Notorious: The Immortal Legend of the Kray Twins

by John Pearson

  Frank Taylor was a gay, gregarious, very tall New Yorker, who was working as editor-in-chief at McGraw-Hill, the New York publishers. Since he had little experience of criminals he was not to know that the famous lawyer who had rung him recently at his New York office had connections with the US Mafia. (He was actually a friend of Alan Bruce Cooper who had given his name to the Twins as someone who might help them.) The lawyer was extremely charming and Frank was flattered when he made it clear that he realised Frank was no ordinary publisher but had also been a film producer, with one of the great movies of the 1960s to his credit – The Misfits, based on a story by Arthur Miller and starring Marilyn Monroe, Montgomery Clift and Clark Gable.

  Having mentioned this in passing, the lawyer then explained that he was calling on behalf of friends in London who were looking for someone to produce a film about their adventures. They were identical twins who’d been involved in some of the most sensational recent crimes in London, and since they were thinking of retiring they felt the time had come to make a film about their lives.

  The lawyer must have done quite a selling job on the Twins’ behalf for real-life crime was not Frank Taylor’s speciality. But, since the lawyer clearly knew a lot about him, he might have mentioned that these friends of his were gay, which could have added to their interest value and persuaded Frank at least to talk to Reg on the telephone. Frank did his best to make it clear that although he’d be in London on a business trip in late October, he was afraid they’d have no time to meet. Then Reg said something that made him change his mind.

  As far as I could gather, this happened when Reg mentioned the house where he and his brother Ron were living in the country. Suddenly the thought of two gay twin cockney criminals operating from a stately home in Suffolk struck Frank as so bizarre that he simply had to see them. The upshot was that he said that he would set aside the last day of his trip to London to go and meet them.

  Later, Reg and Frank had several fairly lengthy telephone conversations. Then, on the day before Frank left for London, Reg made one further call to his New York office to confirm his arrival and arrange the details of his visit. At nine o’clock on the morning of 5 November a friend of his called Tommy Brown would meet Frank at the reception desk of his hotel in Albemarle Street, then drive him up to Gedding Hall. He and his brother Ron were both looking forward very much to seeing him and he promised Frank he’d not be disappointed. Over lunch they could talk about the film they wanted and he assured him he’d be back in London long before the rush hour started.

  Reg made this call to Frank Taylor on 19 October. Frank left for London the day after. Reg murdered Jack McVitie eight days later.

  For a long time I was puzzled by this sequence of events. Why should Reg have fixed a date with a film producer to discuss a movie on his life with Ron, then murder someone just before the meeting? What, if anything, could be the link between these two events?

  I knew, of course, that Reg’s almost hysterical reaction to his wife’s suicide, plus constant needling from Ron throughout the summer ‘to do his one’ had by that autumn brought him to the point where he was quite prepared to murder almost anyone. But was it simply a coincidence that the murder came so swiftly after he had fixed the date for Frank Taylor’s visit?

  One must remember that the Twins were movie mad, often identifying with the heroes of the gangster movies they had grown up with; and there were two new films that summer that had made a great impression on them both. One was the adaptation of Truman Capote’s anatomy of a murder, In Cold Blood; the other was the story of the two young bank robbers Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow in Arthur Penn’s award-winning movie Bonnie and Clyde.

  Later the Twins would tell me how impressed they both had been by the way Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty transformed these two young small-town killers into doomed romantic rebels battling against a hostile world. This was how they liked to see themselves and it wasn’t hard to imagine what a film about their lives could be. As identical twin criminals, and with all the tales that they could tell, their story had to be unique. But one important fact was missing. At that moment only one of the Twins was actually a murderer. Had that been the case with either Bonnie or with Clyde no film about them would have worked, and the same applied to the two young murderers of In Cold Blood.

  Even while Reg was finalising arrangements for Frank Taylor’s visit Ron still wasn’t letting Reg forget what he had to do, and that until he did his duty their legend would be incomplete. Without their legend there could be no film, and without their film their lives would be forgotten.

  With Frank now due to visit them at Gedding Hall in two weeks’ time there was no time to lose. If the one thing that their story still required was the sacrifice of someone as insignificant as Jack the Hat, the poor man never stood a chance.

  The truth was that the Twins’ entire performance, from their introduction to Frank Taylor to the murder of McVitie, had as much to do with image as with crime. It was also crazy. At a time like this the last thing they needed was another murder on their hands and only a madman would have dreamt of doing it. But then, Ron was mad, and during the ten years since he’d been certified insane his madness had been growing worse. Now that he’d started killing people, and Reg was effectively under his control, the two of them were sharing in Ron’s paranoid illusions of invulnerability, coupled with his manic certainty that he was right.

  They were also driven by the need to make some money and were genuinely excited by the thought that, once their image as twin criminal celebrities was established for the future, the earnings from the film would sort out their finances and pay for their retirement.

  In fact, of course, they’d made a deal with the devil, and ultimately it would be McVitie’s murder that was going to condemn them both to somewhat premature retirement. But late that autumn, in their first post-homicidal rapture, Ron and Reg both genuinely believed that they were doing what their destiny dictated. At last their bid for riches, fame and immortality had started.

  Once the Twins were set on this determined course of action, one can but admire the single-mindedness with which they now pursued it. Before they even killed McVitie they had already decided to arrange the all-important meeting with Frank Taylor up at Gedding Hall. Had they suggested meeting him in some suitably discreet London venue to discuss their story he would probably not have even bothered to see them. But like the natural con man that he was, by also telling Frank that Gedding Hall was theirs Reg instantly converted what would have been a fairly humdrum business proposition into a genuine adventure. From then on, Gedding Hall would do the rest.

  For Gedding Hall possessed a magic of its own. When Geoff Allen had acquired it a few years earlier he’d seriously intended treating it as he had treated so many other houses in his time. But when it came to it something stopped him, and instead of torching Gedding Hall he started living there instead. (Some years later he would sell it on to Bill Wyman of the Rolling Stones, who also fell in love with it and allowed Geoff to be buried in its grounds, following his death in 1992.)

  For the truth about the house is that although it is almost entirely Victorian mock-Tudor, built in the 1890s by a former mayor of Leicester, what with its moat and drawbridge and its suitably romantic tower it is architectural showbiz of the highest order and manages to look more Tudor than the real thing. It would have made a perfect setting for a Gothic thriller and, whether consciously or not, the Twins could not have picked a better place to impress an American film producer. From the moment that Frank Taylor saw its rose-pink ramparts in the autumn sunlight and its black swans gliding on the murky waters of its moat, the Kray Twins had their famous guest on toast.

  Little else was left to chance. Geoff Allen played the Twins’ devoted side-kick to perfection. Brother Charlie, summoned specially from London to meet the great producer, needed little coaching for the real-life part of their worried older brother. Several of Geoff’s old girlfriends, given the role of gangsters’ m
olls, presided over a meal of salad and cold ham in the cavernous dining room. And while the Twins were drinking their accustomed Newkie Browns, a respectable bottle of cold white wine was produced for Frank Taylor. As for the Twins, with Ronnie on a schizoid high and a famous film producer in their midst, they must have been in seventh heaven,

  I think the truth was that, largely thanks to Gedding Hall, Frank Taylor and the Twins were distinctly taken with each other from the start. Indeed, with Jack the Hat already decomposing in the English Channel, the Twins were so impressed with Frank that they probably did think that Jack McVitie hadn’t died in vain. Whilst for Frank, the sight of these two gay cockney gangsters dominating London crime from this spectacular house deep in the English countryside was like a dream of gay empowerment come true. Knowing Frank, I can imagine him playing up to them with a lot of high-camp Hollywood gossip. Predictably they couldn’t wait to hear everything that he could tell them about Marilyn Monroe, and in particular how she shared her lovely body with Jack and Bobby Kennedy and their old friend, the monstrous Mafia boss of Chicago, Sam Giancana.

  Over lunch they continued with the ultimate film buff’s ego trip of deciding who should play them in the film about their lives. Ron wanted his old admirer from Morocco, the actor Stanley Baker, but Reg picked on Albert Finney. Frank made it clear that he preferred Rod Steiger, and by now he was genuinely excited by the possibilities he was seeing in the film. It was early days, of course, but it wasn’t every day that a film producer found himself being offered such a story. Think of what Hitchcock would have made of the combination of the Twins and Gedding Hall. Think of what Frank himself could do with it. Before he left he was already talking of sorting out an option on the film rights to their story.

  This raised a subject which was still as yet unsettled. The Twins already knew that their chances of a movie would be considerably improved if someone wrote their biography and they had already asked Francis Wyndham, their old fan from the Sunday Times, to do it for them. But Francis had grown wary of them since they tried involving him in their plans after the Mad Axeman’s disappearance. No longer seeing them as a pair of fairly harmless cockney Humphrey Bogarts, he had sensibly declined.

  When Reg mentioned this to Frank on the telephone Frank told him that he knew Capote and would ask if he was interested. Capote rapidly replied that he was not, and when Frank explained this to the Twins they asked him if he had anyone else in mind.

  This is the point at which I enter the story of the Twins. The previous year McGraw-Hill had published the American edition of my authorised biography of Ian Fleming which, thanks largely to the popularity of the earliest (and to my mind the best) James Bond films, had done extremely well. The Twins, of course, did not know me from Adam but, like everybody else, they knew all about James Bond. And when Frank suggested I should write their book, neither twin objected.

  20

  The Kingdom of the

  Krays

  THROUGHOUT THIS TIME I had been living in Rome while researching a new book on the Roman Colosseum, and I was just finishing a late breakfast when Frank Taylor rang from London. He was still at Brown’s Hotel – which, like many Americans, he loved – and was obviously excited.

  ‘John, I must tell you that I’ve just had one of the most amazing days of my life. There’s this pair of cockney twins running London crime from a stately home in Suffolk. They’re desperate for a film about their lives and they need somebody to write a book about them. After that great biography of yours on Ian, I think that you should do it. But first you have to meet them.’

  I thanked him and promised that I’d think about it, but that wasn’t good enough for him. When Frank was on a high he was unstoppable.

  ‘Now listen – and take this seriously. For you this book could be a winner, but you must get over here as fast as possible and meet the twins before they change their minds. If you’re doing anything tonight, forget it. You’re booked on the evening flight from Rome to London, and everything’s been taken care of. There’s a ticket in your name at the Alitalia desk at Fiumicino airport and tonight you’re staying at the Ritz. Dinner’s on me, and first thing tomorrow morning someone will meet you at reception and drive you up to meet the boys at this place of theirs in Suffolk.’

  It was then that I realised there was little point in arguing. Besides, nothing much was happening for me in Rome around that time. ‘It sounds fascinating,’ I said. ‘Of course I’ll go. Oh, and by the way, what’s the name of these twins of yours?’

  ‘Kray. The name is Kray. But if you know anything about them don’t let it worry you. Your safety’s guaranteed.’

  During the following few months I lost count of how many times I would remind myself of Frank’s guarantee of safety. But at the time it sounded reassuring.

  ‘I’m being serious about this, John. If there’s a book in this I’ll publish it. If there’s a film in it I’ll make it. And if doesn’t work you’ll have had a day you’re never going to forget.’

  Even in the Swinging Sixties, one didn’t often get an offer quite like that.

  To start with, everything went according to Frank’s plans. As I soon discovered, I had been booked on the Alitalia flight to London, a room was awaiting me at the Ritz, and Frank had even kept his word and paid for the meal I ate in lonely splendour in the hotel’s empty dining room.

  Action started on the dot of nine the next morning when reception rang to tell me that two gentlemen were downstairs, asking to see me. One of them was very large, and one was very small, and both of them introduced themselves as Tom. Large Tom, as I discovered later, was Tommy Brown, the celebrated all-in wrestler known professionally as ‘the Bear’. His wife, Dot Brown, was Ron Kray’s personal clairvoyant. Little Tom worked with Reg on ‘security’ and doubled as a minder with an East End double-glazing company. Both were members of The Firm.

  From the start, Big Tom was very much in charge and had managed to park his monstrous Mercedes round the corner from the Ritz. We piled in, and with both the Toms in front we headed through the morning traffic to whatever fate awaited me.

  It’s often claimed that throughout the 1960s the Twins were such household names that everybody knew about them. But until their arrest in 1968 this wasn’t strictly true. As I would soon be seeing for myself, in Bethnal Green and much of the old East End they had long been local celebrities – as they were in the underworld and in certain ultra-swinging parts of Chelsea. But as I sat in the back of the Bear’s Mercedes, racking my brains to remember all I could about them, I realised that there was not a lot that I could recall. I had a vague memory of the Kray name in connection with the Sunday Mirror libel action, and that had been more than three years earlier. Otherwise forget it.

  However, when I tried to pump the Toms about the twins they closed up like a pair of clams and the rest of the journey passed in heavy silence. The magical mystery tour that followed took us up past Lavenham, where I recognised the famous church. Twenty minutes later came park gates, a brief view of a deer park – and then Gedding Hall was there before me like a sudden flash of magic in the middle of a rich autumnal nowhere.

  I’ve always been a soft touch for con men and from that moment when I saw Geoff Allen with his cheery smile and Rupert Bear-style checked trousers, coming out to welcome me to Gedding Hall I felt reassured. Here really was a ray of sunshine on a rainy day.

  ‘Come and meet the Twins,’ he said. ‘Frank Taylor told us all about you. Great guy, Frank. The boys can’t wait to meet you.’

  I’m not likely to forget my first encounter with the brothers Kray. All three of them, including older brother Charlie, were lined up there to meet me in the big oak-panelled dining room, with their backs to a blazing fire. As all three of them were wearing the Kray uniform of dark blue suits, white shirts and tightly knotted dark silk ties – they must have felt stifled in the heat.

  Geoff introduced me first to the Twins’ older brother, Charlie.

  There was something a
bout Charlie that always made me feel sorry for him. With his blond good looks, which he had inherited from his mother, he was obviously the odd man out and I noticed that the Twins tended to ignore him.

  As for the Twins themselves, what surprised me was not so much their similarities as the differences between them.

  The memory plays funny tricks, but I’ve still got a clear impression of Reg as I saw him then. He was five foot ten or so, with the dark eyes and hair of some gypsy forebear, but there was something about him that I found disturbing. For much of the time his face had what seemed a tortured expression which he was trying to offset by projecting a sort of desperate charm. He did not look a happy man.

  But the one who really fascinated me was Ron, and my first reaction to him was that he was mad. It was partly the voice, which sounded as though he had some mysterious speech impediment. He looked older and heavier than Reg and his movements seemed curiously uncoordinated. He and Reg even had a different handshake. Reg had a hard dry bony hand with the knuckles of the right pushed back a good half-inch from a lifetime of punching people on the chin. Ron, in contrast, had a limp and clammy handshake.

  Here I must explain that ten years earlier Ian Fleming, when he was still an unknown columnist, had given me a job as his assistant on the Sunday Times. By then he had written the first three or four James Bond novels, which had yet to make his fortune, and from working with him I must have picked up the idea that, whenever possible, a writer’s life should have an element of mystery and adventure.

  Ian would certainly have appreciated Gedding Hall – moat, black swans and all – but I’m not so sure about the lunch that followed. I was given the place of honour at the long oak dining table, with a twin on either side of me.