The case was a laugh throughout the East End, for most people knew that Reggie would rather give an old couple £500 than steal it from them. But Reggie was still sent for trial at Inner London Sessions. We were not sure if there had actually been a robbery or if Mrs Hertzberg was being paid by the police to invent one. But we knew she had not seen Reggie so we offered her £500 to encourage her to tell the truth in court. Since she and her husband were due to leave to begin a new life in Australia shortly, they both jumped at the idea.
It was decided that on the day of the hearing someone would go to the old man’s house with the £500. As soon as Reggie was released, the husband would receive a phone call from the court and the money would be handed over.
That’s exactly what happened – except that the old man never got the £500. When the phone call came through and he asked for it, our friend said, ‘You’ve got to be joking. You’re lucky you’re not younger – I’d knock you up in the air for what you’ve tried to do.’
Since we had discovered he was a paid police informer, none of us had any qualms about not giving him the £500.
As for Reggie, he was awarded costs against the police – satisfying in a way, but hardly compensation for the seven weeks he had been held in custody.
Later, Reggie admitted to me that he’d panicked when the police arrived at Vallance Road. I was amazed because Reggie had never been intimidated by the law. But it was all to do with Frances. Reggie knew the robbery allegation was a joke and he felt they might go the whole hog and claim the woman had been assaulted. The thought of Frances thinking for a second that he had touched another woman sent him into a cold sweat; and when the police said it was only robbery he was relieved, and went quickly and quietly – even though he hadn’t been anywhere near the scene of the alleged crime.
The warnings were there for the future: the police had played two tough games against the Krays and lost badly each time. But there was bound to be another time. We had bought cars, clothes, jewellery, exotic holidays, and other luxuries that make life sweeter. But we had not bought any policemen.
When the police moved in and closed The Double R, the twins got the hump. Why did the Old Bill have it in for them? they wanted to know. One minute they were millionaires, demanding with menaces all over London, the next they – and I – were supposed to be pilfering from cars. Now a harmless club was shut down. It did not make sense.
Around this time Billy Hill gave the twins some advice, which he urged them to take and never forget. Over drinks at his sumptuous flat in Moscow Road, Bayswater, the notorious gangland figure of the fifties told Ronnie and Reggie that they were fortunate in having a brother who was straight, who had no criminal convictions and was not involved in villainy of any kind. It was vital to keep it that way, he said, because I would always be an ally; an important weapon they could use to set legal machinery in motion if things went badly with the law. ‘Never involve Charlie in anything crooked,’ he said.
And he begged them to remember that advice.
Billy’s remarks gave the twins an idea. Since I was trusted one hundred per cent by the Old Bill, could I not have a word with someone to find out just why they appeared to be marked men. I said I’d speak to someone in the know, which is how I came to be talking to two plain-clothes coppers in an out-of-the-way pub in Walworth, South London.
The men arrived with a load of papers. And what they contained blew my mind. To me, the twins were just two ordinary cockneys from the back streets of Bethnal Green: tough, certainly, but likeable and respectful unless their feathers were ruffled by idiots. But to Scotland Yard, it seemed, the twins were a highly important duo, worth watching closely. I was shown telexes to Scotland Yard from forces in other countries, giving details of where the twins had gone and who they had met. There was a lot of stuff on Tangier and Ronnie’s meetings with Billy Hill, who had a house there.
I told the two coppers that I couldn’t dispute that the twins had had a few rows. But they were not robbing people; they were just club owners who wanted to make a few bob. Why, I asked, was the Yard going to such lengths to find out what they were up to?
The coppers told me that, quite simply, the twins had become too powerful. They may have started out as two ambitious, but insignificant, East Enders of modest intelligence, but now they were powerful; too powerful. They had money, and friends in high places with a lot of influence. The mixture was too dangerous.
I said I couldn’t understand it. How could the twins be a danger? All they wanted to do was to run a few clubs, have no money worries and be able to count the rich and famous – particularly sporting and showbusiness celebrities – among their friends.
Top political figures, it seemed, believed the twins could get 1,000 men behind them from all over the country, with a few phone calls.
The twins knew a lot of people, I agreed. But if they could get 1,000 people, what would they want them for? What would they all do?
The coppers didn’t have an answer to that. They just said that the people who ran the country considered them too powerful and were thinking of ways to control them. But I could be sure of one thing, they told me, and the twins ought to be aware of it: they would not be allowed, under any circumstances, to become more powerful.
I paid the coppers the agreed £100 for their information and went home, my head swimming with the implications of what I had been told.
Surprisingly, the twins were not at all bothered. Ronnie, particularly, thought it a big joke.
‘What do they think we’re going to do?’ he quipped. ‘Take over the bleeding country?’
Chapter Seven
With Esmeralda’s – and other projects dreamed up by Leslie Payne – bringing in hundreds every week, it wasn’t long before we decided to open another club in the East End to replace the much-missed Double R. We called it The Kentucky and it was packed every night after it opened early in 1962.
I must admit the way the twins chucked money around worried me and, since the Betting and Gaming Act had made gambling legal, I suggested investing some of our profits in betting shops, which were springing up all over the country. But Ronnie and Reggie did not fancy the idea.
What we did agree on, however, was using some of our money and growing business and showbusiness contacts for charity work. The three of us had always been eager to help old people and children and now we took huge pleasure in organizing fund-raising activities for Mile End Hospital, the Queen Elizabeth Hospital for children, the Repton Boys’ Club and various other organizations.
One of Reggie’s promotions at the York Hall in Bethnal Green was unique. He matched Bobby Ramsey – who had been responsible for the ill-fated bayonet attack in 1956 – as a properly gloved boxer against a judo and karate expert called Ray Levacq. Although the ‘anything-goes’ bout lasted only a few minutes – Ramsey winning by a second-round knockout – the star-studded audience loved it, and local charities benefited by several hundred pounds.
The Kentucky had a colourful, if short, life. A number of international stars – including Billy ‘That OF Black Magic’ Daniels – came there for a few drinks after their shows and the club even provided the setting for a film, Sparrows Can’t Sing. The mayor of Bethnal Green, Mr Hare, asked if we could help him by selling tickets for the charity première at the Empire Cinema opposite The Kentucky. We bought £500 worth – and sold the lot. Later, people would say this was ‘demanding’, but it wasn’t. East Enders were keen to support charities, always had been. And anyway, people liked a good night out. After the première we threw a party for the whole cast that was talked about for months. Throughout 1962 and early 1963 the East End in general, and The Kentucky in particular, was the place to be.
You could never be quite sure what was going to happen. One night, for instance, a midget singer called Little Hank took the stage for a cabaret spot when Ronnie suddenly emerged from the wings, holding a donkey on a leash. Little Hank – no doubt as surprised as the rest of us – gravely climbed o
n it and sang his opening number as Ronnie stood alongside with a straight face. After Hank’s performance, Ronnie led the donkey down to the bar and it waited next to him patiently while he had a few drinks. Later he gave the donkey to a club member for one of his children.
At around three in the morning, Ronnie was woken up by a knock at the door in Vallance Road. The recipient of Ronnie’s thoughtful gift was extremely grateful, but wanted to know what to do to stop the blessed animal’s deafening hee-haws, which were keeping everyone awake.
‘Put its bloody head in a sack,’ Ronnie offered, and went back to bed.
Charitable Ronnie even gave some local buskers a chance to take the Kentucky stage. We were walking along Bethnal Green Road one day when Ronnie pointed at four or five blokes playing trumpets and various other instruments on the pavement.
‘They’re terrific,’ said Ronnie. ‘I always give ‘em a few quid.’
I nodded. A few quid probably meant ten.
‘Oh, by the way,’ he added, ‘I’ve told a couple of them to come to the club tonight and play us a tune. I said we’d give ‘em a few quid.’
‘Do me a favour, Ron,’ I said. ‘They’re amateurs.’
‘They’re very good, let me tell you,’ Ronnie said indignantly.
‘You can’t have them in the club,’ I told him.
But, of course, he did. They played a tune and Ronnie paid them. That’s how he was.
Both the twins had a lot of will-power, but Ronnie’s was phenomenal. He had a sort of obsession about it: if you really wanted to do something, he’d say, nothing should be able to stop you.
One night in The Kentucky, Ronnie was at the bar, having a heated discussion about will-power with a much younger guy.
‘I’ll prove you can do anything you want,’ Ronnie was saying. And he took a knife out of his pocket and plunged it into his left hand. Blood spurted everywhere. Reggie and I looked at each other, not believing what we had seen. We ran behind the bar and got a towel and wrapped it round Ronnie’s hand, which seemed nearly cut in half.
‘What were you doing?’ Reggie yelled. ‘Are you mad?’
Ronnie just said he was trying to prove a point.
‘Fantastic!’ I said. ‘You’re so bright.’
We took him to The London Hospital at Whitechapel and a doctor told him he had come within a fraction of an inch of losing the use of the hand.
Ronnie said he had put his hand through a window, but the doctor did not believe him. When we got home, Mum broke her heart. She kept asking Ronnie why he had done it, but all he would say was, ‘To prove a point.’
When I told him I thought he was barmy trying to prove a point to some idiot, Ronnie said, ‘Shut your mouth. It’s done now. It’s finished.’
You could never tell Ronnie anything.
Both he and Reggie could not bear anyone who took liberties, particularly where women were involved. One afternoon, some girls from a dress-making factory hired The Kentucky for a firm’s party. The twins and I greeted them, then left them to enjoy themselves. Later we learned that two brothers named Jordan had gone to the club and made themselves busy with the girls, grabbing them and generally trying it on. The bloke in charge of the club had not tried to stop the brothers because he feared they would smash the place up.
We hit the roof. I was happy to find the brothers and warn them verbally but the twins didn’t think that was enough. The next morning Ronnie got up at five o’clock to go to Smithfield market where one of the brothers worked; he told Reggie and me to go to a local glass factory to find the other one.
When we got there, Reggie told me to leave everything to him because two on to one wasn’t fair. One massive punch to the jaw did it: Jack the Lad Jordan didn’t know what hit him. But, as usual, Ronnie was not able to throw just one and walk away. Apparently, he charged around Smithfield and when he found his Jordan, knocked him all over the place, leaving him in a right mess. The brothers never came into The Kentucky again.
Sadly, it was only a few months later that no one came to the club at all. Mysteriously, our request to have our licence renewed was turned down by the local justices. The club had been run properly, with no complaints from anyone, and applications for extensions had always been granted. But our renewal application was thrown out anyway. The local justices were not obliged to say why, and they didn’t.
It did not need an Einstein to work out the reason. Because we refused to give the police back-handers to leave us alone we were still marked men. The daft charges of fiddling with car doors and robbing defenceless old-age pensioners had blown up in the police faces, so other tactics had to be used. They had easily closed The Double R without good reason, and they did the same with The Kentucky.
The closure had a bad effect on all of us, but particularly Ronnie. He hated the police aggravation and the violence. He would often say to Mum, ‘I’m going to move. I can’t stand it any more.’ He wanted to get away from an area that bred violence and people who revelled in it. Ronnie, of course, was violent himself. But afterwards he would hate what he had done. I remember once he got extremely depressed and said, ‘That’s it. I’ve had enough.’
Leslie Payne had come running to the twins asking for help because Bobby Ramsey had taken a pop at him. Ronnie and Reggie were going to see Ramsey at a garage in Stratford and they asked me to go with them; why, I can’t remember.
Ramsey came out into the courtyard. Ronnie told him not to take liberties with Payne, then laid him out with a right to the jaw. As Ramsey went to get up, Ronnie picked up a shovel and raised it menacingly. Reggie and I were convinced he was going to kill Ramsey before our eyes, but he calmed down and later went into the office to apologize. But he told Ramsey he had been wrong to hit Payne.
In the car going home, Ronnie was extremely depressed. ‘I’m sick of all this,’ he said. ‘I had to go and hit Ramsey on the chin because of Payne. I’m sick of the whole life. I want to get out. I’ve had enough.’
When he got like this he would go to Turkey or some other sunny place to get away from it all. But he badly wanted to move away for good.
Eventually he was to buy a place in that part of England he had loved so much as a war-time child. But by then it was too late.
We were sorry to see The Kentucky go: it was well liked and well used by respectable local people, and enhanced the area. But if the police thought the closure would put the Kray brothers out of business they couldn’t have been more wrong. Esmeralda’s Barn, which now had a basement disco, had enabled us to buy into other, smaller West End clubs. The twins also bought a small hotel, The Glenrae, in Seven Sisters Road, North London. And Leslie Payne, who was buying a controlling interest in The Cambridge Rooms on the Kingston bypass, was about to launch a legitimate company, The Carston Group, with a posh Mayfair office.
The police may have hit our East End connection. But up West, the money was rolling in.
To three East End blokes in the nightclub business, Leslie Payne’s scheme sounded senseless. He had returned from the Eastern Nigeria city of Enugu and partly committed us to building a new township in the bush. It was a project more suited to merchant bank investment, but the more Payne explained the financial possibilities the more excited we all got. Ronnie and Reggie flew to Enugu with Payne and Gore to see the development site and when they returned plans were made to approach wealthy and influential people for investment. One of these gentlemen was Lord Boothby; another was Hew McCowan, son of a rich Scottish baronet and landowner.
What we did not know at the time was that Ernest Shinwell, son of the late, much-respected Labour MP, had hawked the proposition round for a long time without finding any takers. He must have gone to Payne as a last resort. Blissfully unaware of this, we happily poured money from our. various London enterprises into the Great African Safari – GAS for short – confident that Payne knew what he was doing. As 1964 wore on, however, we became worried: not only was more and more money being swallowed up by GAS, we also got word that the
police were taking an even closer interest in our activities. So it was with some relief that we greeted Payne’s assurances in October that it was pay-off time and we would soon all be rolling in money again. Four of us – Payne, Gore, a well-connected Canadian called Gordon Anderson and myself – flew to Enugu full of hope.
It took me just three days to sense that all was not well.
Payne, as usual, strutted around like a Great White Chief – the faithful Gore forever in his wake – but I could not fail to notice he was always avoiding a native building contractor who, I knew, had paid us a £5,000 introductory fee months before. The man wanted to get on with the building work and was always in the foyer of the Presidential Hotel looking for Payne who, in turn, was forever dodging him. I talked to Payne about it but he told me not to worry.
Payne gave the impression he knew what he was doing. But he didn’t. That contractor got fed up and opted out of the scheme. He managed to track Payne down and demanded his £5,000 back. After a blazing row in which Payne said he didn’t have the money, the man went to the police. Payne and Gore were arrested and thrown into jail.
Overnight the warm, friendly atmosphere became cold and frosty: no more smiles, polite bows and handshakes from Government officials; no more smart cars with motorcycle escorts at our disposal.
Payne was still playing the Great White Chief in his prison cell, vehemently insisting that he and Gore would join us at the airport as soon as he’d put the local police chief in his place. When they didn’t show up, I told Anderson to go on to Lagos while I dealt with the matter. The only way to sort it out was to pay back the £5,000, so I rang the twins and told them to wire the money at once. I sat by the phone for the next twenty-four hours until I had absolute confirmation that the cash was on its way. Then a solicitor I’d met on previous visits found a judge who would sign the necessary bail forms if I arranged for £5,000 to be paid.
Me and My Brothers Page 9