-
tion. In doing so, I argue that several characters within this tragic case
were clearly ‘criminal entrepreneurs’ (Winlow 2001; Hobbs 2013)—
intelligent, resourceful men who were prepared to use violence, includ-
ing lethal violence, to achieve their objectives, whether the context for
those objectives was legitimate or otherwise.
The biographical accounts in this book are consistent with recent
reviews of the psychosocial roots in the context of young men (Robinson
and Ryder 2013; Holligan and Deuchar 2014; Ellis et al. 2017). As Gates
(2006, p. 28) rightfully observes, masculinity is not a collection of male
attitudes possessed from birth, but rather is a ‘set of expectations that
society deems appropriate for a male subject to exhibit’. This study has
established that there is a strong link between traumatic and humiliating
experiences during childhood and adolescent years, and the propensity
of acquiring a violent identity during adulthood. However, as Ellis et al.

(2017, p. 14) critically observe, ‘traumatic experience by itself is not
enough to drive the individual towards violence’, but rather ‘we must also
acknowledge the social and cultural specificities’ of those that we study.
So too, this study has also acknowledged the social, cultural, social and
economic influences of organised crime and violent practice through sev-
eral persuasive Bourdieusian theoretical paradigms, and in doing so, it
depicts how violent men are often in warfare with their mirror image, as
criminal fraternities in the capitalist era undertake ‘special liberties’ (Hall
2012), by configurating their ethical codes (Freud 1923) to employ
harmful behaviour to elevate themselves within an asocial hierarchy.
As humans, we are neurotic. Our predispositions contain curiosities
and we often think of solutions to our complex problems. If we do not
think about solutions, then at the very least, we think about the prob-
lem. When we have limited control over a situation, we become avid
scenario creators. We can tell stories, imagine the experiences of oth-
ers, reflect on moral dilemmas, contemplate potential explanations and
picture future situations. It is nested scenario building that helps us
to simulate and reflect in a sophisticated manner on things that range
from being trivial to harmful, from lawful to lawless. So too, through
biographical and ethnographical accounts, I successfully illustrate how
hypothetical scenarios of harm comprise of conditions that are found to
be favourable to the individual, but are often shaped by real situations
that have been unfavourable to the individual. Indeed, a person’s sce-
narios can be constructed because of their habitus, that is their ingrained
dispositions, and their fields, that is their settings which position their
social locations. One could argue that scenarios of harm affect all types
of individuals, as it is often difficult to suppress harrowing experiences
into one’s unconsciousness. However, as this book reveals, the scenarios
of harm for actors in the underworld are visceral, and are impactful to
the extent that it becomes influential when shaping their street habitus.
Recommendations for Policy, Law Enforcement

and Academics: Future Directions and Potential
Implications of the Study
The intention of this book was never to provide a ‘generalised’ solution
for violence in organised crime, nor to design a policy that would some-
what provide an understanding of ‘reducing’ violence within organised
142 M. RAHMAN
crime. The aim of this study has always been to provide a ‘reliable’ and
truthful account of the nature and meaning of violence and lethal vio-
lence in organised crime within a concentrated and overlooked locale.
While there is a current UK focus on combatting criminal enterprises,
one of the intentions of this research was to unpack how effective
or ineffective current policy and legislation is in relation to criminal
groups. As discussed in Chapter 2, the current political landscape of seri-
ous and organised crime needs dedicated and critical attention. Within
a policy standpoint, combatting organised crime in the UK needs to
be taken seriously. In the latest Serious and Organised Crime Strategy
(GOV.UK 2018), the Home Office committed £48 million for tackling
organised crime in 2019. Of note, the National Crime Agency estimate
that organised crime economically costs the UK at least £37 billion a
year. Put simply, a £48 million budget is not going to eradicate a £37
billion problem. In addition, what is also concerning is the British gov-
ernment’s approach to crimes that are a threat to national security. Both
terrorism and organised crime are deemed to be national threats to secu-
rity, however there are more fatalities in the UK because of organised
crime, than all other national security threats combined. Yet, in 2017,
£707 million was put forward by central government for counter-terror-
ism policing, and another £160 million is due to be funded in 2019. In
sum, a cash injection is much needed to tackle organised crime and for
any national strategy to successfully work.
As mentioned, organised crime is a national issue, and by default
this warrants local, regional and national law enforcement responses.
Although each law enforcement agency leads its own operations, they
also develop and disseminate intelligence to partners to disrupt criminal
operations. This is no different when responding to serious and organ-
ised crime. Periodically, one of the issues that law enforcement agencies
face is a lack of communication and coordination with each other. By
no means is this due to unskilled agents. Rather, often what facilitates
issues of communication and coordination in any organisation is strate-
gic responses to matters that are centralised but not standardised. As it
currently stands, responses to organised crime in the UK are centralised,
which means that measures are bespoke to a particular region. Indeed,
this is effective for crimes that are in fixed terrain, however given the
sophisticated and glocal nature of organised crime, responses should
angle towards being standardised, which would mean that strategic
responses are homogenous and streamlined across all locales. Invariably,
this would also ensure a more strategic response to combatting serious

and organised crime on a national scale. Having said this, I am conscious
that the rigidity of standardisation may be problematic, as law enforce-
ment are often challenged by finances, risks, lack of approval from senior
stakeholders and other intersectional facets. Nonetheless, I would advo-
cate law enforcement agents to adopt a rudimental unanimity under-
standing of organised crime and key factors that facilitate this serious
crime.
While the National Crime Agency have estimated that serious and
organised crime has an economic cost of £37 billion a year, we should
be mindful that this is a ‘dark figure’ (Coleman and Moynihan 1996),
which is a term employed by criminologists to describe the amount of
unreported or undiscovered crime. One of the biggest forms of crime,
even in organised crime settings is online fraud. Financial estimations
within the context of organised online fraud vary, and the same can be
said for crimes on the ‘dark net’ (Bartlett 2015). Those that commit
these crimes live in the analogue world, however their nefarious actions
occupy the digital world. Hence, through Bourdieusian epistemologies,
there is potential scope for scholars theorise the digital world as a field
that is an extension of street culture and street habitus. To achieve this
methodologically, I believe adopting ethnomethodologies is crucial for
deep insights about issues that are endemic. Ethically, however, ethnog-
raphers must be mindful to treat research subjects with integrity, com-
passion and empathy. Integrity is a crucial characteristic that should be
central to all aspects of academic inquiry. Often, however, compassion
is confused with empathy. Compassion is widely defined as the ability
to understand the emotional state of an individual. Having compassion
entails the desire to alleviate suffering. So too, empathy, as most people
know of it, is the ability to literally or figuratively put yourself in the posi-
tion of another person. If ethnographers incorporate these traits in their
work, naturally it will generate novel studies that exude academic rigour.
Closing Comments
For most of the men in this study, violence is a prized and marketable
asset. Indeed, it is violence that becomes a constant reminder of the
nasty realities of the world that they have chosen. For these men, with
opportunity came conflict, a vital ingredient for continuous and sophisti-
cated criminality. Along with requisite ambition and aspiration, all those
144 M. RAHMAN
involved in this subculture are comfortable for the most part, and live
with conflict and its consequences. No matter how at peace they may
seem with themselves, and no matter how much they enjoy themselves
along the way, they never forget that violence is an alternative form of
criminal justice, and more importantly, a justice of self.
References
Bartlett, J. (2015). The Dark Net. London: Windmill Books.
Coleman, C., & Moynihan, J. (1996). Understanding Crime Data: Haunted by
the Dark Figure. Buckingham: Open University Press.
London: Routledge.
Review, 65(4), 1–15.
European Commission. (2001). Towards a European Strategy to Prevent
Organised Crime. Brussels: Commission of the European Communities.
Europol. (2006). Organised Crime and Threat Assessment. Available at:
https://www.europol.europa.eu/activities-services/main-reports/octa-2006-
eu-organised-crime-threat-assessment. Last accessed 26 Sept 2018.
Freud, S. (1923). The Ego and the Id. SE, 19, 1–66.
Gambetta, D. (2009). Codes of the Underworld: How Criminals Communicate.
Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Gates, P. (2006). Detecting Men: Masculinity and the Hollywood Detective Film.
Albany, NY: State of New York Press.
GOV.UK. (2018). Serious Organised Crime Strategy. Available at: https://www.
gov.uk/government/publications/serious-and-organised-crime-strategy-2018.
Last accessed 12 Dec 2018.
Sage.
Holligan, C., & Deuchar, R. (2014). What Does It Mean to Be a Man?
Pitts, J. (2008). Reluctant Gangsters: The Changing Face of Youth Crime. Devon:
Willan.
Robinson, R. A., & Ryder, J. A. (2013). Psychosocial Perspectives of Girls and

Violence: Implications for Policy and Practice. Critical Criminology, 21,
431–445.
Berg.
Winlow, S. (2014). Some Thoughts on Steve Hall’s Theorizing Crime and
Winlow, S., and Hall, S. (2009). Retaliate First: Memory, Humiliation and Male
Violence. Crime Media and Culture, 5(3), 285–304.
Zizek, S. (2006). How to Read Lacan. London: Norton.
Index
A Bourdieu, P., 52, 53, 110, 111, 114,

Actus reus, 37 123, 132
Adams family, 17, 73, 74, 79, 80, 82 Brookman, F., 37, 41
Aetiology, 4, 47, 53 Burmmagem boys, 31, 32
Altheide, D.L., 13
Anderson, E., 6, 42, 122
Anslow, John, 18, 90, 91, 100–104 C
Arin, C., 40 Capital, 4, 5, 39, 52, 53, 85, 95, 96,
Astbury, Leigh, 92, 99, 103 110, 113, 124, 129, 131, 140
Atkinson, P., 9 Capitalism, 35, 49
Case study, 12, 13, 15, 49, 54, 91, 92,
103, 139
B Centre for Contemporary Cultural
Bakkali, Y., 5, 132 Studies (CCCS), 35
Bhaskar, R., 7 Chicago School, 9
Billy Kimber, 31 Chinn, C., 26, 28, 30–32
Biographical accounts, 10, 15, 18, Christie, N., 4
105, 110, 111, 125, 132, 133, Class, 30, 32, 34, 35, 39, 41, 52, 115
140 Competition, 30, 33, 35, 48
Birmingham, 1–3, 5, 12, 14, 16–18, Consciousness, 105, 123, 128
26–28, 30–36, 39, 47, 53, 54, Consumerism, 35, 36, 48
66, 71, 72, 75–77, 93, 95, 100, Contract killing, 19, 65, 69, 85, 90,
105, 112, 117, 122, 129, 137, 102, 139
140 County lines, 46, 47
Black Country, 27 Criminal entrée, 124
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license 147
to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2019
Crime and Society, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-16253-5
148 Index
Criminal entrepreneurship, 41, 101, F

103 Fatal violence, 5, 29, 36, 39, 41, 42,
Criminal groups, 5, 6, 17, 19, 26, 30, 53, 102, 137, 138
37, 40, 46, 54, 138, 142 Field, 5, 9, 18, 47, 50, 52, 53, 110,
Criminal networks, 5, 16, 17, 26, 30, 111, 114, 123, 124, 132, 141,
75, 81, 103 143
Criminal undertakers, 49, 92, 140 Fieldwork, 10, 11, 13, 14, 45, 47, 53,
Criminological autopsy, 10 77
Critical realism, 7, 8 Foucault, M., 38
Cultural homicide, 39 Fraser, A., 8, 16, 19, 39, 84, 90, 110,
123
Freud, S., 8, 50, 51, 53, 122, 123,
D 128, 131, 141
Dark Ages, 48
Dash-cam ethnography, 9–11
Dawes, Robert, 78–84 G
Deakin, Richard, 13, 17, 85, 90, 91, Gambetta, D., 66, 140
97, 139 Gangs, 5, 17, 29–32, 36, 43, 45, 46,
Definition, 16, 37, 42–46, 84, 98 49, 77, 113, 138
Denscombe, M., 12, 14 Glocal, 17, 26, 44, 49, 67, 71, 78, 79,
Densley, J., 5, 19, 45, 46, 49, 50, 138 82, 84, 124, 138, 142
Deuchar, R., 5, 8, 16, 19, 36, 39, 110, Glynn, M., 113, 133
113, 119, 129, 140 Goffman, A., 6
Drugs, 17, 42–46, 66, 71, 73, 75, Gooderson, P., 28, 30, 31
78–82, 92, 93, 96, 100, 104, Government, 17, 33, 34, 43, 46, 142
112, 114, 117, 118, 121, 124, Gun Quarter, 27, 28
125
H
E Habitus, 52, 53, 110, 123, 132, 141
Ego, 51–53, 139 Hall, S., 5, 7, 8, 16, 28–30, 35, 38,
Ego-ideal, 52 39, 41, 47–49, 83, 92, 94, 105,
Eisner, M., 29, 30 110, 119, 122, 129, 138–141
Ellis, A., 5, 8, 16, 19, 33, 36, 39, 47, Hallsworth, S., 19, 35
49, 84, 90, 133, 139–141 Harm, 2, 4, 6–8, 15, 19, 28, 36, 40,
Epistemology, 6, 52, 53 42, 47–50, 72, 83, 92, 94, 96,
Ethics, 15, 51 105, 110, 111, 120, 122, 123,
Ethnography 125, 132, 133, 139, 141
ethnographic content analysis Hayward, K., 35, 36, 38, 39
(ECA), 13 History, 16, 26, 28, 29, 93, 94, 105,
ethnomethodology, 9, 13 137
visual ethnography, 10
Europol, 138
Index 149
Hitman/Hitmen, 17, 19, 64–68, 71, Levi, M., 43, 93

82–84, 90–92, 94, 102, 104, Luckenbill, D., 38
105, 139, 140
HM Government, 43, 46
Hobbs, D., 8, 9, 16, 17, 19, 32, 33, M
38, 39, 41, 43, 44, 49, 73, 83, MacIntyre, D., 13, 17, 64, 65, 67, 91,
84, 104, 140 92, 94, 98, 102, 104, 105
Homicide. See Cultural homi- Manufacturing, 27, 33
cide; Instrumental homicide; Maruna, S., 129
Situational homicide Masculine honour, 38, 40, 64
Honour, 29, 30, 39, 40, 119 Masculinity, 16, 31, 40, 84, 119, 122,
Humiliation, 18, 19, 105, 122, 124 132, 138, 140
Matthews, R., 6
McLean, R., 19, 46
I Mens rea, 37
Id. See Freud, S. Methodology, 8, 12, 13
Industrial Revolution, 26, 27, 36, 137 Modernity, 26
Industry. See Industrial Revolution Monbiot, G., 35
Instrumental homicide, 40 Morgan, Gary, 13, 17, 76, 77, 138
Interviews, 14, 15, 67, 68, 90, 91, 95, Murder, 12, 13, 17, 26, 36, 37, 41,
101, 111 42, 65, 67, 74, 75, 77, 80, 84,
Introduction, 94 85, 90–94, 96, 98, 99, 102–104,
125, 138–140
J
Jewkes, Y., 13 N
Jimmy Moody, 67–71, 82 Narrative, 8, 11–13, 15, 16, 40, 72,
95, 96, 104, 110, 123, 125, 126,
132, 133, 139
K Narrative criminology, 15, 16, 110
Katz, J., 105, 122 National Crime Agency (NCA), 43,
Kray Twins, 41, 69 45, 46, 142, 143
Neoliberalism, 34, 35, 49, 131
Neutralisation, 105
L Nexis, 12, 13, 90
Language, 7, 16, 72, 110, 111, 119
Latent, 51, 124, 128, 133
Law enforcement, 5, 17, 43, 45, 46, O
67, 73, 80, 138, 139, 142, 143 Offender, 2, 14–16, 18, 32, 37, 38,
Legislation, 33, 44, 124, 142 42, 47, 50, 65, 90, 101, 105,
Legitimated, 28, 32, 38, 39, 41, 48, 110, 118, 125, 128, 131, 139
49, 53, 64, 73, 81, 103, 111, Office for National Statistics, 5, 36
121, 124 Omerta, 40
150 Index
Ontology, 6, 7 S
Organised crime, 2, 5, 8, 12, 13, Sandberg, S., 15, 110, 113, 123, 124
15–18, 26, 30, 32, 36, 37, 39– Sayer, 7, 8
47, 49, 52–54, 64, 66, 67, 70, Scenarios of harm, 19, 111, 132, 141
72, 73, 78, 79, 82–85, 91–94, Semi-structured interviews, 13, 110
102–104, 117, 129, 137–143 Serious Crimes Act, 44, 45
O’Toole, Peter, 17, 18, 66–68, 71–85, Situational homicide, 26, 38, 39
138–140 Skeggs, B., 53
Sloggers, 28, 30–32, 36, 39
Special liberty, 41, 49
P Spectator violence, 113, 119
Participants (research), 3, 10, 14, 15, Street field, 110, 113, 124, 133
66 Street habitus, 110, 111, 123, 125,
Peaky blinders, 28, 31, 32 141, 143
Pitts, J., 49, 138 Superego, 51, 52, 131
Pizzaro, J., 39, 40 Symbolic violence, 33, 110
Policy, 5, 13, 33, 43, 44, 54, 141, 142
Polk, K., 38, 114, 121, 129
Post-modernity, 26 T
Preconsciousness, 128 Thatcher, Margaret, 34
Presser, L., 15, 16, 110 Theory, 7, 16, 18, 29, 49, 50, 110
Privatisation, 131 Thrasher, F., 9, 113
Provisional Irish Republican Army Tolson, A., 31
(PIRA), 70, 71 Trauma, 2, 18, 19, 105, 113, 114,
Pseudo-pacification, 30, 33, 48, 49 117, 119, 121, 123–125, 128,
Psychoanalysis, 18, 50, 52, 53 131, 132, 140, 141
Psychosocial, 119, 126, 128, 140 Typology, 64, 94, 102
Pubs, 30, 31, 82, 83
U
R Ultra-realism, 7, 8, 16, 18, 47
Rahman, M., 13, 38, 49, 64, 68, 105 Unconsciousness, 50, 53, 111, 123,
Ray, L., 38, 39, 105 125, 128, 141
Real, 7, 12, 28, 40, 47, 51, 73, 111, United Nations Office on Drugs and
141 Crime (UNODC), 5, 40, 81
Recommendations, 18, 133, 141
Reflexivity, 9, 13, 75, 119, 129
Repression, 53, 105 V
Richardson gang, 41, 78 Venkatesh, S., 6
Victim, 3, 4, 15, 37, 38, 42, 65, 69,
71, 72, 75, 111, 116, 118, 120,
121, 131
Index 151
Violence, 2–5, 7, 8, 12, 18, 19, Wolfgang, M., 38

28–33, 38–42, 46–48, 50, 53, 54, Working-class, 26, 28, 30, 31, 33–36,
66, 71, 72, 75, 82, 90–93, 102, 78, 82, 83, 110, 131
103, 110, 111, 113, 114, 117– Wright, A., 43
126, 128, 129, 131, 138–144
von Lampe, K., 30, 32, 41, 42, 44, 73
Y
Yin, R., 12
W
Wacquant, L., 39, 123
West Midlands, 5, 12, 14, 16, 18, 19, Z
26, 33, 46, 54, 77, 91, 92, 94, Zizek, S., 49, 50, 139
99, 103, 137, 140
Willis, P., 35
Winlow, S., 5, 7, 8, 16, 19, 30, 31, 33,
35, 38, 47–49, 82, 83, 90, 92,
105, 110, 119, 122, 139, 140

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MIGRATION,

PALGRAVE STUDIES IN RISK, CRIME AND SOCIETY

More information about this series at

Palgrave Studies in Risk, Crime and Society

Cover credit: GettyImages-1014984568

The publication of Mohammed Rahman’s Homicide and Organised Crime

of marginalisation (for review, see Deuchar 2018). In her seminal work

Many patterns of behavior continue because they are defined as things

However, what is really novel about Rahman’s approach is his pio-

former enables Rahman to demonstrate how violence at times transcends

There is violence in gang violence but there is no conflict. It is not ‘about

Rahman’s compassionate unravelling of the root causes of these men’s

Paisley, Scotland Professor Ross Deuchar

Acquire knowledge and impart it to the people.

I am mindful of the well-known African proverb—I am because we are:

1 Introduction and Methodology 1

2 History, Homicide, Organised Crime, and Theory 25

3 Contract Killers and Glocal Organised Crime: A Case

4 Drugs, Guns, and Organised Crime: A Case Study

5 Violent Men: Trauma, Humiliation and Scenarios

6 Homicide and Organised Crime in Birmingham, West

Fig. 1.1 An example of dash-cam ethnography fieldwork. The location

Abstract This chapter succinctly discusses the personal and ­professional

Keywords Birmingham · Case study · Criminological autopsy ·

Primarily, this book is a culmination of three years of criminologi-

© The Author(s) 2019 1

Exploring Violent Practice: Focusing on Homicide

This book stems from funded doctoral research that I conducted

structures. My curiosity of violence stems from my own life experiences.

was that I was given an official copy of a CD that was much-needed to

multifaceted. As such, if criminology is to develop a comprehensive anal-

Research Philosophies and Methodologies

Ontology and Epistemology: Making Sense and Approaching

to provide novel perspectives of harm. Below I provide the influence of

1. Empirical – representative knowledge of events and their patterns;

(Hall and Winlow 2018, p. 51)

In sum, critical realism empowers social scientists to excavate beneath

Of note, ultra-realism develops from critical realism, but takes the

consider this to be when ‘analysis is done in the field while researchers

traditional structure of ethnography. In terms of observation and space,

Fig. 1.1 An example of dash-cam ethnography fieldwork. The location of a

This therefore allows rich narratives to be attained while appreciating the

approach for acquiring knowledge. Critics of Nexis would argue that

Ethnographic Content Analysis

conducted as they are deemed to be ‘flexible’ qualitative methods that

Table 1.1 The research participants

Name Age range Occupation Ethnicity Region(s)

Murphy 60–65 Construction White West Midlands

I ensured that participants anonymity, privacy, and confidentiality was

Taking the above into consideration, I made a habit of cross

Overview of the Book Chapters

some of ongoing scholarly debates about organised crime. The chapter

Unique Contributions to the Field

scholarly work on the nexus between homicide and criminal groups in

Fraser, A. (2015). Urban Legends: Gang Identity in the Post-Industrial City.

Holligan, C., & Deuchar, R. (2014). What Does It Mean to Be a Man?

Rodger, J. (2017). Summer of Gun Crime in Birmingham. Available at: https://

History, Homicide, Organised Crime,

Abstract This chapter offers insight into post-war Birmingham, new

Keywords Birmingham · Bourdieu · Class · Consumerism ·

© The Author(s) 2019 25

In what follows, I explore key literature on criminal groups, namely

A Brief Overview of History and Industry

Fig. 1.1 An example of dash-cam ethnography fieldwork. The location

Abstract  This chapter succinctly discusses the personal and professional

Keywords  Birmingham · Case study · Criminological autopsy ·

Exploring Violent Practice: Focusing on Homicide

Research Philosophies and Methodologies

Ontology and Epistemology: Making Sense and Approaching

1. Empirical – representative knowledge of events and their patterns;

Fig. 1.1 An example of dash-cam ethnography fieldwork. The location of a

Table 1.1 The research participants

Overview of the Book Chapters

Unique Contributions to the Field

Abstract  This chapter offers insight into post-war Birmingham, new

Keywords  Birmingham · Bourdieu · Class · Consumerism ·

A Brief Overview of History and Industry

Historical Patterns of Violent Crime, Birmingham’s

Situational Explanation of Homicide

Cultural Explanation of Homicide

Instrumental Explanation of Homicide

Organised Crime: Definitions and Ambiguities

1. The protection of property rights and the reduction of violent

Contract Killers and Glocal Organised

Abstract  This chapter explores the nebulous concept of hitmen and

Keywords  Adams family · Birmingham · Case study · Contract killing ·

To a certain extent, this chapter parallels the work of Brolan et al.

Nonetheless, similarly to MacIntyre et al. (2014), Shaw and Skywalker

Approach to the Case

Jimmy Moody: A Legacy of Fear