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OUR LIVES ON THE RUN

BRUCE REYNOLDS — — happy in Mexico!  

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Wife of train robbers' leader continues her story . . .

● For five years train robber Bruce Reynolds dodged the police
with his wife, Frances. He was caught in England last November
and has just been given a sentence of 25 years' imprisonment.

ON the July day,

nearly a year after
the Great Train Robbery,
when I walked through
the doors of Scotland
Yard — that grey, for-
bidding building in
Whitehall, London — I
had only two things
clear in my mind.

One was that I must

guard against the slightest
slip which might lead the
police to guess Bruce had
left England.

The other was that I must
get my son Nicky back again,
so I could take him to join
Bruce and we could all live
as a family.

When I told the sergeant
at the desk that I was
Frances Reynolds, he didn't

seem to believe me.

"Are you really?" he said,

rather amused.

He soon changed his atti-
tude when he realised I was
speaking the truth.

Twenty minutes later
Detective Chief Superinten-
dent Tommy Butler, then
head of the Flying Squad
arrived to question me.

The interrogation lasted

five hours.

I went in there imagining
that Tommy Butler was
some sort of superhuman
monster who would be able
to read my mind and just
pick me apart.

But when I faced hin
across the table, trying to
pull myself together, I sud-
denly saw, through my
fright, that he was just a

human being like me, with
human limitations.

I realised he could not

make me say anything I did

not want to say.

"I understand you want to
see me in connection with
the train robbery," I said.

He assured me he did not
wish to arrest me, he only
wanted to know where my

husband was.

I shrugged my shoulders
and said I didn't know, and
even if I knew where Bruce
was at that moment I would
hardly tell him.

I expected Mr. Butler to
use every tactic in the book,
so when he said, "You don't
know, do you, that your son
has been in hospital and
nearly died?" I thought he
was just trying to break me

down.

But what he said was true.
Nick had got hold of some
pills, as small children do,
and they'd had to use a
stomach pump on him at
hospital.

Seemed amused

Then Butler said, "You
realise, of course, that we can
keep you here all night?"

I said, "Yes. My hand-
bag's chock-a-block with
overnight things. I've even
brought my toothbrush."

He found that rather
amusing, I think, and turned
to another policeman in the
room and said, "She's been
well trained, hasn't she?"

I told Mr. Butler that I
wanted to see my son and

the friend, Mary, who had
been looking after him in
Ireland, and then the three
of us would go on holiday
together to the South of

France.

He had to let me leave
eventually, and said I should
ring him when I was back in

London.

He also let me phone
Mary and we arranged to

meet in Dublin.

She had got quite attached
to Nicky. She said he had
had too many shocks in his
young life and wc should be
reunited gradually and not
give him another shock by
suddenly handing him over

to me.

Mr. Butler dropped me off
at a place where I met Bill,
a close friend of Mary's, and
he took me to London Air-

port to catch a plane for

Dublin.

I could now have Nick
without trouble and the
police had to cover up my
photograph on the police
posters. On some posters it
was done, but not on others
and the papers continued
publishing my picture.

I'll never forget the
moment I saw Nick again
after a long and hectic year.

It was at the Gresham
Hotel in Dublin. He was
standing at the other end of
a long corridor, and when he

saw me he came running up

to me.

The first thing I noticed

was that he looked as if he
had bandy legs-and he

looked enormous.

He was a baby when I left
him and now he was a boy.

He couldn't have recog-
nised me, but he said,
"Hello, Mummy." I just

cried.

We sat a long time and
talked. He was talking to me
quite freely.

* * *

● Meanwhile, Bruce Rey-
nolds had got clear away
to Mexico — not without
several scares and a great
deal of expense. It cost
him £5000 stg. just to get
across the English channel
as far as Brussels—£3000
for a private plane and
£2000 for a false passport
as Keith Clement Miller.

I KNEW before I ventured

into Scotland Yard that

Bruce had got safely to

Mexico.

I had actually spoken to
him on the telephone.

I called him from a box
at London Airport, and
posted letters to him at the
post office opposite Harrods
In both these places it is
quite usual to get calls and
letters to faraway countries.

Bruce left England by
private plane from Gatwick
Airport, London. We had
heard that Customs control
was lax on private planes.
Everything was arranged by

friends.

The pilot had made three

trial flights. He was now
known to the Gatwick
authorities.

Bruce told me later there
was no technical or Customs
hitch when he left.

But there was one scare
when he was in the small
departure lounge near the
main airport centre.

"We've met before, haven't
we?" a pilot asked.

Bruce didn't blink an
eyelid. Did the fellow
remember the police photos?

"RAF, wasn't it?"

PART TWO

by

FRANCES
REYNOLDS

"That was before I had to
wear glasses," Bruce
answered with a sigh of
relief, and his own pilot
urged him to hurry because

he had his clearance.

People often ask whether
they have met you before,
just to start a conversation.
But on the run these words
put a scare into us.

Bruce told me he was very

anxious when he saw the
plane. It was only a two-
seater and looked too tiny
to face rough weather.

He soon got accustomed
to it and began to under-
stand the thrill of flying,
far more than in an airliner.
They ran into an aerial
storm which shook them up
a bit, but otherwise the flight

was uneventful.

They landed at Ostend air-
port, on the coast of Belgium,
and passed into the car park
without any check at all.

Expensive dinner

A Jaguar was waiting and
drove him into Brussels,
where he booked into the
Westbury, a four-star luxury

hotel.

It cost us £5000 for the
plane and Bruce's passport,
but he felt much safer in
Brussels. He told me that,
unwinding for the first time
from the nervous strain of
the flight and the claustro-
phobic life in London, he
had an expensive dinner and
went round several bars, end-
ing up at Chez Paul, the
leading cabaret.

It might have been foolish,
but I quite understood it. I

was sure he wouldn't have
taken the chance of picking
up a Belgian bird.

Later he told me, however,
that he paid for the spree
with a monumental hang-
over and sore feet.

In our hideouts he had
been running around in
slippers all the time, and
his feet were too swollen for
his narrower shoes.

From Brussels he took a
Sabena flight to Mexico

THE MAN who
caught Reynolds

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DETECTIVE Chief Superintendent Tommy
Butler, of Scotland Yard, never let up on
Reynolds, finally found him in Devonshire.

City, breaking the journey at

Montreal.

We always made a point  
of changing planes on long  

flights and almost always
bought return tickets to mis-

lead anyone picking up our

trail.

We always flew first class.
You normally meet only
business people and wealthy
tourists there, who are either
too preoccupied with their
problems or too well
educated to ask you a lot of
questions once they realise

you don't feel talkative.

Also you are seen by fewer
people and sit two instead of
three in a row.

Anyway, we had the
money, and why shouldn't
we make the most of it as
long as it lasted?

We could stand these long
flights only by drinking a
bottle of champagne every
half hour, and you are less
conspicuous drinking so
much in first class.

They even give you it
free, and had we paid for
champagne in such quanti-

ties in the tourist class we
would have paid a first-class

fare in the end.

Name was called
Bruce told me he passed
the passport control in

Brussels without a hitch and
was sitting in the airport
lounge waiting to take off

when he suddenly heard his
new name being called over
the loudspeaker.

"Will Keith Miller, pas-
senger to Montreal, please
come to the ticket desk . . ."

A chill came over him.

Had they found something
wrong with his passport?

He walked to the ticket

control with a guarded
expression.

The hostess smiled. "Your
seat allocation, sir."

In a letter sent to me via
a friend, Bruce wrote:
"When I landed in Montreal
we supposedly had an hour
plus stop-over for certain

maintenance work.

"I was very tired, foot-
sore, and eager to get on
with the journey. The 'hour
plus' grew into two and was
approaching three when they
announced that for mech-
anical reasons we would be
delayed at Montreal till the
next morning.

"The news was unfortun-
ate for everyone — but for
me it was little short of dis-
astrous. I now had to pass
through Canadian passport
control, a vastly different
affair from Brussels, and
more of a trial in my present
nervous, fatigued state.

"However, there was no
way out, and taking the rem-
nants of my nerves in hand
I passed through — with no
trouble and no inquiries.

"I stayed in the airport
hotel and slept like a log, to
wake early and board the
flight to Mexico City.

"It was an uneventful
flight and some five hours
later we landed in Mexico
City.

"There was a bad moment
here. All passengers had to
have their fingerprints taken.
It seems this is routine for
Mexico these days — had

we known about it earlier

we'd probably have dropped

WEEKLY — March 12, 1969

FRANCES REYNOLDS in Acapulco

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all ideas of coming here! But
there was nothing I could
do but make a joke of it.

"I went through passport
control, no problems, and
out into the sun of Mexico.

"Taxi to the Hilton, half
an hour's drive, and what I
saw of the city did not
impress me. I didn't know
it then, but I was passing
through an area correspond-
ing to East London, not
known for its prettiness.

"I stayed at the Hilton for
a week or two getting the
feel of the city and making
a few friends and picking up
a few Spanish phrases neces-
sary for everyday use."

* * *

● Bruce Reynolds soon
began to love the beauti-
ful Mexican capital set
high in a cup of moun-
tains with snowy vol-
canoes glittering on the
rim. He found a penthouse
in a smart residential area
and began equipping it as
a home for his wife and
child. But although Frances
now had Nicky she was
being watched closely by
the police in Ireland.

AT the Dublin hotel, right

from the start, I noticed
we were being watched, but I
just had to let Bruce know

Policeman even lurked behind a bush

somehow that I had got as
far as Ireland and had Nick.

I managed to sneak out of
the hotel. Bill drove me
through Dublin and out into
the country, and after an
hour's drive, making sure we
weren't followed, we found
a post office near a small
village and booked a call to

Mexico.

It was a risk, because the
woman in the post office had
never had to deal with a
long-distance call like that
and was quite flustered.

I told her I was a tourist
from Mexico, and finally I
got my call.

I thought it would be still

harder to get in touch with
Bruce later, because I was
sure the police were expect-
ing me to meet him and
would be watching me very
closely.

We left the Dublin hotel

next morning to drive to
Shannon airport to catch a
plane to Nice, on the French

Riviera.

We soon noticed there

were cars parked in the small
villages we went through,
with police drivers at the
wheel. They obviously
thought Bruce was with me.

A friend we had with us
decided this was rather too
much, and he got out of the
car between two villages.
This must have made them

very suspicious, and I heard
later they really thought the
missing man was Bruce.

We arrived at Shannon,
booked into the airport hotel,
and had something to eat.
They were even watching us
through the windows. I had
a diary with me with several
notes, and I tore it up fear-
ing they would search us next
day in Customs.

I had a passport in my
maiden name which had not
been changed when I
married. They went through
it carefully.

When we landed in Paris,
we had to transfer to a dif-
ferent airport to get the
plane to Nice. When Mary,
Nick, and I came through
the lounge we were called
over the loudspeakers.

Uniformed French police
drove us from one airport to
the other. They obviously
wanted to make sure we

would be on that plane to

Nice.

From Nice airport we
took a taxi to Cannes and
booked into the four-star
Martinez Hotel. They were
still shadowing us. One day
we were sitting outside a
hotel having a drink when

FRANCES REYNOLDS and her son, Nicky,
used to go horseback riding on the beach at
Acapulco. With them is Mexican groom.

Mary noticed a fellow actu-
ally lurking in a nearby

bush.

He was crouching behind
it, and it rather amused us,
he looked so ridiculous. He
looked a typical English
policeman and went away
when he realised we had
seen him.

I could afford to find it
funny because I knew Bruce

was safe.

In the evening we went to
the Siesta, which is like a
big discotheque. A man and
girl took the next table —
they were obviously the law.

The girl even tracked me
to the toilet. We were deter-
mined to sit it out, and in
the end they realised it was
all too obvious we had
spotted them and they left

before us.

After this time they were

much more discreet. After
two days at the Martinez we
found a small flat behind the
hotel and moved in immedi-
ately. We booked for three
weeks and found a baby-
sitter for the evenings.

We stayed only two weeks
and spent most of the time

on the beach. One day we
took Nick to look over an
American ship. On the beach
I used to write one letter a
day to Bruce — sent by a
very roundabout route
through friends. I missed
Bruce terribly.

After two weeks we flew
back to London and I
phoned Mr. Butler at Scot-
land Yard to tell him I had
returned.

For six more weeks I
stayed with my sister, Bar-
bara. Her husband, John
Daly, had been charged with
taking part in the Train
Robbery, but had been
acquitted. His fingerprints

were found on a Monopoly
game at the robbers' hide-
out, Leatherslade Farm, but
as the Monopoly set was a
movable object judge and
jury held it was not suf-
ficient evidence to convict
him.

A week or two after I
got back to London, an
amazing thing happened.
The police watch on me was

abandoned.

I just couldn't believe my
luck! I was going round get-
ting passport photographs
fixed, arranging visas, getting
Nick and me vaccinated,
buying summery clothes for
Mexico, and I wasn't fol-

lowed once.

Long blonde hair

It seemed incredible, and
I was still cautious.

(The watch was relaxed
because the police now knew
that Reynolds was out of
Britain.)

On my passport photo,
my hair was long and
blonde. I had combed it all
to one side and wore a hat.
Actually I was blonde until
quite recently, though my
hair normally is reddish.
This is the Irish in me, I
suppose — this and the
freckles on my face.

Finally my passport came
through, with Nick's name
on it as well. I was now
Angela Green, and Nick was
Kevin Ashley Green.

I took a different name
from the one on Bruce's

new passport — Keith

Clement Miller — so that

if the police found out I
was Mrs. Green they might
start looking for a Mr.
Green, not a Mr. Miller.

One problem was that
"Kevin Green" was a boy
of four, and Nick was only
two. I tried to make him
look older by putting him in
long trousers and a hat.

After six weeks of wait-

To page 29

OUR LIVES ON THE RUN

Continued from

page 13

ing, which seemed an age,
we had a farewell party

with Barbara and the friend

who organised the passport.

Next morning, more than

two months after Bruce had
left England, Nick and I
were off to Dover in a

friend's car.

We chose this route be-
cause the driver hands the
passports through his window
to a man sitting behind a
glass window, and they can't
look at all the passengers
closely.

We left on thc 6 a.m.
ferry to Ostend and got to
Brussels the same day.

Before we went through
the passport control we
drilled Nick that if anyone
asked, he had to say his
name was Kevin.

We stayed two nights in
a Brussels hotel and I booked
our flight to Mexico. The
visas I had already obtained
in London — under the
name of Green, of course.

Nightmare trip

The first plane took us to
Montreal and the trip was
a nightmare.

I was terribly nervous and
not used to coping with a
boy. Nick was boisterous
and the plane crammed full.
Nick had comics and sweets,
but he just wouldn't sleep.

At Montreal we had to
wait two hours in a transit
lounge, and then we were
on our plane to Mexico. I
was grateful that Nicky now
fell asleep.

Close on midnight the
plane began to fly in over
Mexico City. I looked out
of the window, and I'll
never forget the sight of
the city lights.

It looked absolutely mar-
vellous. I suddenly felt
terribly excited. It was all
going to be such a new life
— I felt somehow that
everything was going to be
all right.

I got through the Mexican
passport control without any
difficulties — though they
were very efficient and I had
to have my picture taken.

I carried Nicky, who was
still fast asleep. After all, he
was only two years old. I
had told him he was going
to meet Daddy and that he
had to say, "Hello, Daddy."
But now he was asleep —
and I was terribly knocked
out by all the nervous ex-
citement.

When we got through
Customs, Bruce was waiting,
looking tanned and fit.

We hugged and kissed
and Bruce said, "Come, I'll
show you the car." It was
a gleaming Thunderbird,
pale blue, and to me it
looked a gigantic thing.

Bruce drove us to our
first real home since the

train Robbery — a pent-
house in the centre of
Mexico City. It was a two
bedroomed suite in a modern
apartment building at 949
Insurgentes, a long avenue
going right through the
town. I was overwhelmed.

Bruce had filled the suite
with roses and we drank one
bottle of champagne after
another. It was bliss just to

see him.

The apartment really was
beautiful — on the tenth
floor, with a balcony along

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FRANCES REYNOLDS and her son, Nicky, on the balcony of their
luxurious penthouse in Mexico City, which had magnificent views.

all the rooms, and a small
roof-garden, with grass and
flowers, where Bruce said he
always had breakfast in the

sun.

The rooms were built on

an open plan, but we had
blinds you could roll down

to divide them.

There was a glorious view
over the city, with the
mountains beyond. It was
just like paradise.

There were big windows
all along the wall leading to
the balcony. The sitting-
room had a bar and a stone
fireplace with marble on
each side. There was a huge

bed in our bedroom and

Nick's bed in the study.

The apartment block was
owned by Don Captain
Mauricio Locken, whose
mother had been married to
one of the former Presidents
of Mexico.

He is a well-known horse-

Free after being cooped up

man, a rejoneador, who fights
bulls from horseback. He
has fought all over Mexico.

Our penthouse had been
Captain Locken's bachelor
apartment where he took
his girlfriends — hence the
marvellous bathroom,
marbled throughout, with
sunken black marble bath,
where we spent many joyful

hours.

The suite was fully fur-
nished in modern style.
Bruce had bought TV, stereo,
cutlery, china, and crystal,
and laid on a supply of wine.

When we arrived he was
determined we should have
a proper home at last.

He wanted to have every-
thing ready for us, and it

was marvellous for him to

be able to get around and
organise things again, after
being shut away in the mews
house in London for so long,

not daring to go outside the

door.

We were very happy those

first few weeks.

Bruce was delighted to
have Nicky back again.
Although we were careful to
call each other "Keith" and
"Angela," we called Nicky
Niko, or Chico, all the time
we were in Mexico, and
dropped the "Kevin."

* * *

● But Reynolds' love of
fast cars, and his desire
to get one in time to wel-
come Frances had nearly
meant disaster — and
had led to an unexpected

brush with the police.

WHILE he was waiting for

us to turn up in Mexico,
Bruce took a trip to Tijuana,
the border town straddling

the frontier with California.

From there he crossed the
border into the United

States quite easily, and went
on to Long Beach, Los
Angeles, to buy the Thunder-

bird.

He was very pleased with
the car, whicb cost him just
over £1700 stg. He felt he
was getting settled — a
home, a car, and his family
joining him.

But after driving back to
Tijuana, Bruce found he
could not get across the

Mexican border. Guards at

the Customs post said his
papers were no good for
importing either the car or

himself into Mexico.

"My papers were not right
for me to stay in California,
either," Bruce told me. "It
seemed I had to stay in this

little border town that didn't
look as though it had changed
since Western bandits fled
there in the 1870s.

"I had a few beers and

decided I would take a
chance, go inland and by-
pass the border post, head
for Mexico and get things

sorted out there.

"It was about 1500 miles
to Mexico City, and I started
driving.

"I dodged the Customs
post, taking a side road, and
had gone about 20 miles in-
land when to my absolute
horror I ran into a road
block manned by armed
police.

"They strolled up to me.
'Where do you think you're
going?'

"I thought they had prob-
ably been in touch with the
Customs post, so I stuttered
out, 'Tijuana. I'm lost.'

"They said, 'Back the way
you came, mister.'

"I felt like a rat in a
trap. I couldn't afford to run
into any more police —
they might start asking more
questions next time. But all
my money and most of my
papers were in Mexico City.

"I drove back to Tijuana.
It seemed a long 20 miles.
I expected to be stopped any

minute.

"I tried to force myself to
think calmly. The only thing
I could think of was to ring
one of my new friends in
Mexico City.

Papers endorsed

"This turned out to be the
right thing to do. The friend
gave me the phone number
of a politician in Tijuana,
guaranteed to fix everything.

"I arranged an appoint-
ment with him on the golf
course next morning.

"He was a charming man,
a caballero, and gave me
every assistance, and
arranged for my papers to be
endorsed so I could fly back
to Mexico City and arrange

Continued overleaf

OUR LIVES ON THE RUN

Continued from previous page

for a personal friend to drive

the car down to me.

"His attitude was so typical
of all Mexicans I met —
nothing was too much trouble
for them; they existed to help
one in every way. I felt
happy that Mexico was to be
our home. The omens were

good."

* * *

● At this stage there was
just under £90,000 stg. left
of Bruce Reynolds'
£150,000 share of the
Great Train Robbery
money. But now Reynolds
and his wife could really
start spending it. They
were rich, they were
young, they were in love,
they were free. They were
convinced that nothing
could go wrong for them.

WE lived for 2½ years in

our apartment in
Mexico City. We put Nick
into school straightaway. It
was a kindergarten run by
an Englishwoman, a Mrs.
Oakley. Nick liked it. His
pale English face soon turned
honey-brown and his hair
bleached white in the sun.

It took me a little more
time than either Bruce or
Nicky to adjust to the sort

of life we led.

For instance, we had a
maid, a Mexican woman with
two children, who also lived
in the servants' flats of the
apartment house.

It was a bit difficult at
first. I had never had a maid
in all my life. How on earth
do you treat a maid?

Strange expense

She couldn't speak English
and I couldn't speak Spanish
—and besides, it embar-
rassed me to think of some-
one doing my housework.

I was always whispering
things like, "Bruce, how do
I ask her to make the beds?"

I would have been quite
happy to do without her, but
Bruce said people would
expect us to employ her.

There was another strange,
but absolutely necessary,
expense. Having the car
washed every day cost us 160
pesos a month. This
amounted to nearly £600
stg. during the time we lived
in Mexico.

The garage was underneath
our apartment and was
always full. The two car-
wash men were also parking
jockeys, and if one didn't
get the car washed every
day one did not get the
attention of the parking
jockeys—and without their
help it was impossible to get

the car out.

If this blackmail didn't
work, the car mysteriously

got dented and scratched.

We soon gave in and paid
realising that to have the car
washed regularly was the
best insurance.

The caretaker of the flat
also had to have a tip of 100
Pesos a month (about £3
stg.).

The penthouse cost us
aoout £100 a month in rent,

and gas and electricity and
other household expense
brought this up to £120
without our food.

With about £145 a month
spent on dining out and
entertaining, on top of our
other household bills—and
food, clothes, and Nick
school—the scale of living
got a bit too expensive, even

for us. This was one of the
reasons we had to leave, in
the end.

But meantime we lived a
very full life.

I had much free time and
went out to keep-fit classes.
I also learned to drive. Bruce
had passed the test and had
a driving licence in the name
of Miller. Later he had to
pass two more driving tests in

Canada and Britain.

For dinner we went to one
of the best restaurants every
day. They all had their own
specialties—one was best for
fish, another for marvellous
steaks, another for a won-
derful cheese fondue.

Before the bullfight on
Sundays we always went to
a place called the Sobia to
eat their speciality "gabrito,"
baby goat. We had a season
ticket for the bullring, for
the third row in the shade,
though you could almost
look straight into the ring
from our balcony.

We went to all the night-
clubs, too. We once had to
make a quick getaway when
we recognised someone we

had known in London.

Another time, at a res-
taurant run by a French-
woman, we saw, sitting at
the next table, the manager
of a luxury hotel in Cannes
where we had stayed.
Luckily he had his back to

us and we were able to
leave.

We got to know quite a
lot of people and went visit-
ing sometimes and enter-

tained at home.

When Prince Philip came
to Mexico during the last
week of October, 1964, we
had an invitation to meet
him at the British Embassy,
together with other members
of the British Colony. We
did not go.

The worldwide fame of
the Train Robbery gave me

some bad times. There was
a lot of talk about the
robbery whenever Mexicans
met English people. As a
daring exploit it had made
all the front pages and had
excited the Mexicans with
their long history of bandit

heroes.

Bruce did not mind this,
but it worried me — when
people talked about the
robbery you had to pretend
you were just as keen to
discuss it as they were.

False documents

And although we had
chosen Mexico because it
had no extradition treaty
with Britain, all this talk of
the robbery made us realise
the Mexicans would happily
deliver such a famous crim-
inal to Scotland Yard.

"Besides," Bruce said,
"they'd have the perfectly
good excuse that we entered
Mexico with false papers."

A second reason for our
going to Mexico was that
it offered high returns on
invested money.

Bruce had planned to get
the train money transferred
from England via a Swiss
bank, invest it in Mexico,
and live on the interest.

But with the spotlight still
so much on the robbery, we
knew the arrival of such a
large sum of money would
arouse suspicion.

So the money arrived in
dribs and drabs — and as

each instalment turned up,
somehow we spent it.

To avoid suspicion, Bruce
paid most bills with his
credit card from "Diners
Club of Mexico."

We longed to settle down
for good, but Bruce could
not go out and earn a living.
As a temporary resident, he
was forbidden to work by

Mexican law.

And he could not revert
to crime as a career, even if
he had wanted to, because
he would be taking too big
a risk. Anyway, he said he
was now finished with crime.

He decided to apply for
Mexican nationality—which
would mean he could work,
and should be safe from be-
ing extradited to England.

Getting Mexican nation-
ality is a long drawn-out
process, involving five years'
wait and an advance deposit
of £50o0 stg.

Marriage muddle

Working before the five
years are up can result in
loss of the £5000 deposit.

Bruce found a good lawyer
to help with our application
for citizenship, but the fact
that we were "Miller" and
"Green," and apparently not
married, caused problems.

Our cover story to Mexi-
can friends was that I,
Angela Green, was the

"common law wife" of
Keith Miller and Nick was

our son.

Keith Miller could not get
a divorce and because of
problems with our families
in England we had decided

to live in Mexico.

There were so many com-
plications over Nick's legal
guardianship that we even
thought at one stage of
getting "quickie" divorces
from the non-existent "Mr.
Green" and "Mrs. Miller"
so we could have a Mexican
wedding — but we realised
it was far too dangerous to
try. (Actually, of course,
Bruce and I had been
married since 1961.)

Finally, after further
inquiries, Bruce was con-
vinced that even if we
became Mexican citizens the
authorities would still hand

him over to the British police

if he were found.

They would have plenty
of reasons — illegal entry,
false passport, false state-
ments to visa control and
immigration authorities.

It was a big disappoint-
ment, but we wrote off the
£5000 deposit we had paid
the immigration department,
and lived as normal a life
as we could.

Bruce really needed some
work, as much for the intel-
lectual satisfaction as for the
money.

I know it sounds peculiar,

but crime was a business to
him.

He looked on the organisa-
tion and planning of some
particular job as a business-

man looks on a takeover bid.

People often ask me
whether I felt guilty about
the way Bruce made his

money.

I can't honestly say I did
feel guilt. Of course, what
Bruce did was wrong, and it
would obviously have been
much better to have made
the money honestly. But I
never felt ashamed of him.

I felt that the sort of

people and organisations
Bruce stole from were usually
very well insured — and if
they weren't they had only

themselves to blame.

Maybe I just didn't want
to see things differently. But
I know that if Bruce had
had more of an education
and not drifted into crime
as a teenager he'd have
been a success in business.

He saw crime differently
from most people. It was a
challenge — something he

could use his skill and brain
power on. But at this time
he really wanted to find
some legitimate business he

could learn.

Luckily, he had made one
very good friend in Mexico
City, who owned a depart-

ment store. We called him
Juan. He had no idea who
Bruce really was, of course.

At this time Juan had just

won a concession to handle

Dunhill tobacco products in

Mexico.

Bruce asked if he could
do a little work for him on

an informal basis. Juan
agreed. Bruce seemed the
ideal salesman for such
things.

Juan even sent Bruce on a
couple of business trips to
America. Before one of these,
Juan organised advance
publicity in the Mexican
papers, which published pic-
tures of Bruce waving good-
bye at the airport under the
heading "Local businessman

off to U.S."

Bruce's pay was tiny, of
course, and strictly unofficial,
and our money continued

to dwindle.

Bruce was robbed several
times during our years on
the run, but he took this
quite philosophically. He
called it "poetic justice."

"Where is your golden St.
Christopher?" I asked him,
soon after I got to Mexico.

"Oh, it was stolen in
Acapulco," he said.

Robbed on beach

Apparently he had been
visiting Acapulco, Mexico's
"millionaires' playground."
To some Mexican muggers

he looked like a rich Ameri-

can tourist. They followed
him from the Hilton hotel
down to the beach, hidden
by the coconut trees.

Suddenly they jumped
him, threw him to the
ground, where he was held
by two of them while the
third searched his pockets.

Automatically Bruce re-
acted and fought back —
which was a mistake. He
was beaten, cut and bruised,
and almost stabbed.

Counting his losses after-
ward, he discovered they
had taken a £5 note, a
cigarette lighter, a gold
watch, and his golden St.
Christopher.

He was robbed again in a
Mexico City nightclub, when
he was very drunk.

Another time Bruce had
his suitcase stolen when he

made a trip to New York on

one of the smaller American
airlines. And in England we
had already lost £5500 stg.
in train money and jewellery
when a burglar broke into a
house where we were hiding.

But Bruce just said,
"Well, we aren't in a posi-
tion to complain, are we?"

Continued overleaf

OUR LIVES ON THE RUN

Continued from previous page

Being robbed by fellow
robbers was one thing, but to
Bruce being robbed by the
police was quite another.

Mexican law allows fines
for traffic offences to be

imposed on the spot, but the
maximum fine was then 50 pesos.

Bruce had traded our
Thunderbird for a Cadillac
(the fourth car he bought on
the run). Driving the Cadil-
lac one day, he was stopped
for a minor offence.

The policeman eyed the
car and the rich foreigner
inside it and demanded 500
pesos (about £15 stg.)

instead of 50.

Bruce refused indignantly
— and was hustled off to jail
for the night.

Imagine my feelings when
I picked up the phone and
heard him say, "Hello,
darling. Look, they've got me
in prison . . ."

I was stunned. The word

prison had only one signifi-
cance for me — the Train
Robbery.

Bruce seemed to enjoy
these flirtations with danger.
Quite calmly he arranged
with me to contact Juan to
bail him out. After one night
in jail he was home again.

● Dangerous moments
often cropped up un-
expectedly, even in
Mexico, where the Rey-
nolds thought they were
safe. But they still had the
feeling that the future was
all in the hands of fate,
and they might as well
enjoy life and freedom
while they had the chance.

I SUPPOSE we took some

silly risks during those
years, but people will never
understand why until they
have been in a similar situ-
ation themselves.

Living with the threat of
a 30-year sentence hanging
over you is like living with
the atomic bomb. You always
know it's there and can be
used by enemies to destroy
you within minutes. But you
can't think of it all the time.

You just push it to the back
of your mind and try to live
a normal life in spite of it.

We wanted to live, not
just exist, and if you want
to live life fully you must
take some chances.

We had a scare once when
we decided to have a family
picture taken.

We went to the biggest

store and it turned out that

the photographer was an
Englishman, the husband of
Mrs. Oakley, who ran Nick's
kindergarten.

Photograph on TV

Nevertheless, we went
ahead with the photos. But
when I went to pick them
up Mr. Oakley said he had
had a fire and the photos

were lost.

We were sure this was the
end. He'd sent them to Scot-

land Yard! But we didn't
want to run again, so we
sweated it out. As it turned

out, the fire was genuine.

There was an even worse
occasion when the Telstar
satellite was used for the
first time, and televised to

the world the names and
photographs of the world's
most wanted men.

Bruce's face was seen in

every city, every little
pueblo in the length and

breadth of Mexico.

That was terribly worry-
ing — but there was nothing
we could do about it other
than leave Mexico. But we
were tired of running, and
we liked it where we were.

You can't jump up and
go all your lives. You'd go
insane. I suppose that's what
the police count on in the

end.

Besides, we had this
fatalistic feeling that if we
were going to be caught we
were going to be caught,
and that was that, so we
might as well enjoy our-
selves as much as we could,
while we could.

Mexican resort

Despite his bad memories
of being robbed in Acapulco,

Bruce took me there several
times. It took us five hours
driving on excellent roads
with marvellous scenery, but
also views of the poorer side

of Mexico.

To be honest, I was a little
bit disappointed with Aca-
pulco at first. I'd heard so
much about it, and after the
French Riviera it didn't
seem as sophisticated a
place as I'd expected. And

even in the most luxurious
hotel one was not far from
depressing poverty.

But after a while I got to
love it because we had such
a wonderful time there.

We used to stay at the
Hilton hotel, which has a
wonderful swimming-pool,
with coco locos (pineapple
in the shell with rum)
served round the pool.

At the Hilton, or at El
Presidente, we paid 300
pesos a night for the room,
100 pesos for breakfast, and

200 for luncheon with wine.

For dinner we paid 250
pesos, and 300 for a night at
a nightclub. With beach

drinks this would come to
about £35 stg. a day.

We went swimming, and
Nick and I hired horses and
went cantering along the
golden beach.

We usually ate at Arman-
do's, said to be the best
restaurant in town. Armando
was a personal friend of El
Cordobes, the Spanish bull-
fighter.

The bar and the food were
very good at the Hilton, too,
and we went to the Tequila
a Go-Go, and to El Presi-
dente for the cabaret.

If anything, we felt even
farther away from England
at Acapulco — but we were
careful to keep up with the
home news by getting the

airmail editions of the Lon-
don "Telegraph" and "The
Times" every day.

In February, 1965, Bruce
decided we should go on a
trip to the States so that
we could buy a car for me.
He thought it would be
handy for me to be able to
take Nick to and from
school, and drive him

around.

So we flew to Miami for
a few days, stayed at the
Fontainbleau, and then flew
on to Los Angeles.

There Bruce met his
friend Phil Webber again.

Phil is the son of one of the

directors of the Ambassador
Hotel, Wilshire Boulevard,
Los Angeles. It is one of the
finest and oldest hotels in
California.

Bruce had met Phil in
Acapulco in 1964, and they
had become friends. He had
seen him in Los Angeles
and Phil had taken him to
Palm Springs.

In Los Angeles we dined
with Phil and his fiancee at
La Cienega. He asked us to
stay at his hotel. Bruce had
previously always stayed at
the Beverly Hilton, but Phil
really laid out the red carpet

for us.

We were shown into a
flower-decked bungalow suite
— the honeymoon suite. It
was full of chocolates, half
a dozen bottles of the best
brandy, scotch, gin, vodka,
and bourbon. Later we were
transferred to the "Royal

Suite."

We had the free use of one
of the courtesy cars all the

time — a brand new Lin-
coln Continental. In this we
also took Nick to Disneyland.

It was fabulous.

In the Lincoln we

explored the surrounding
areas of Beverly Hills, and
realised that against all the

wealth around us we were
relatively poor.

From the car dealer at
Long Beach who had sold
Bruce the Thunderbird we

bought a Galaxy for me.

Visit to Arizona

It was navy-blue and had
bucket seats. It had a
Thunderbird engine and cost
$3800. We drove the car the
long way home, passed
through Tombstone, Arizona
—looking as it did in 1870,
when the legendary gun-
fight took place in the OK

Corral.

It was fascinating passing
through legendary places
from Western stories and
films — El Paso, San
Antonio, and Death Valley.

* * *

● About this time friends
in England approached
Bruce Reynolds to ask if
train robber Buster
Edwards, his wife, June,
and daughter, Nicolette,
could join them in Mexico.
It was a risk, but Bruce
agreed. Perhaps he and
Frances felt a momentary
home-sickness, under the
blazing Mexican sun.

IN September, 1965, Buster

Edwards came over to

Mexico with his wife, June,
and their daughter. They
had changed their names to
suit their new passports, so
we had to get used to call-
ing them Jack and Pauline.

Even today we use these
names. It becomes a habit
when so much is at stake.
Before we ever left London,
Bruce and I used to practise
calling each other by our
false names. And at night
we used to take it in turns
to wake one another, jump
out of bed, and rehearse for
surprise investigations, train-
ing to hold firmly to our

false identities.

When we were first asked
whether Buster could come
over we were delighted. It
was good to have friends

To page 36

OUR LIVES ON THE RUN
Continued from page 33
from England around —
friends to whom we could
talk openly.
We picked them up at the
airport. Buster had had a
plastic operation, but it
hadn't changed him much.
I'd only met him once
before, but I recognised him
immediately, though he'd
slimmed fantastically by
means of a rowing machine.
He looked just like his
police photograph. This was
really awful because he had
spent a lot of money on the
plastic surgery.
At first we used to tease
him and call him "Plastic
Jack," but we soon dropped
it when we realised what a
sore subject it was with him.
You see, he'd had a plate
put into bis jaw to change
its shape and something had
gone wrong, and often he
had quite a bit of pain.
Money had gone
We liked him very much.
He is such an easy-going
teddy-bear of a man. But he
and June had had a raw
deal.
After the train robbery
they had been cooped up for
a year in a Thames-side
house, Buster never being
able to leave the place.
We knew what it was like,
being cooped up. You are
together 24 hours a day and
you are apt to fly off the
handle over trivial things.
Compared to our time on
the run in London, Mexico
was a paradise.
But in London our friends
had been very good to us.
Buster had not been quite
so lucky. During that year
he was slowly milked of his
money by "friends" who
promised to arrange transfers
and false passports, took the
money for them, then
claimed that things had gone
wrong. By the time he got
to Mexico, money was begin-
ning to be a problem to him.
We took Buster and his
family to the Mexico City
Hilton. We had filled their
suite with flowers and cham-
pagne, and sweets for
their little girl, Nicolette.
After two days at the
Hilton we found them a
temporary place, then a nice
flat near ours.
They lived their own lives
completely. While we liked
to go out to restaurants and
nightclubs, they preferred to
stay at home.
June was much more of a
home-body that I was, and
I know she missed her rela-
tions back in England
terribly. I don't think she
liked Mexico all that much.
Of course, we used to see
them all the time. I used to
pick up Nicolette every
morning because she went
to Mrs. Oakley's school with
Nick. They got on well.
June and I went to keep-
fit classes, to cinemas and
restaurants. There were
three English and American
films each week.
"The Fugitive" was show-
ing on Mexican TV, but
Bruce didn't like it much.
He said nobody could get
into tight corners continually
like that chap.
A few weeks after Buster
Edwards arrived (in time
for Christmas, 1965) we
were joined by another train
robber — Charlie Wilson,
who now went by the name
of Ron Alloway.
Charlie was the man who
had escaped from "top
security" Winson Green
Prison, near Birmingham,
England, in August, 1964.
The story of his escape had
become a nine-days' wonder
all over the world.
There were all sorts of
wild theories about where he
had got to. A German paper
published a report that train
robber Charlie Wilson had
been killed by the "gang-
sters" who had sprung him
from jail.
They said Charlie had
refused to reveal where the
£2,600,000 treasure of the
train robbers was hidden, so
the gangsters had killed him
and sunk his body in the
Thames, holding it down
with a block of cement.
We all had a good laugh
at this.
There were many reports
of hidden treasure — they
were all sheer nonsense.
The money was divided at
the boys' hideout at Leather-
slade Farm, in Buckingham-
shire, immediately after the
robbery—and each of them
took his own share.
The same sort of nonsense
was talked about a master
criminal behind the robbery
— an ex-major — it's all
fabrication.
Actually Charlie had been
hiding in the South of
France since his escape from
Winson Green. He told us
a lot about the area round
St. Tropez, where he had
been staying.
He was trying to choose
between Mexico City and
Canada as a place to settle
with his family, and he made
a couple of trips to and from
each country before he
finally decided on Canada.
* * *
● Charlie Wilson's arrival
had quite a tonic effect on
the exiles in Mexico, he
was such a carefree
character. The three train
robbers — two with their
wives and children — all
went on a Christmas holi-
day trip to Acapulco.
WE were glad to see
Charlie. He was jaunty,
flamboyant, careless, always
good for a laugh—and
extraordinarily lucky.
Unlike Buster, he man-
aged to make himself quite
unrecognisable when he
arrived at the airport. He
had altered his hairstyle,
grown a beard, and popped
on a pair of wire-rimmed
glasses.
He wore a big-shoulder
suit and drainpipe trousers.
People just stared at him.
When girls stared he just
whistled until they blushed
and looked away.
Sometimes his cavalier
approach to life on the run
even appalled Bruce, who
has an organising mind.
We were horrified to hear
that half the particulars in
Charlie's papers didn't add
up consistently. We kept
telling him he was getting
away with blue murder! But
he d just roar with laughter.
That was Charlie, I'm afraid.
It was a good Christmas.
We all sat in the roof garden
outside our penthouse flat,
drinking and talking about
the things that had happened
to us since the robbery.
We had a good laugh
when Charlie told us how he
was sprung from prison.
He only had a vest on,
and when he was sitting
across the top of the wall,
his bottom got ice-cold.
"I need Mexican heat to
cure the goose-pimples," he
said.
Just after Christmas we
all drove down to Acapulco
— three train robbers, two
with their wives. We were
Ron, Jack and Pauline,
Keith and Angela.
We booked into three dif-
ferent chalets of the exclu-
sive Las Brisas Hotel—which
is made up of pink-and
white villas, each with its
own swimming-pool — went
to all the nightspots and
fooled around in the sea.
Frank Sinatra and Lady
Guinness, widow of the beer
millionaire, also had apart-
ments in Las Brisas.
At weekends we often
went to Cuernavaca, a
mountain resort 1½ hours'
drive from Mexico City. We
all enjoyed the sun and the
swimming.
Barbara Hutton has a
fabulous estate there. She
had burglars in 1965 and
1966, and Bruce says, "This
has no connection with the
fact that we were there."
Charlie—I mean Ron—
got into trouble once,
because the swimming-trunks
he was wearing were too
short and tight. Girls
seemed to go for Charlie.
At the Hilton hotel, there
was a beautiful girl who was
attracted by his physique,
beard, and happy-go-lucky
disposition. She thought
Charlie was an actor.
She was sure she had seen
his face somewhere. She was
an airline hostess with
American Airlines.
On one of her flights to
Mexico City she had dinner
with us, and she suddenly
said, right out of the blue,
and absolutely seriously,
"Are you the train robbers,
then?"
I was terribly taken aback,
but Bruce and Charlie and
Buster just roared with
laughter and said they
weren't. She seemed rather
disappointed.
I am convinced she really
had guessed—but she never
did anything about it After
she had gone back to the
U.S. we had a card from
her, then never heard any
more of her. We never did
find out how she had arrived
at her conclusion.
Birthday treat
By this time Charlie had
decided that he wanted his
family to come to live with
him in Canada, and he left
for Montreal to make
arrangements.
On April 24, 1966, Bruce
took me to Las Vegas for a
birthday treat, while June
looked after Nicky.
There was gambling every-
where, and we had a go at
it. But we were not real
gamblers — too lucky in love
and unlucky at cards.
Las Vegas is just a main
street with gambling places,
cabarets, and hotels. We
To page 39

OUR LIVES ON THE RUN

Continued from page 36

liked it very much. After
three nights and four days,
which were like a second
honeymoon, we went back to
Los Angeles.

From there Bruce flew to

Montreal to have a look at

possibilities in Canada, while
I flew back to Mexico.

When he got home again

Bruce told me: "There was
one incident when I was at

the airport in New York. I

was passing through passport
control when a woman

immigration officer called

out 'Bruce'!

"I reacted instinctively,
stopped and looked at her.
She was looking at another
immigration officer. I
realised I had nearly given
myself away — I was travel-
ling as K. C. Miller."

In May Charlie came back
to Mexico for a month.

Again we all went to
Acapulco, lazing in the
sun and drinking cold coco

locos. For the last week

Charlie went to Las Vegas,
but came back because he
didn't like it much.

He went back to Canada
to move from a small
Montreal flat to a house on

Hudson Heights, where his
family was to join him.

When Charlie left Mexico
again, gloom seemed to des-
cend on Buster and June,
despite all we could do.

They often talked of

London nostalgically. They
had formerly run a wig
factory there.

Life in Mexico was very
expensive, and Buster had
bad news — his money was
not coming through.

He and June came to see
us to discuss giving them-
selves up to Tommy Butler,

the Scotland Yard chief.

I was absolutely against

the idea, and so was Bruce.
We felt the most important

thing in life is your freedom
— and if you have it you
must hang on to it as long

as you can. To go back and
face 30 years in prison was
absolutely unthinkable to us.
But Buster and June were

too tired and depressed and
short of money to hang on,
so in the end we just had to
say, "It's your life. It's up to
you to decide."

Last grim fling

So they decided to fly
back to England. Buster
would give himself up to
Scotland Yard. June would
go back to her family, and
Nicolette could go to an

English school.

They decided to go to Las
Vegas for one last grim fling
before going home to the
police.

The night before they left
for Las Vegas we went out
for a farewell meal together.
It was very gloomy, nobody
said very much. I was
terribly upset. I liked Buster

so much and I couldn't bear

to think of what he was

going to do.

As a parting gift June
gave me an old Inca gold
coin set as a bracelet. I just
felt like crying over it.

From Las Vegas they flew
back to Brussels, then on to
England by car, via the
Ostend-Dover ferry.

On September 19, 1966,

three years and one month

after the Train Robbery, the
headlines announced that
Buster Edwards had sur-
rendered to Scotland Yard.
At his trial he received a
sentence of 15 years.

* * *

● Bruce and Frances Rey-
nolds now had to face the
fact that their life in
Mexico was over. Too
many people knew where
they were. And, in any
case, life there had
become too expensive.
They had managed to get
through more than
£100,000 stg. and hectic
spending had to stop.

WE were alone again.

Wonderful as it had
been to have our friends
around us and talk openly
of old times, there was no
denying that this had made
it dangerous for us to go on
living in Mexico.

Too many of the people
in England who had been
looking after Charlie and
Buster knew that they had
stayed with us, knew where
we were. Also our money
was running out and there
were still 2½ years to go
before Bruce could possibly
get Mexican citizenship, even
if we met all requirements.

Charlie wrote from Mont-
real. His family had settled
in and he said there were
business opportunities.

Bruce and I had long
discussions, trying to decide

what to do.

Packed up again

We had new passport
pictures taken at Sears-Roe-
buck in case it became
necessary to change our
identity again, and sent
these pictures to a "dead
letter" box in London. The
person sent to pick them up
was nearly caught by Scot-

land Yard.

Our minds were finally
made up when we heard
from London that Scotland
Yard had a good idea we
were in Mexico. A search
for us there could only be

a matter of time.

So we gave away all our
household goods, packed our
personal belongings in the
Cadillac, and cabled Canada

that we would spend Christ-
mas with Charlie and his
family.

I cried a little as I packed
our suitcases. We had loved
Mexico, and this seemed an
end to the brightness and
sunshine. But perhaps in
Canada we would be able to
find a home and a job and

the settled future we were

beginning to long for.

So on December 7, three
and a half years after the
Train Robbery, we left
Mexico, and began the long
drive through the United

States to Canada.

● Copyright Frances
Reynolds and Pixfeatures,

England.

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