I was on my way home from sixth-form college when I heard about Dad’s arrest for his alleged involvement in what, at the time, was the biggest heist in history. Three tonnes of bullion, along with platinum, jewellery and traveller’s cheques, had been taken from the Brink’s-Mat warehouse at Heathrow in the early hours of 26 November 1983.

Fifty police officers raided our house. Mum, pragmatic as ever, put the kettle on and even made a bacon sandwich for a WPC who complained that she’d missed her breakfast due to the early start.

Dad’s subsequent trial and conviction at the Old Bailey made worldwide headlines. He was jailed for ten years for conspiring to handle stolen goods, and fined £200,000.

It wasn’t in Dad’s nature to play by the rules. It was only a matter of time before he did something newsworthy

I think about the Brink’s-Mat robbery every day and it seems it will bookend my life. I was little more than a child when it took place. Forty years later, books, podcasts, radio plays and television dramas about it still appear, and some of the gold remains on display at the Bank of England.

Early last year, we had the BBC’s The Gold. Although it was entertaining enough, the portrayals of the people in it whom I knew in real life were wide of the mark. After living in the shadow of Brink’s-Mat for so long, it was frustrating to see Dad so miscast. Of course, it was a dramatised account, so I wasn’t expecting to see someone who looked and sounded exactly like him, but there was nothing about the actor that in any way resembled him. Mum was so upset that she stopped watching the series after the first episode. ‘That’s not Dad,’ she said in disgust.

I sometimes think about what my life would have been like if Brink’s-Mat hadn’t happened, or if Dad hadn’t been involved. There’s every reason to think his property portfolio would have increased, since he owned 40 houses at the time, plus other ‘business interests’. I might have lived the life of the idle rich. I already enjoyed exotic holidays, large houses and luxury cars. Work may have become an alien concept. But what sort of person would that have made me? As it is, I live a perfectly normal life. I’m not wealthy, but I’m still very fortunate. And I’ve had to dig deep in a way I may never have had to if not for Brink’s-Mat. I’m hoping it has made me a better person.

In reality, it wasn’t in Dad’s nature to play by the rules. It was only a matter of time before he did something newsworthy.

I’m not ashamed of him though. Of course, I wish the robbery had never taken place, and the use of guns and threats of violence were deplorable. But his role was a logistical one. He took on the Establishment, and they won. But it was a pyrrhic victory because they couldn’t break his spirit. They took everything he had, so he started again. Like a stoic philosopher, his mind was an impenetrable fortress. ‘What else can they do to me?’ he would ask. ‘Kill me? Fine, I’m not afraid of death.’ And he meant it.

To him, life was a game played with loaded dice, and he wasn’t going to be cheated. He hated the state – largely as a result of a dismal childhood – and spent his whole life at war with it, although in his final years he developed a healthy respect for the medical profession.

Very few people have come up close to something on the scale of Brink’s-Mat. It sometimes feels like I’ve dreamt it. How could I be related to someone who was convicted for it? Being the offspring of a notorious criminal isn’t all bad. There’s a certain glamour attached to such heists, however unmerited, and I’ve met some very colourful characters. But you also have to be careful who you tell. There are people who have known me for decades who aren’t aware of Dad’s involvement. Once or twice the crime has been mentioned at work, and I have feigned ignorance. ‘Brink’s-Mat? What’s that?’

In case you’re wondering, I have no idea what happened to the gold that wasn’t recovered. Dad died insisting that he had nothing to do with it. Like most of the others, he declined interviews. After all the publicity, he craved anonymity. As the remaining few participants age and go to their graves, it may be that we never know the full story.

Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If’ was an almost sacred text to Dad. After it was read at his funeral, people commented that it summed him up perfectly. He met with Triumph and Disaster and treated those two impostors just the same. As we all must learn to do.