Roy Archibald Hall - The Wicked Mr Hall. The Memoirs Or a Real-life Murderer

I have been a criminal all my life. At my peak, I was possibly the best jewel thief in Britain. My record for stealing jewels would stand with anyones. I have lived in some of the most beautiful homes imaginable. I have stayed in the best hotels, drunk the best wines and eaten the very best cuisine. But where is the life of luxury now? Now I look forward to the release of death.

I was born on 17 July 1924 in Glasgow, Scotland. My family lived in a terraced house at 15 Albert Road, Victoria Park, a poor working-class district in the west section of the city. Life was very hard in those days and poverty was all around us.

My earliest memories are of my mother dressing me for school I must have been five or six and it would have been around 1930. Kneeling down in front of me she would vigorously rub Brylcreem into my hair before brushing it backwards to keep it out of my eyes. Putting my arms in first, she would pull on my green school blazer with the gold braid edging. Then, in a ritual that was intimate but distasteful, she would wet her handkerchief and wipe away smudges of food from around my mouth. My mother, Marian, was a beautiful, spirited woman and we would remain close all of our lives.

In over fifty years of being in and out of prison I have met many criminals. Some were illiterate, or semi-literate, but crime was one of the few ways that they could make decent money. This was not the case for me. I enjoyed school and did well at my lessons if I had wanted to, I could have succeeded in business. As a decent scholar, my schooldays passed by without incident. I rarely got into trouble, and my parents and teachers were pleased with my progress.

I met Anne Philips when I was fifteen. She owned the newsagents shop opposite our house, and she and my mother became friends. Anne was an elegant and attractive divorcee in her early thirties.

I started doing odd jobs for her in the shop moving heavy stock, serving behind the counter. As the months went by, we became firm friends. I always thought of her in a special way she had a slim figure, nice legs accentuated by high heels, and when she was close I was always aware of her perfume. At first we just made eye contact. She would catch me staring at her, but instead of just dismissing it, she looked back. That look was like heaven, it excited me like nothing else. I would stand close to her whenever I got the chance and I noticed that when I did, she didnt move away. Just the opposite, in fact, she would lean into me as we talked. Talking was irrelevant, just an excuse to stand close together so close that our bodies were almost touching and we were both aware of the energy.

It was on my sixteenth birthday, July 1940, ten months after the start of the Second World War, that the looking and leaning became something else. Anne took me out for a birthday dinner at an expensive Italian restaurant. She had been very attentive that day, very kind. I was wearing my first dinner jacket, which she had bought for me earlier. During the meal she smiled and touched my hand at any opportunity. She had the devil in her that night and was openly flirting with me. Between the first and second courses she dropped her napkin into my lap. As she retrieved it, her hand massaged my genitals and for a second she held me. Finishing that meal is one of the most uncomfortable things I have ever had to do. That touch had broken down all barriers and later that night she took me into her bedroom, and into her bed. Id had sex with girlfriends of my own age, but they were young, and I was young, and it was mainly a rushed, fumbling affair. Rushed and fumbling was not what an experienced woman like Anne wanted, nor was it, in the end, what she got. She encouraged me: Take your time Archie, slow down, thats better, thats much better. Before anything else, Anne would ask me to stroke her, kiss her, caress her. There was not one part of her body that did not feel my touch and my kiss. My friendly shopkeeper taught me how to please her, and ultimately how to please myself. I always felt that it was she who guided me through that rocky passage from boyhood to man.

The next day, when I went home resplendent in my new dinner jacket, there was an almighty row. My father was a religious man, a member of the Scottish Presbyterian Church and, although he didnt suspect anything untoward about me staying the night in Annes flat, he did see something wrong in my taking gifts from a divorcee twice my age. He insisted I take the jacket back. I was not to have it, people would talk. My mother thought I should keep it, what did it matter who gave it to me? We all argued. I insisted I was going to keep it, my father and neighbours could say what they liked. I remember that he was shouting in my face: as long as I lived under his roof, I would abide by his rules. Although not a fighter, I was never a soft person. If my temper was up, people were better off leaving me be. In the midst of all the shouting, I must have picked up a kitchen knife. I know that I did, because one second I was standing there, my father shouting, and the next he had backed off. I had moved forward and the knife was held up against his face, I said to him: I will keep it. After that he and I never argued; I kept the jacket and he never said boo to me again.

The thing about Anne was that she enjoyed life, she didnt exist on the measly food rations that everyone else seemed to. She ate in expensive restaurants, she dressed in nice clothes. The war hardly seemed to touch her. Now that I was her lover, I also became her dining companion.

She taught me which knives to use, which spoons to use. I was always asking questions, eager to learn. This woman taught me so much, she was my first worldly tutor, and I wanted to be like her. I wanted a life that wasnt full of drudgery, boredom and hardship. I wanted a lifestyle like hers, only better.

As a shopkeeper Anne wasnt very diligent and she would only do her accounts when she had to. She knew her business was healthy because the shop was always busy. I discovered her secret drawer by accident. I had been in the stockroom getting her something, and as I came back into the serving area, Annes back was to me. The till sat on the counter on top of a cloth, which overhung each side by a few inches. As I stood there, I watched her lift the cloth and open a hidden drawer and swiftly put some banknotes in. The drawer was closed in an instant, and the covering cloth put back into its previous position. At the very first opportunity, my hand was in that drawer. It was like finding a treasure trove 10 notes, 5 pound notes! In those days 5 was a weeks wages for a working man.

Now that I knew of the drawer, I need never be poor again it was like having my own little bank! When I needed money, I would just take a ten, or a five pound note. Poverty was most definitely not for me. With the money that I took from the shop, I bought myself better clothes, then I started visiting restaurants on my own. I would absorb everything around me.

People with money spoke differently and had an air of confidence. I watched and learned. I became confident, too. I became careful in my speech. If you speak well, people assume that you are rich. If they assume you are rich, they treat you very well.

I liked the easy money I was making, but I had left school and I needed some stimulation, something to fill my time. I didnt fancy the idea of getting some boring job earning less than I was stealing.