Crime doesn´t (and never will!) pay!

From a sun-bleached street high above the hills of Santa Teresa, the letter begins simply: “Dear G. King.” Dated October 9, 1995, and written in a sloping, relaxed hand, it was sent from one of the most improbable addresses in the history of British crime. By then, Ronnie Biggs had been a fugitive for over 30 years, famously involved in the 1963 Great Train Robbery and long settled in Brazil, beyond the reach of UK extradition laws. What struck me in this letter, beyond its matter-of-fact tone, is its blend of self-deprecating humor and moral reflection, signed from the tropical refuge where Biggs had managed to turn notoriety into survival.

What makes this document unique is that it is, in essence, a handwritten confession. “The reason I joined the Train Robbery,” Biggs tells Garry King, a respected British collector and personal acquaintance, “was the desire to put my hands on a lot of money! I figured that could solve all my financial problems and conquer the good life, but things didn't go exactly as planned!” The candor is startling, especially coming from a man who had made a life out of evading both justice and public remorse. And yet here, in a one-page note, we glimpse both the man and the myth. His final warning to King

remember always that crime doesn´t (and never will!) pay

feels almost didactic.

Beyond its rarity, the letter offers a cultural snapshot of the twilight years of a notorious outlaw. It's not just Biggs’ story that this page tells, but a fragment of a broader post-war British folklore, preserved through ink and paper. I find it compelling that Biggs, despite his bravado and years of fame as a criminal celebrity, chose to write this with almost no trace of bravura, only a quiet, almost wistful, reflection from a man watching the world from exile, crossword in hand.