In 1989, I moved from the country to live in a mansion-block flat in Battersea, with my family and bull terrier, Parker.
Through Parker and his canine friends I met a variety of local people, including many of my neighbours. There was one who commanded attention, and I often saw him walking in Battersea Park where we exercised our dogs.
He was tall and well-built with broad shoulders and long limbs. Nobody approached him, as he looked forbidding and seemed quite private. He usually carried a football and was always accompanied by his small dog.
One day, when I was in the park talking to a neighbour, this impressive looking man passed us.
‘Do you know who that is?’ my neighbour said, once the coast was clear. ‘He’s John McVicar.’
Memories came flooding back from the newspapers I’d read. McVicar (1940-2022) was an armed robber who managed to break out of Parkhurst. He promptly tried to rob an armoured security van and went back to jail. He escaped again and was made Public Enemy Number One by Scotland Yard.
After his recapture and eventual release, his autobiography was made into a film, McVicar (1980), in which he is played by the lead singer of the Who, Roger Daltrey.
Now I realised McVicar lived in the block of flats next to mine. I couldn’t recognise the description given of him as a violent thug; he was always courteous and reserved. He liked to hear about Parker, and his own dog, Clemmy, used to greet me like an old friend.
One evening, when I was taking Parker for his walk, I was aware McVicar was behind me. He was with Clemmy, returning to his flat on the first floor. Just as I was about to turn back to go home, his dog appeared and started to jump up at me.
Parker was enraged, picked up Clemmy by his jaws and shook him violently. The dog screamed and I tried to separate him from my bull terrier.
Without saying anything, McVicar took over and managed to free his dog. I assumed I’d be in deep trouble but, to my astonishment, McVicar was very understanding and polite. After that, he invariably asked after Parker and we would have a friendly chat.
After about a year, a young man called Scott moved into the flat next to mine. He owned two very large dogs who were locked up in his flat and howled.
A few months later, the area was buzzing with rumours. A young man had been badly beaten up by McVicar and reporters were gathering to interview the locals. Everyone thought McVicar would be sent back to prison for years.
Eventually more details came out. Scott, my neighbour, had been attacked over something that involved his two dogs.
Scott had come home early in the morning to let his dogs out. McVicar was just about to go into his flat when Scott’s dogs saw Clemmy, rushed forward and proceeded to tear her to shreds.
McVicar dived in to rescue her and his arm was badly bitten. He held up his bleeding arm and asked Scott what the hell he thought he was doing. Scott retaliated with a stream of insults and became extremely aggressive. Provoked beyond endurance, McVicar beat up Scott, who ended up in casualty with bruises and a broken nose.
After leaving hospital, Scott contacted the Sun with his story. He was due to receive several thousand pounds following an almost certain conviction.
I told a friend of McVicar’s I would be happy to be a witness to his behaviour over the incident with Clemmy. Summoned to Kingston Crown Court, McVicar defended himself. I appeared as the main character witness. He gave his account of what had happened, and his calmly delivered defence was convincing.
The judge seemed impressed. I told the court what had happened when Parker shook Clemmy ‘like a rag doll’ and McVicar acted with politeness and restraint.
Later that evening, I heard on the radio that John McVicar had been found innocent. He left a message on my answerphone thanking me profusely and inviting me to have dinner with him.
I was pleased to accept. He took me to a fashionable Battersea pub and we talked for hours, mostly about athletics and the weightlifters competing in the Olympics – interests we shared.
I’m glad to have known John McVicar, a strangely intense, private man. It was impossible not to admire him for overcoming a violent past to educate himself in prison and pursue a career as a journalist and author.
I wasn’t surprised to hear that when he died recently, he’d been living happily in a caravan in Essex, away from everyone he knew.
A fiercely proud man, he wouldn’t have wanted anyone to witness his physical deterioration.
