He is Britain's most notorious drug dealer and once headed Interpol's target list. In his first ever interview, he tells Helen Pidd at his prison in Jersey that he is 'anti-drugs', hasn't squirrelled away £198m – and is the victim of a miscarriage of justice
There is only one prison on Jersey. La Moye is tucked away down an unmarked country lane and has to cater for everyone caught on the 14km-wide island: drink-drivers, money-launderers, paedophiles, women and children. And, for the time being at least, probably the most notorious drug dealer Britain has ever produced.
Curtis "Cocky" Warren is a category A prisoner, defined as someone "whose escape would be highly dangerous to the public, or the police or the security of the state, and for whom the aim must be to make escape impossible". Normal visiting rules don't apply. He receives guests in a room looking out on a bleak internal courtyard, separate from other prisoners and their visitors. The chairs are fixed to the floor; so is the low table. Cameras and microphones monitor every move, every word.
After Warren has entered the room, wearing a boxfresh Hugo Boss polo shirt, tracksuit bottoms and pristine trainers, he has to put on a bright red seatbelt-like harness. The purpose, he explains in a cheerful scouse accent on one of the two occasions I visit him, "is so that I don't morph into you and you into me". In other words, so that we can't switch places – Warren, formerly Interpol's most wanted and the only drug dealer to make it on to the Sunday Times Rich List, cannot be allowed to run free in the guise of a Guardian reporter wearing a red polka-dot dress and yellow sandals.
He insists he has no interest in doing so. "I've never, ever escaped, jumped bail or anything like that in my life and I think it's a bit late to start now. If I want to escape from here or any establishment, I've got to take a guard hostage. Do you think I'm gonna give myself a life sentence? You can all say whatever you like about me, but one thing I'm not is crazy. I have some faults but I hope that's not one of them."
Warren is 50 and has been in prison for all but five weeks of the past 17 years. He is currently fighting a confiscation order in St Helier that could well see another 10 years added to his current sentence of 13 years if he doesn't pay up the £198m investigators believe he has made from drug dealing.
He insists that he is broke. They disagree, firmly believing he wrongly walked free from a huge drugs trial in Newcastle in the early 90s, taking with him tens of millions of pounds and investing it in petrol stations, vineyards, football clubs and hotels. Unhelpfully for the prosecution, it emerged during the trial that Warren's co-defendant and business partner, Brian Charrington (currently in jail on remand in Spain), was a high-level police informer. More recently, detectives secretly recorded Warren boasting during a 2004 prison visit of funnelling huge amounts of cash via a money launderer. ("Fuckin' 'ell, mate, sometimes we'd do about £10m or £15m in a week," he told a few scouse lads on the visit. Warren's explanation: "I was bragging like an idiot and just big-talking in front of them.")
Those five weeks of freedom came in the summer of 2007, when he was released from a Dutch jail after serving part of a 12-year sentence for importing 317kg of cocaine into Holland from Venezuela, and for the possession of MDMA, 1,076kg of cannabis, guns, three hand grenades and 940 canisters of CS gas – with extra time added after he killed a fellow prisoner in a jailyard fight.
After leaving Holland in June 2007, Warren began spending a lot of time in Jersey, ostensibly to visit his new girlfriend. His every move was watched, every possible conversation bugged. After just over a month, Warren was back inside. On 7 October 2009, he was unanimously convicted by a jury of conspiring to import £1m of cannabis into Jersey.
Warren, nicknamed the Cocky Watchman for his chutzpah and erstwhile talent for sniffing out surveillance, has not been idle during his latest spell of incarceration. The Toxeth-born former bouncer has kept himself busy bringing (and losing) numerous legal challenges and appeals – over the mysterious removal of a juror from his trial (nobbled by the police, said Warren, while the prosecution accused him of doing the nobbling), and various alleged abuses of process.
And, according to prosecutors, possibly arranging yet more drug deals from seven illegal mobiles smuggled in to his jail cell. They believe analysis of cell-site data can prove he made 34,000 calls to prime drug-producing nations, including Iran, Morocco, Ghana, Thailand, and various countries in South and Central America.
Despite being renowned for having a photographic memory, Warren claims he can't remember how many convictions he has had, dating back to his early teens. But he seems proud to recall that in hundreds of police interviews over 40-odd years, he has always answered "no comment".
He claims to have had nothing to do with a bestselling biography, Cocky, which documented his rise and fall. And he has never stepped into the witness box in any of his trials either. On Tuesday this week the court in Jersey was told Warren was considering breaking the habit of a lifetime and taking the stand to explain why he has not squirrelled away £198m. But his Jersey barrister, Stephen Baker, said he first wanted assurance from the UK attorney general, Dominic Grieve, that anything he said under oath would not be used to prosecute him for any crimes on the mainland. Grieve gave him short shrift, and Warren asserted his right to stay silent once more.
He has never given an interview to a journalist either. Yet suddenly, back in June, I heard he wanted to talk. I received a letter, written in capitals, in which he said he was going to take the governor of La Moye to court unless I was allowed to visit. He had the relevant case law at hand. Last year a BBC reporter had been to the high court in order to interview terror suspect Baba Ahmad. The way Warren sees it, if alleged terrorists are allowed to speak to the media, alleged drug dealers should be too. (He won the argument and within a week I was on a plane to Jersey to meet Interpol's former target one himself.)
Warren might have been in jail for most of the past two decades, but his legend lives on. You can still buy T-shirts printed with his face in Liverpool – an old mugshot from the days he had eyebrows like black caterpillers and a face bloated from all the steroids he used to take. There are some young pretenders – such as the scouse rapper on YouTube proclaiming himself the new Curtis Warren (also now detained at her majesty's pleasure, according to his Twitter feed). But the authorities still believe he is a dangerous man – last month, after Warren accepted a Serious Crime Prevention Order (SCPO) at the high court, the outgoing director of public prosecutions, Keir Starmer, said there were "very real grounds to believe that without this order being made, Curtis Warren would continue to be involved in serious crime".
These days Warren is in good shape – 5ft 9in, clear-eyed, his light brown skin peppered with freckles. He speaks softly, rarely raising his voice. He is polite but demanding, asking the guards to bring more cups for the water cooler and kicking up a fuss when it emerges my files on his case have been confiscated at reception.
Anthony Barraclough, Warren's UK barrister, says his client is popular in prison because he, in effect, polices the corridors, cutting out bullying and drug use. So he is anti-drugs, I ask, surprised.
"Yeah, believe it or not," he says. Why? "It's just not good, is it? Bloody hell, I've never had a cigarette in my life, or a drink. I've never tasted alcohol or anything. No interest."
His objection to drugs is, he says, what it can do to young kids. Wouldn't decriminalisation solve the problem of kids robbing in order to score? He is not sure. Because it would put his mates out of business? "It'd put your mates out of business, then it'd probably put the government in business," he says. Warren hates the government and the police. When he gets out he wants to go abroad – something the SCPO will severely restrict. "I just wanna leave England, don't I? And never come back."
There are plenty of people in Britain with grudges against Warren, who is suspected of involvement in a number of gangland murders. Asked whether he thinks there is a bounty on his head, he immediately says yes: "From the police." But Warren insists he is not a danger to society, despite his manslaughter conviction for killing a Turkish murderer in his Dutch prison. He looks incredulous when I say that people will be frightened of him as a result.
"Are you serious? So if I'm attacked in the jail by a guy who has killed 16 or 17 people and he ends up dead in that attack, not by stabbing him or hitting him on the head with a hammer or cutting his throat, but basically a fight gone wrong, then I'm dangerous? That can happen to anybody. It happens with boxers in the ring."
He adds: "I can't help what people think about me. But I would like to think if you were to spend time with me in a normal setting you would see that I'm not some animal, some bully or whatever." He calls across to the guard blocking the exit. "I don't want to go on about myself in any terms. But who cut all the bullying out here on the young kids? The wretches, the young kids who can't defend themselves?" The guard looks embarrassed: "You know I can't say anything, Curtis."
Warren is clearly a smart guy, despite leaving school early with no qualifications. Does he ever wonder how different his life would have been if he had been born in Buckinghamshire rather than Toxteth? "I just wish I'd not been such a worry to me mum," he says, his voice lowering. "I've had a great mother and father – not known much of him – but a great mother, intellligent, educated. My sister's been to university, brother used to play chess for Wales, sister's got a degree in maths, physics and statistics. Got scholarships to private schools."
Warren seems to hate the idea of hurting or disappointing the women in his life. When I ask him to dispel one of the many myths about him, he chooses to claim that he has never mugged a woman. It then transpires he is still smarting from one of his earliest convictions, in 1979, when he was found guilty of robbing a woman called Pamela Walsh, having been accused of cracking her skull with a shotgun. It wasn't him, he insists. "I've never done it. Never ever ever ... For my mother to read that! I'm 50 years of age. Whatever decisions I've made have been my responsibility. But for the likes of my mother, that's not nice stuff to read. If it's true, write it all day, but if it's not true, don't print it. It's crazy. It's like last time I was arrested in Holland they said I was in bed with a prostitute. It's not true, as I told my girlfriend at the time. But she was upset."
I ask him if he has any children – I have never heard of him having any. He says he has a daughter whom he never sees, and for the only time in the two interviews I have with him, he looks sad, almost defeated. "She's married now, grown up. That's how much you lot know about me, isn't it?"
What else would he have liked to have done with his life? "I'd have loved to be a lawyer, but fought them properly," he says. Fought who? "Y'know, the system, when it was wrong. Fought them properly. I would have loved to have done that."
Warren claims he is the victim of a miscarriage of justice. It has been accepted in court that the Jersey police illegally fitted a listening device to a car rented in France by one of his co-conspirators. Warren's lawyers have argued in court that they did so on the advice of Matthew Jowitt, a law officer (roughly equivalent to a crown prosecution lawyer), who encouraged them by saying: "If it was me I would go ahead and do it but don't quote me on that." They then lied in their witness statements, which were submitted to the court by Jowitt, Warren argues.
Jowitt strongly denies advising the police to break the law. He says he cannot remember the "don't quote me" statement but that if he did say it, it related to a different scenario. He says the police wanted to know if evidence gathered using a bug legally fitted to a Jersey car would be admissible in court if the vehicle drove through France. Jowitt insists he did not read the witness statements but merely served them and denies any misconduct.
In time, Warren intends to launch a fresh appeal against his conviction. A previous appeal, which went right to the privy council in London, the highest court on Jersey matters, was only very narrowly dismissed, with one judge, Lord Rodger, saying that if the Jersey police behaved so badly again, "the court might have no alternative but to strike the balance decisively in favour of indicating the rule of law, however undeserving the accused".
Earlier this month, Warren scored a minor victory when he gained access to a police disciplinary report that exonerated the Jersey officers involved in the illegal bugging of his mate's hire car. In this, the officers accuse Jersey's attorney general and the law officers of allowing a false version of events to be placed before the court and making them scapegoats.
Which brings me to the obvious question: why should anyone care how Warren was caught this time? "If the keepers of the keys aren't right, nothing's right," he says. "It matters not only for me but for the people of this island. Because when they've finished with Curtis Warren, what do they do with other people?"
He refers to a report from the Jersey Law Society, which recommended that Jowitt face a disciplinary hearing himself – a recommendation that fell down because Jersey law officers are exempt from charges of professional misconduct brought by the Law Society. In court, the prosecution barrister Howard Sharp QC has said an independent report written by another QC into the whole affair has exonerated Jowitt from any wrongdoing.
After perhaps a dozen phone calls and two sit-down interviews, I note that Warren has never actually denied being an international drug dealer. He answers: "Well, what is a miscarriage of justice? A miscarriage of justice is when the justice is not working right, irrespective of whether I've done something or not. Justice has to be seen to be done right. Creating false evidence, putting it in, is possibly worse than anything I could do in Jersey."
"Did you conspire to smuggle £1m worth of drugs into Jersey?" I ask him.
"No, no, absolutely not," he says.
We spend a few minutes discussing the evidence that convicted him in Jersey, particularly his regular use of phone boxes on the island, before he points up to the security camera recording my visit. "Obviously, under better circumstances I could be more open with you on many many issues," he says, with a knowing look. If the Jersey authorities get their way and add another 10 years to his sentence, I could be waiting a long, long time.