Daryl The Notorious Cat Burglar: Part 2

"They say things come in threes. Well, I was 23 years of age, a flawed man with a ferocious appetite for removing valuable objects from their owners. I had a gambling habit to shame an addict, and a taste for the wrong type of female company."

During the three and a half years I was in prison I wrote over a million words by hand. Tales From The Jails is a contemporaneous account of my life, and attempts to thrive rather than merely survive, whilst incarcerated.

Most names have been changed. The events have not.

This is a Jekyll & Pride production.

Producer: Trevessa Newton

Title Music taken from The Confession, on the album Crimes Against Poetry (written and performed by The Shadow Poet, produced by Lance Thomas)

Copyright Jekyll & Pride Ltd 2025

@talesfromthejailspodcast

@jekyllandpride2023
@theshadowpoettsp

Transcript

0:00

Hi everyone. G-Dubz here, 2025. Something a bit different this week, that ties back into last week's episode, Daryl, the international cat burglar. I caught up with Daryl in Manchester as part of some exploratory research between the series. He's one of the 10 percenters, someone who hasn't returned to prison or crime. In the interview, we discussed Daryl's life now, as much as touching upon his infamous past, which leads me to this week. You see, back in 2018 when our paths first crossed, we were prisoners at Thorn Cross. Many times, Daryl would drift into my pad and we would chat about life. Along the way he had a meeting with a producer from the BBC who was interested in Daryl and his former life. One night he landed in my pad after having another meeting with her and she was keen to know more. She asked him whether he could write up a few pages. She called it a treatment. Daryl was thrilled and dismayed at the same time. In his words, I'm not a writer. What am I going to do? I'd kept quiet about writing to this point in prison. Officers and inmates could be very twitchy around writers. It can make people feel uneasy, but in this moment, nothing was holding me back. I can write it. I'll do it, I said. For the next few nights, he'd land in my pad and he'd talk and I'd write and I'd ask him questions. This is the BBC treatment, and it gives a snapshot of Daryl and his life back in the height of his days as The Cat. The headlines in Australia called me'the notorious cat burglar', whilst in Europe, Interpol had only one instruction. Catch him. My career has spanned over four decades, beginning in the 1970s and ending dramatically in what they now call the noughties. For many years, I suppose I believed I was a great man, e ven if in the eyes of the law and my victims, I was nothing but a curse. I didn't see myself as some form of desperate criminal. No, I had only one pursuit, and that was to become a highly successful and respected jewel thief. When I was a child, my dad would read me a bedtime story an hour before bed. Which child doesn't want to bond with his parents? To feel their love, support, and encouragement. Which child doesn't want to escape into a fairy tale and be the hero? My dad told me the same gripping tale night after night, Robin Hood and his band of Merry Men, only this story had a twist that would go on to shape and mould the rest of my life. Son, Robin Hood took from the rich and he gave it to the poor. We're the poor and you son, are one of his merry men, he would delight in reciting with his northern Faginesque voice. While other 9-year-old lads played football or cowboys and Indians, I would climb through the windows of rich people in posh Cheshire houses and open the front door for my dad to clear the place of its diamonds, jewels, and luxury items. Looking back, I can see how we've become the product of our upbringing. My reward was always the same. An Action Man. I was the envy of the other kids for all the wrong reasons. Watching Oliver Twist in my informative years, I couldn't help see the similarities between us, but silence is a code amongst criminals that must be respected and obeyed even for one so young. I was a boy with many secrets, who became a man with far more, that even now in my adult years, I find myself peeling back layers to try and discover the real me. If this was the first defining moment of my life, then it was to be followed by two equally dramatic and traumatic experiences. My schooling was an apprenticeship in the craft of high-end burglary, and my childhood was hijacked and thrust into a world whereby I would become lost in a kaleidoscope of illusion, delusion, and excess, albeit five star, hedonistic and more than a little crazy. Once, when fleeing extradition, I remember reading an article that said, we all reach for something to fill a space within. I became a cat burglar to fund a lucrative and lavish lifestyle as much as feed a pack of hungry demons that lurked in a place normally reserved for a soul. Dictating or dominating my life with a ravenous gluttonous greed was a burning ambition to feel high rather than the deaths of despair that waited patiently in the pit of my stomach. Gambling was the naughty twin to my alter ego, The Cat, and both of them had no off button. Worse still, if that wasn't a recipe for disaster, then my choice in women was. By the time I reached 23 years of age, I'd already gained the title of'prolific' in the art of my craft, and charged with over 100 burglaries, a small number in comparison to the reality. I'd married young for all the wrong reasons, and with a head full of anger and confusion, I crashed and burned out tof the UK. I'd sabotaged my own life and sadly ruined my wife's in the process. My mother's answer to my wilder ways was to put me on a flight to Australia and start a new life with my uncle, putting everything else behind me, or that was the plan with the best of intentions. On the journey from Sydney International Airport to my uncle's home, in the back of a very nice taxi, I became mesmerized by the palatial houses that passed me by. I remember Phil Collins on the radio singing,'I can feel it coming in the air tonight'. This wasn't millionaire's row for the few, but a paradise of luxury with multimillion pound mansions lining the suburbs for as long as it took to arrive at my uncle's family home. Within 24 hours, I'd bought the tools that best equipped a professional in my line of business and that night I began what would become the most synonymous spate of high-end thefts in the history of Australia. Cheshire may have been rich, but out here it felt like poor, and my new problem wouldn't be finding jobs, but how to fence diamonds and jewels that would impress Elizabeth Taylor. They say things come in threes. Well, I was 23 years of age, a flawed man with a ferocious appetite for removing valuable objects from their owners. I had a gambling habit to shame an addict, and a taste for the wrong type of female company. Not one for driving unless working, I spent a lot of my life in the back of taxis, and nestled in one after my first big job down under, I inquired to the taxi driver, where will I find a decent woman in this beautiful city? It was 1987. Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now by Starship was riding high in the charts and I remember as if it was only yesterday, gliding down William Street feeling I had the world in the palm of my hand and I had a head full of dreams to match my ambitions. I moved out to my uncle's after only two weeks and was now staying in the Boulevard Hotel, a plush five star destination for the rich and famous. Well, my request to the taxi driver was met with a short but confident reply. A Touch of Class, mate. It's the best place in the whole of Australia. I remember him saying that. The bag beside me contained enough sparklers to be the pride of any jeweller's window on Bond Street and the$200,000 in cash was enough to make me feel like a movie star and spend like one. She told me her name was Amy. It may sound a little chauvinistic, but of the 15 women lined up for me to choose from, she was the one who, for me, who had the je ne sais quoi. Together in the Roman suite, we spent two hours of passion, laughter and exchanged stories of where we'd come from, but more importantly, the aspirations both of us craved. Amy revealed her real name. It was Vanessa and I saw this as a sign that I was something and someone special, more special than the rest. She admired the jewellery I was wearing, especially the distinctive Jesus head. It was a jewel encrusted medallion that hung around my neck. What an irony. An atheist jewel thief, and a high glass brothel. We laughed at how it could be the anchor on a ship because the chain was so thick and heavy. Vanessa was the most beautiful woman I'd ever set eyes upon, and without being blinded by love, I was falling head over heels in love, as two broken hearts became two hearts beating as one. She was a woman with style and class. Something in my subconscious told me she would be good for business, and selfishly, as with all criminal minds, opportunity is to be seized when it presents itself. The next day, Vanessa rocked up to my hotel suite and it was the beginning of a three year relationship akin to Bonnie and Clyde. Was I a dreamer? Absolutely. Was I a fantasist? Probably. But remember, I grew up on stories that were all adventures filled with rewards beyond your wildest dreams. There was something special about Vanessa that attracted rich and successful people into her orbit. She schmoozed and moved effortlessly through the upper echelons of society, and I artfully framed my face to all occasions with one intention. Over the next three years, I went on an executive spree. Far more selective than before, but infinitely more rewarding. As Vanessa partied with VIPs, I slipped away and removed their status trophies. The jewellery was beyond my wildest imagination, and so were the paydays. However, for as quickly as I acquired each lucrative haul and fenced it for sums in the same league as rock stars, it was quickly spent. I was a man with an insatiable appetite as a career criminal and an unquenchable thirst for gambling that seemingly no amount of crime or money could nourish. We moved into a penthouse apartment in Upper Darlington, a suburb for trendy young professionals, with a 2 million pound cash stash and hordes of booty scattered in safe houses across the city. Looking back, we could have easily retired together and lived very comfortably for the rest of our lives. But when you have an addictive personality, then nothing is ever enough to fill that empty void. Vanessa enjoyed the rewards as much as I did. But there was always something else that festered inside me, an urge for the high of working. To this day, that feeling still lurks like a great white shark patrolling the surfs of Bondi Beach. I remember one Friday night in particular. Vanessa was out shopping for something special and I was stood in the front of a full length mirror, dressed for work in the customary black track suit and Gucci sneakers. Ride on Time was pumping out of the speakers and I knew exactly where I was heading this fortuitous evening. Darlinghurst was a very affluent area in Kings Cross that attracted too much vanity, new money, entrepreneurs who flaunted their wealth at any opportunity. We didn't call it bling back in the eighties, but Mr and Mrs Next Victim loved to parade their sparkling jewellery like a child with new toys on Christmas morning. I was never envious. Why should I be? Their success was my good fortune and next reward. Songs often remind me of jobs and one sticks out In particular. The journey to my next client took me over the Sydney Harbour Bridge on a beautiful, warm evening, a little after sunset. The iconic landmark known throughout the world had a cathedral-like quality about it, and only out-popularised by the Opera House that sat west of it. It was the decade of decadence and Duran Duran was playing on the local radio. I felt like a boxer primed and waiting for the first belt to ring, adrenaline pumping, but in a serene state of calmness. Life felt good. My destination was a huge three storey mansion, the type you see perched on the water's edge of Lake Como. The owners of the extravagant manor were hosting a dinner party to a dozen or so equally wealthy friends, in the chandelier-lit dining room. They were so rich that they employed a team of servants who pampered their every whim. I watched for a short while and waited for the main course to begin. Hesitation is the enemy in my line of business, Before I knew it, I was out of the car and up on the first floor extension the size of a large bungalow. Luck, or bad luck, always plays a part in fate and destiny, and on this tranquil evening luck shone like a beacon from the heavens. The patio door slid open as if it compelled me to try it. I remember entering the upstairs suite. It was like stepping into a movie-star's boudoir up in the Hollywood Hills. Downstairs I could hear the atmosphere in full flow. Everyone seemed in high spirits, basking in each other's glory. I surveyed the first floor in apex predator mode. I always wore the same type of leather golfing gloves. They were thin, but with enough flexibility to grasp or hold fine objects. In less than a couple of minutes of entering the party as an uninvited guest, I was in the master bedroom with a grand burgundy vanity case in my hands. Before I opened it I knew this was something very special. Right here and right now, I still tingle at the memory of opening the case and the treasure that lay within. As I say, hesitation is the enemy in my line of business, and although the sensation of being caught was a risk that could be intoxicating, one look at the haul was enough to have my feet moving by the will of my subconscious. The jewellery and diamonds seemed more like a treasure Robbie Louis Stevenson would have been inspired to write about in Treasure Island. You may be surprised to hear but the most exciting part of a job is when the owners are still in the house, because you know the surprise of capture is possible at any moment. There's a heightened sense of instinct, every sense finely tuned to the environment, acutely aware of any movement. Within less than five minutes I had entered and departed while the party down below flirted like exotic birds of paradise. While all this was taking place, I was thinking Vanessa was waiting in anticipation, dressed in temptation. She wore only luxury La Perla underwear and Louis Vuitton heels as she lay waiting on the chaise longue like Cleopatra expecting Mark Anthony. I may have had the mind of a dreamer but the lustre in that one box was very real, and the type of a payday that makes dreams come true. It was an Aladdin's cave all in one treasure trove, and our ritual, which we loved to enact after each job, was to let Vanessa choose any two pieces for herself. Her first choice was two Cartier diamond bangles and her second a mesmerizing Cartier necklace with tiger's eyes encrusted jewels. You wouldn't be wrong in thinking there were three pieces, but Vanessa counted the bangles as one. That's how she worked. Looking back, I didn't mind, but I can't help think the hustler never left her. She was always first and foremost a working girl. If that was her reward, then mine came in the throes of passion as she spoiled me in ways only a first class woman can. I showed Freddy the fence barely a handful of pieces to begin with, and the two he gasped at the most, well, they cost him$180,000. Between Vanessa and Freddy, I hadn't even made a dent in the haul, and I was already riding a crest of euphoria. Love works in mysterious ways, they say. Well, for me and Vanessa, it seemed to be amplified by the exhilaration of risk and reward and those hypnotic diamonds that cast a spell like nothing else. Head over heels and drunk on love for the woman of my dreams, I selected a five carat diamond from the collection and had it recrafted into something eye popping as an engagement ring. Status defines a person. It shouldn't, but it does, and I was determined my poor background was not going to suffocate my ambition. In the Tower Restaurant of the Centrepoint Hotel, I proposed to Vanessa. She squealed with delight, firstly at the shoes, but it was the exquisite ring that brought her to tears. She agreed to marry me as I slipped the dazzling rock on her finger. In a whirlwind of illusion sprinkled with delusion we lived a pretend marriage as we stole from the rich to support our love and extravagant lifestyle. Six months later, the fairy tale was turning into a nightmare as I fled Australia with a warrant chasing me like a shadow in the sun. On false papers, a paltry thousand dollars and the Bible, I evaded capture and headed for Europe, via a pit stop back in Cheshire. Vanessa followed me, but her love for the white powder eclipsed her love for me. For a while, I tried to buy back the love we'd shared before. She drank cocktails and murdered line after line as I cleared out the homes of rich Europeans. The most surreal moment came when the police burst through our hotel door, and we were naked playing Sonic the Hedgehog on a Sega console. I'd have leapt from the balcony naked if only we weren't on the sixth floor. It got messy from then on. But I did manage to get myself sectioned and avoid extradition to Oz. But Vanessa sold her soul. She returned, never to be seen again. She collected all of the stashes and blew the lot on an excess of hedonism and luxury living. Lady Luck did shine one more time, and out of the blue, the Australian police dropped the charges. Released, grateful, but penniless and heartbroken, I returned to my old stomping ground in Cheshire. Although my career became once again prolific, it never reached the dizzy heights I enjoyed before. I tried to settle, and the woman who came closest to taming me also became the mother of my two beautiful daughters. But to be honest, the wreckage of my past travelled in the wake of my present, and if I was truly faithful to anything or anyone, then it was the career I loved and the demons, who by now I called friends. The bookies always loved me, and where previously Vanessa and I shared the best of times, now it was with William Hill. My luck? Well, that finally ran out in 2013 when I was found guilty of 148 offences and sentenced to 10 years. I think it was John Lennon who said,'life is what happens when you're making other plans'. Nowadays, my eclectic past keeps me company when the door slams shut at night. I've dined on sins and secrets and the treasures from the rich. Behind the steel door, a man has an excessive time to reflect on life, love and regrets. On the latter topic, I read only recently that something ignited a spark: at the end of our life, it isn't what we've done that we most regret, but the things we haven't. I wonder, am I still a dreamer?