Me and My Brothers

by Kray, Charlie

  I went back into the cell and told the twins what had happened. They were stunned. Charlie Mitchell said it was diabolical; he was choked for me, he said. Fortunately, this trumped-up, stupid charge was thrown out at Bow Street for lack of evidence.

  The cage made life bearable for us as the months rolled on: the beds were more comfortable and there was a TV room which we were allowed into, two or three at a time. But we were not allowed any contact with other prisoners. Nor were we allowed to go to church on Sundays. Security around us was elaborate and efficient, but we managed to find out a lot about what was going on. One new item that filtered through was that Nipper Read was visiting Brixton in various disguises for his growing Kray dossier.

  The months rolled on and on and then, hard though it was for us to believe, it was Christmas. Mum and the old man, who had sold The Brooks and returned to London permanently, sent in as much food and drink as allowed, although money was beginning to be a bit short. It was my twentieth wedding anniversary but Brixton Prison is far from ideal as a venue for such a celebration. As the festivities passed and we moved on to yet another New Year, I thought of Diana. Had she, I wondered, followed through that decision to leave home? Whatever had happened, I hoped she was happy.

  And then it was 7 January and the Old Bailey was set for the trial of the century. The cockney canaries had sung their hearts out to Nipper and his men. And when the twins and I, with seven members of their so-called Firm, emerged from the cells into the famous No. 1 Court that morning it was not to face the relatively innocuous charges of conspiracy to defraud but varying charges of murder and complicity in murder.

  Ronnie was charged with murdering George Cornell, in The Blind Beggar, on 9 March 1966. Reggie was charged with killing Jack McVitie, in Blonde Carol’s flat, in Stoke Newington, on 29 October 1967.

  And I was accused of being an accessory to McVitie’s murder. To be more precise, that I helped dispose of the body.

  I was apprehensive, of course. Who wouldn’t be? But I was relieved, too. Eight months in prison had knocked my self-confidence, left my nerves in tatters, and almost wrecked my spirit. Now, the nightmare was nearing its end. Twelve ordinary citizens, and a fair-minded judge, were going to see through all the lies and deceit and set me free, I was certain of that.

  Justice, I’d always been told, must not just be done, but must be seen to be done. That cold winter’s morning, I couldn’t wait for the world to see it.

  Chapter Eleven

  People who have never been in trouble with the police will find it difficult, if not impossible, to understand why I didn’t go into court and tell the truth about that terrible October night in 1967. That way, I could have thwarted every attempt by police and prosecution witnesses to convict me for something I did not do. But, quite simply, that was not the way we did things in the East End. Nobody – me included – thought for a moment that the twins would plead anything but not guilty to everything, which meant that I would have to deny all knowledge of Jack McVitie’s murder and take my chances along with everyone else.

  Lying, I appreciated, would make things difficult for me, because I had received a phone call in the middle of that Saturday night and had gone to Harry Hopwood’s house, and both Hopwood and Ronnie Hart were going to say so. I wasn’t unduly worried, however. Hart, the star prosecution witness, had traded his conscience for freedom, and had proved at the Bow Street committal hearing that he didn’t give a toss for the truth. But my counsel had reserved my defence, and not one of Hart’s damning false allegations had been challenged yet. Now, before an Old Bailey jury, the gloves would be off: Vowden would be the aggressor and every one of Hart’s lies, every careless slip of the tongue – not only by him, but by all the prosecution witnesses – would be seized on and torn apart.

  I honestly didn’t think Hart’s evidence would affect me too much. He had a grudge against the twins, may have hated them even, but I’d never done anything to make him want to frame me. He’d lied in the lower court but surely under fierce cross-examination he would crack and admit I wasn’t involved in disposing of McVitie’s body.

  Standing in the famous No 1 Court at the Old Bailey that first morning with the nine other accused I felt supremely confident. For at the end of the day the charge against me was unfounded. That night in 1967 I had not even seen McVitie’s body, let alone got rid of it. And anyway, as Mr Vowden had explained, if the impossible happened, if the preposterous lies were believed, the onus was still on the prosecution to prove I was guilty, not on me to prove I was innocent.

  I looked confidently at the jury. They all appeared to be intelligent human beings, capable of distinguishing between fact and fiction, simple truth and barefaced lie. I looked at the judge – Melford Stevenson, the epitome of justice. Experienced, knowledgeable, wise. He, too, looked as if he would be eager to protect an innocent man from the falsehoods of his corruptible accusers.

  The cases against the twins, their so-called Firm and me went on for thirty-nine days. The popular papers labelled it the Trial of the Century and the financial cost of the whole affair – over £150,000 – earned it a place in the Guinness Book of Records as the most expensive criminal hearing ever. If you want a strictly accurate, blow-by-blow account of all that went on, the statements of claim, the pleadings and submissions, wrapped up in colourful and complicated legal mumbo-jumbo, plus all the heated exchanges between accusers and accused that made the headlines, your local library will probably be able to provide you with details. Certainly I’m not going to attempt to do so here. The whole business, from the moment of my early-morning arrest on 8 May 1968 to my sentencing on 5 March 1969, was the most nerve-racking, nightmarish experience of my life, and at the end of it all I was in no position to remember much about the proceedings except what had directly or indirectly affected me. Everyone there, from the judge and jurors to the men in the dock, the barristers in their wigs and gowns and the spectators in the gallery, saw the trial differently. For me it was a mixture of highs and lows, from times when I was amused, hopeful or quietly elated, to others when I was worried, acutely disappointed or hurled into dark despair. Since this is my story, these are the moments I shall concentrate on.

  The basis of Ronnie Hart’s evidence against me was that I had driven with him in his mini to Freddie Foreman’s pub, the Prince of Wales in Lant Street, Southwark, in the early hours of Sunday 28 October. The purpose of the visit, said Hart, was to tell Foreman to get rid of McVitie’s body. This was, of course, a blatant lie, which I thought was made clear when Harry Hopwood, another prosecution witness, told the truth, which conflicted with Hart’s claim. Hopwood told the jury, quite rightly, that I had indeed gone to his house but had set off home alone about half an hour later. Moreover, he added that Hart himself had not left the house. Men have been acquitted on less corroboration and my hopes were high. But I did not realize then that this was more of a political trial than a criminal one. In case the jury were having thoughts of believing Hopwood, Mr Justice Stevenson pooh-poohed his evidence. ‘In things like this, people do get mixed up,’ he told them. ‘It must have been a bit of a shock for him; he must have forgotten. But at least he is telling the truth, or so he thinks. He’s just mixed up. We have the proof from Ronald Hart.’

  It was at that moment, I think, that I glanced up at Mum in the gallery. Throughout my life she had drummed into me how important it was to tell the truth. How I wished right then that I could have done just that, backing up Hopwood’s accurate statement and redressing the balance in my favour after the judge’s appallingly biased comment. My fears that my fate was in the judge’s hands rather than the jury’s grew when he unexpectedly called an adjournment thirty minutes early – at a crucial moment in Hart’s evidence.

  Hart had been telling the court about a visit he allegedly made with me to Foreman’s pub a week after McVitie’s murder. He said he remembered Foreman leaning over to me and saying, ‘When I found that body it was all glistening, like he had Vaseline on him.’ The
pub was noisy and Hart said he couldn’t hear anything else. Just that sentence! It was all too pat and I was sure the jury would not believe it. Then, during Vowden’s cross-examination, Hart made a slip that sent my pulse racing with excitement. Having just stated that I was with him that day he then said in a loud voice that I wasn’t. As Hart was about to get himself deeper into trouble, however, Mr Justice Stevenson interrupted the cross-examination and said the court would adjourn for lunch. It was 12.30. The court normally rose at 1 P.M.

  During the break I was very worried, sensing trouble. The judge had been so biased against all the defendants that I felt sure he had called for an adjournment early to protect Hart. Vowden told me I was being over-sensitive. The slip was significant, he said, and the judge, realizing this, had called for an early lunch because the case against me would be thrown out that afternoon.

  I was not convinced, and no sooner had Hart got back on the stand than the judge reminded him, ‘You said earlier that you weren’t with Mr Kray that day.’

  And, of course, dear old Ronnie had had a change of heart!

  He had been thinking about it over lunch and was now sure that I had, indeed, been with him. Vowden couldn’t believe it, but I could. I may not be as eloquent or as academically brilliant as a university-educated barrister but I am sharp-witted, and astute enough to know when the dice are loaded. No one will ever convince me that Stevenson didn’t save the prosecution that day, or that its star witness was not given a gentle prod in the right direction over lunch.

  Even with Hart giving an Oscar-winning performance to try to convict me, there was so much doubt clouding my case that I should have got off. One of the twins’ Firm, Scotch Jack Dickson, for example, was hopelessly trapped by Vowden, only to be saved by the judge who excused his mistake.

  Dickson was adamant that he had been with me in a Mile End café owned by Terry Pellicci the morning after McVitie’s murder. He claimed I had told him the twins had killed McVitie, and that I knew all about it. Something bothered me about his testimony. Apart from the fact that it was all a load of cobblers designed, like Hart’s, to plunge me deeper into the prosecution net, there was something else, something not right. I thought long and hard about it that night in my Brixton cell and finally it hit me.

  It was impossible for me to have been in the cafe with Dickson. It was impossible for anyone to have been in the cafe at all that day…because it wasn’t open on Sundays!

  Again, my heart beat a little faster. Surely this was important. Surely a prosecution witness lying on oath was good for my case. Surely all that Dickson had said, whatever it was meant to imply, would have to be struck from the record, or the jury told to disregard it.

  In his cross-examination, Vowden let Dickson go on and on about his café conversation with me. Was it Sunday? Yes. Are you quite sure about that? Absolutely. Is there just a chance, a mere possibility, that you’re mistaken; that it was another day, the Monday morning, perhaps? Not a chance, sir, it was a Sunday. I remember it clearly. Thank you. Mr Dickson. That is all.

  Enter Terry Pellicci for the defence. Now, Mr Pellicci, did Mr Dickson and Mr Kray come to your cafe? Yes, sir, I saw them together several times. Was one of those times Sunday 28 October? No, sir. Are you quite certain of that, Mr Pellicci? Yes, sir. How can you be so certain? The café isn’t open on Sundays, sir, I haven’t opened on a Sunday for seventeen years. Thank you, Mr Pellicci. That is all.

  Dickson’s jaw dropped. There was a flurry of activity among the prosecution barristers, much hurried whispering and looks of surprise and consternation. Vowden sat down, the faintest look of satisfaction on his face. I fought to stop myself grinning. It was a bombshell for the prosecution all right.

  And then Mr Justice Stevenson stepped in to save their blushes again. ‘It is clear Mr Dickson has made a mistake with the day of the meeting,’ he said. ‘As it couldn’t have been the Sunday, it must have been the Monday.’

  And that was that. For although Vowden made the point over and over again, it was what the judge said that in the end made all the difference.

  Naturally I was gutted. But although the lies were making the case against me look very black and the judge, for some reason, seemed to have it in for me, I still clung to my strong belief in British justice. I had not disposed of a murdered man’s body, so come what may I was not going to be found guilty of doing so.

  I consoled myself that it was still early days; there would be other ways in which the prosecution’s liars could be exposed. One of these came in the shape of two honest men who ran a garage off Vallance Road. Hart’s version of events during the early hours of that Sunday morning could not be right, they told Vowden, because the mini Hart said we drove in was parked in their garage all Saturday night and Sunday morning. They were not mistaken, they stressed, because the mini had blocked some taxis and efforts had been made to trace the owner. To me the men’s joint evidence seemed manna from heaven, but apparently the police got wind of it and told them not to interfere. Despite the garage men’s protests, they were not even allowed to appear in court.

  Even so, there were other holes in Hart’s testimony that should have made the jury suspicious of his motives. On his own admission he had been a witness to murder, yet I was supposed to have suddenly appeared on the scene and taken over. He said I made him stand by the mini outside the Prince of Wales at 3 A.M. while I rang the bell and woke Foreman up. On one hand he said he was too far away to hear all that was said but on the other he had no doubt that he heard me telling Foreman to get rid of the body. It did not add up.

  Hart claimed the Lambrianou brothers had taken McVitie’s body from the house in Stoke Newington ‘over the water’ to South London, but he and Hopwood said the brothers were not in Hopwood’s house when I arrived. So how was I supposed to tell Foreman where the body was? Unless I’d driven around South London, found the Lambrianous and asked them, I would not have known. If I didn’t know where the body was, how could I have disposed of it?

  It was a dream-like experience, sitting there listening to people relating in sincere tones, as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, what I was supposed to have done. There seemed to be so many conflicting statements that I got totally confused and lost track of the plot, as it were. Most of the time I found myself thinking: if only the twins hadn’t told Harry Hopwood to ring me. If there hadn’t been that phone call, none of this would have happened and I wouldn’t have been in the frame. But the fact that I had gone to the house gave the police and their witnesses the foundation on which to build their lies.

  In court there was so much happening, so much to take in and concentrate on that I had little time to feel angry. But at night, alone in my cell in Brixton, my feelings would boil up and my insides would ache with fury, not only at the twins for roping me in so unnecessarily and thoughtlessly but also at their short-sightedness and naivety so far as their damned blasted Firm was concerned. Ronnie and Reggie had always attracted people and been surrounded by large groups who enjoyed their charisma. And they loved it, probably needing it to boost their own ideas of themselves as powerful leaders of men. But with one or two exceptions, the idiots who went around with them hanging on their every word were not worth two bob. The Firm were physically tough but not very bright characters with overblown ideas of their own importance. Having little ability themselves to make anything worthwhile of their lives they settled for a grubby twilight existence basking in the dubious reflected glory of the twins’ reputation as fearless hard men, and grabbing the easy money that came from being their henchmen. Despite what Ronnie and Reggie believed then, or now, the Firm revelled in the violence and wallowed in their roles as self-styled gangsters.

  In my lonely cell I often conjured up pictures of that fateful evening in Evering Road. I knew enough of the Firm’s mentality to realize what had probably happened to prompt Ronnie to have McVitie brought to the flat from The Regency, and I would play the imagined scene over and over in my mind, a worthless exercise i
n masochism that served no purpose except to make me even angrier and more frustrated.

  ‘’Ere, Ron.’ I could hear one of them saying. ‘McVitie’s in The Regency mouthing off again. Says he’s going to blow you and Reg away.’

  If that had got no reaction some bright spark – maybe even Ronnie Hart himself – would have stoked him up. ‘You’re not going to stand for that, Ron. You’re not going to let him get away with that, are you?’

  Such was the mood at that gathering that Ronnie bit on the bait, telling Tony Lambrianou to fetch McVitie – which they did, not from fear of Ronnie, as was suggested at the trial, but from a sadistic pleasure at witnessing a hated man’s humiliation at the hands of a more powerful individual.

  No one will convince me that the Firm that night didn’t egg on the twins to sort out McVitie once and for all. If it was all Ronnie’s idea, if they were worried for McVitie and wanted to spare him his ordeal, why didn’t they just go to The Regency and tell him to make himself scarce? No one would have been the wiser if Chris or Tony Lambrianou had said, ‘Do us a favour and go, so we can say we didn’t see you.’ As it was, they loved it all so much that they raced off to The Regency and gleefully brought McVitie back to meet a violent death.

  In the early hours, when my fury had cooled, the irony of my own situation would hit me. I had received a phone call after the event, which had implicated me, but if someone had rung me beforehand it would never have happened, because I wouldn’t have let it. Just as I had told Scotch Jack in The Starlight Club that he wasn’t going to shoot Connie Whitehead, so I would have told the twins and the idiots around them that it was madness to wipe out McVitie.

  This is why no one even tried to suggest at the trial that I was at the party. If I had been, there would have been no murder. As it was, McVitie was lured to the flat and confronted with men in no mood for mercy. Reggie, out of his mind on drink and Valium, taunted him that he wasn’t much of a man because he had thrown his wife out of a car, and that although he had had plenty to say about him and Ronnie he wasn’t so big now. Reggie pulled out a gun. He fired, but it didn’t go off. McVitie tried to dive out of a window but was pulled back in by the Firm. Then there was a struggle and Ronnie was holding McVitie, supposedly urging Reggie to kill him, and suddenly Reggie had a knife in his hand and was plunging it into McVitie’s throat, the drink and drugs transforming him into a mindless killer with no regard for his victim or for himself.