Me and My Brothers

by Kray, Charlie

  Over the years, I’ve thought deeply about that terrible event and could never take in that Reggie did it. Yes, he could be violent, but, unlike Ronnie, he had always held back. Much was made at the trial of Ronnie’s alleged comment, ‘I’ve done mine. Now you do yours.’ I do not know whether he did say it because neither twin will discuss it with me. They did not volunteer information at the time and when I’ve brought it up since then, they can’t understand why I’m interested in something that happened so long ago. They say, ‘What difference will it make if we tell you?’ To me, it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Ronnie would have said; he’d always been more inclined to do things himself.

  One thing is certain: if Frances had not died, Reggie would not have committed that crime, spurred on by a death-wish. If Frances had been alive and they were living a happy married life, with children perhaps, he would have been a different person. When guns had come on the scene he would have thought it through and seen the sense in getting out. As it was, Frances met a tragic end and Reggie lost all interest in life, becoming just like all the others. When those idiots who called themselves friends egged Ronnie on that Saturday night, the lethal cocktail of drinks and drugs helped Reggie enjoy it all as much as everyone else, and he was to pay the price.

  Despite all the prosecution lies, all the inadmissible evidence, and my own barrister’s reluctance to put me on the witness stand, I still believe I would have been cleared – or at least received a far lighter sentence – had it not been for Melford Stevenson. Before the case police and lawyers alike were saying that he was the worst possible choice for the men on trial, and I was to find this hard to dispute as the hearing went on and on. It was not just the words he used, it was his tone and mannerisms, his tut-tutting and sarcastic comments that were quite obviously designed to leave the jury in no doubt what he felt about a particular witness’s evidence.

  The transcript of the hearing does not tell the full story. If it had been taped and filmed, one would be able to see how Stevenson swayed the evidence in the prosecution’s favour and then meted out the unbelievably harsh sentences that appeased his pals in high places but shocked nearly everyone else.

  The small things drove me and the twins mad: the way Stevenson treated our Aunt May, for instance. May had never been in a court in her life, and was married to a man who had worked in the same company for fifty years and was so straight that he’d never even been given a parking ticket. She was a religious woman who went to church regularly, but Stevenson treated her abominably with a total lack of respect just because she was speaking on behalf of the twins. In contrast, Ronnie Hart’s girlfriend was treated like a lady by Stevenson. It really wound us up, but there was nothing we could do except sit there and take it.

  We took it for thirty-nine days; days in which the smooth, efficient, well-rehearsed case against the twins, their Firm and me rolled on and on to its inevitable conclusion. Many days were filled with legal mumbo-jumbo which I found hard to follow; others were filled with stories of the twins’ reign of terror, which I found equally hard to swallow. But there were moments of humour, too, like Ronnie’s comment when he was charged with being involved in the McVitie murder. Warned by Nipper Read that anything he said would be taken down and might be used in evidence against him, Ronnie replied, ‘I presume that your presumptions are precisely incorrect and that your sarcastic insinuations are too obnoxious to be appreciated.’ As he watched a fellow detective write it on the charge sheet, Ronnie added, ‘Bit hard to spell, that one, isn’t it?’ I’m not sure what the elaborately worded sentence meant, but Ronnie liked the sound of it as a child and had learned it parrot fashion. He said it to the police because he didn’t give a damn. He was obviously philosophical; he always thought he’d get thirty years. His cheeky answer to the charge had to be read out at the Old Bailey, of course, and provided welcome light relief to the heaviness of the proceedings. I think the laughter in court even woke Ronnie up.

  If there was going to be any humour, even black humour, it was bound to come from Ronnie. And he made me smile one day when he more or less ordered the judge to let him give evidence after making it clear to defence and prosecution counsels that he would not. Ian Barrie, charged as an accessory in the Blind Beggar killing, had just stepped down from the witness box and Ronnie suddenly said loudly, ‘I’m going to give evidence now.’ Some bigwig – probably the judge – told him it was most irregular: Ronnie had chosen not to testify and had instructed his counsel, Paul Wrightson, accordingly. That cut no ice whatsoever with Ronnie. ‘I can change my mind if I like,’ he said. ‘I want to give evidence. And I’m going to. It’s my right.’

  I couldn’t help smiling at the turmoil he caused. Courts, naturally, have set rules of procedure and officials don’t like the protocol being upset. But Ronnie couldn’t have cared less; once he decided to do something he usually did it. He got his way that day, and the court buzzed with expectancy as he took the stand.

  Prosecution counsel, Kenneth Jones, a little Welshman with a resounding Richard Burton-type voice that seemed too big for his body, couldn’t believe his luck. He tore into Ronnie with relish, determined to goad him into losing his temper and, perhaps, betray signs of the violence that was an integral part of the prosecution case. Much to the eloquent Mr Jones’s chagrin, Ronnie was far from intimidated by his cultured tones and cunning approach. He was in the mood to antagonize everyone and he matched Jones’s skill with a cheeky arrogance.

  ‘Among your Firm, you are known as the Colonel?’ asked Mr Jones.

  ‘I was a deserter from the Army, so how could I be a Colonel?’ Ronnie replied.

  ‘You gave money to charity,’ Mr Jones said later.

  ‘Is that a terrible thing?’ Ronnie asked.

  ‘There are stories that it might have been £10,000. Where did you get that money from?’

  ‘I don’t think that matters,’ Ronnie countered. ‘I had it. That’s all that matters.’ When that didn’t seem to satisfy his interrogator, Ronnie shouted, ‘If you want to know, my father gambles for me. He’s up there in the gallery, so ask him. I know nothing about gambling, so there’s no point in asking me. I may have clubs, but I know nothing about gambling.’

  The judge broke in to tell Ronnie not to shout. But Ronnie just said ‘Why? I’m here to speak. And I’m answering.’

  Jones went on and on and finally Ronnie had had enough. ‘Listen, you fat slob,’ he said, making me cringe. ‘You’ve been going on enough. You’re Welsh, aren’t you? Down the mines would have been a more fitting profession for you than being a prosecutor, I promise you that.’

  Naturally, this attitude did not endear him to the judge or jury, but Ronnie was convinced, as ever, that he was going to get thirty years, innocent or guilty, and he didn’t care: it had just come into his head that he wanted to say something, so he said it.

  Something Ronnie did not say, however, despite my encouragement to do so, was what his so-called pals, particularly Hart and Albert Donaghue, had got up to during the twins’ so-called reign of terror. These two supposedly tough individuals loved the villainy. Late one night they got drunk, forced their way into the Regency Club and demanded £50 a week from the owner Johnny Barrie. The next day, having sobered up, they were worried and went to Ronnie to own up. He went spare, wanting to know why they had done that when the Firm had a share in the club anyway. Hart and Donaghue admitted they had made a mistake but begged Ronnie to say he’d sent them round because Barrie might get the police involved. Typically, Ronnie helped them. He told Barrie he’d had the hump the previous night and had sent Hart and Donaghue round. He said he was sorry and asked Barrie to forget it.

  To my disappointment, Ronnie didn’t tell that story in court. Nor did he tell how Hart and Donaghue went to Freddie Foreman’s pub and tried to ‘nip’ him for £25. When I asked him why he hadn’t seized the chance to redress the balance that was swinging ever more heavily against us all he said that nothing would ever make him sink as low as those
‘rats’. He had his principles and he would stick to them.

  But I know he was sick to the stomach over a blatant lie Donaghue told the police when he was trying to get himself off the hook in the McVitie case. During the meeting with Donaghue and our solicitors, shortly after the arrests. Ronnie asked for the address of Donaghue’s mother, saying he wanted to send someone round with some money for her. It was a genuine offer of help but when Donaghue turned Queen’s Evidence he twisted the story to put Ronnie in a bad light, claiming that Ronnie wanted the address because he was going to arrange for the old lady to be murdered. In those days, Ronnie seldom worried about anything, but that allegation hurt him. Set up an old woman to be wiped out! Ronnie used to get the hump if anyone even swore in front of women. But when his chance came to hit back against Donaghue he still chose not to.

  I never found out whether that lie was Donaghue’s idea or the police’s. Certainly Nipper Read and his team weren’t fussy about the tactics they used to blacken our names and reputations. The disgraceful lie about Reggie and Connie Whitehead’s son, for example, takes some beating.

  Reggie idolized Connie Whitehead’s little boy – also named Connie – and used to take him to a boys’ club to see Father Hetherington. When the balloon went up, Whitehead tried to get himself out of trouble by writing a letter to the police saying that Reggie had threatened his wife and son. Our solicitor heard of the allegations and told the twins, but made them promise not to touch Whitehead. It was very hard for them because Reggie had stayed with the Whiteheads and had done nothing but try to help them. Ronnie seemed even more wound up about the lie than Reggie, and when he saw Whitehead in jail he said, ‘I see. You wrote to Old Bill and said Reggie threatened your wife and kid.’ Connie had no idea the twins knew and he went white, fearing the worst. Ronnie would have broken Connie in half if he hadn’t promised to tell the truth.

  Connie did admit in court that the police had made him say it, but as far as the twins and myself were concerned that did not make things right. What sort of man agrees to utter such a lie to make things easier for himself?

  Most of the courtroom battles were, of course, won by the prosecution, but Reggie did score a couple of victories which, although they did not affect the outcome of the cases, did give him some satisfaction.

  One was when Kenneth Jones brought up Frances. Reggie immediately got to his feet, his face white with fury. He was gripping the rail round the dock so tightly I thought he was going to break it. ‘What has Frances to do with this case?’ he demanded to know.

  Jones made an attempt to justify bringing up her name, but Reggie interrupted him. ‘This has nothing to do with her,’ he said. Then he added, quietly but menacingly, ‘If you continue involving her name, I’ll be over this dock to you. I know all the police here are armed, but no gun will stop me.’

  Reggie thought Jones was going to bring up Frances’ suicide to make him look bad. So did the rest of us in the dock, and we all stood up to support Reggie’s objection. It was like a scene from a film.

  For several tense seconds Jones and Reggie glared at each other. Then the barrister gulped and said to the judge, who was also shaken by Reggie’s fury, ‘In view of the circumstances, my lord, I think we’ll move on to another subject.’

  It proved the point, I think, that Jones was out of order in mentioning Frances. If he had been right, surely he would have insisted on carrying on, despite Reggie’s threat.

  The longer the trial went on, and the more the jury were swayed by Stevenson’s interjections, the less confident I became that I would be found not guilty: all the signs pointed to the lies triumphing over the truth. My fears proved well-founded on Tuesday 4 March when the jury returned after seven hours’ deliberation to find myself and everyone else in the dock guilty of their respective crimes. Sentencing was put off until the next day, probably to prolong the agony, and the twins, their Firm and I were taken back to Brixton to think about what sentences we would get.

  Ronnie was still philosophical about it: thirty years was what he expected. Reggie was now thinking the same. And me? Well, all I prayed was that Stevenson, despite his biased performance throughout the whole thirty-nine days and particularly in his summing up, would see my position for what it was and treat me leniently. Many of the Brixton prison staff who believed in my innocence kept telling me I’d get no more than two years and, much as I hated the idea of doing any time at all for something I didn’t do, I hoped they were right. With remission for good behaviour, that would be down to about eighteen months and since I’d been in custody for a year that would mean I’d be out in six months or so.

  I was far from happy at the prospect of spending more time behind bars, but I wasn’t in the depths of despair. I finally dropped off to sleep, having convinced myself that even if Stevenson did his worst I could reasonably expect nothing more than three years. I’d take it on the chin, make sure I kept my nose clean in prison, then pick up my life where I’d left off.

  When we arrived at the Old Bailey the next morning, one of the officers in the cells offered me a bottle with some liquid in it. It was a tranquillizer to calm me down and he wanted me to take it before I went into the dock.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m quite capable of accepting anything Stevenson dishes out.’

  Other officers pressed me to take some, but I still couldn’t see the point. Then Ronnie urged me to take it to keep everyone happy, so I did. I can’t say for certain what that odd-smelling mixture did to me. I did feel a bit strange, but then the whole experience had been strange, like a disturbing dream where all sorts of people pop up in the unlikeliest places, saying and doing the craziest things; where one minute everything is clear and certainly happening and the next, it’s fuzzy like your imagination, and then you finally awake, not knowing where you are, and you can’t tell the things that happened from the things that didn’t.

  I was sitting in my cell in a sort of trance when one of the officers came by. ‘Charlie,’ he called quietly, ‘they’ve got thirty years.’

  I stared at him, the dream focusing sharply into reality. Thirty years! It was what they had expected, what they had prepared themselves for. But it was still dreadful to hear. My twin brothers were to be caged until they were old-age pensioners, banished from the outside world until just one year from the end of the twentieth century.

  It was hard to take in, and the officer’s face and words began to fade behind a cloud of unreality, then I was floating and the next thing I knew I was standing in the dock looking at Mr Justice Melford Stevenson, feeling the heavy silence of the crowded court but not sure whether I was really there.

  Then the judge was speaking, not so much to me but at me, relating incidents about my past that I’d long forgotten. I listened, trying to take in what he was saying, but it was as though he was talking about someone else, someone I’d known very well but hadn’t seen for years; perhaps someone from another life.

  He spoke for only a minute or so but it seemed like forever, and then he got to the point of his monologue, the denouement of my personal tragedy that had been played out on the greatest criminal stage in the land.

  ‘Charles James Kray,’ he said slowly, ‘you have been found guilty of being an accessory to murder. It may well be that you were not a member of what, in this case, has been called the Firm, but I am satisfied that you were an active and willing helper in the dreadful enterprise of concealing traces of the murder committed by your brother…’ Stevenson paused. He looked down at Kenneth Jones. ‘For accessory after the fact the maximum sentence, I believe, is…’

  My breath caught in my throat. I could see the word forming in his mouth, grotesquely enlarged like some surrealistic painting. Was this all happening, or was it a dream? Was I here? Or was someone pretending to be me?

  And then he said it and I swear my heart stopped…‘life.’

  Jones sprang to his feet. ‘No, m’lud’ he corrected. ‘The law has been changed. The maximum sentence for accessory
after the fact is ten years. And I don’t wish…’

  Then my heart pounded. Don’t wish what, Mr Jones? Say it. Go on, tell him you don’t wish to press for the maximum sentence. Tell him you don’t believe all the lies nor do you wish for a man to get ten years for something he didn’t do. Go on, Mr Jones, tell him…

  But the judge was motioning to him to sit down. ‘That’s enough, Mr Jones,’ he snapped. And he turned to me. ‘I sentence you to ten years’ imprisonment.’

  I stared at him, suddenly understanding, even in my dreamlike state, the meaning of the phrase ‘absolute power’.

  ‘Take that man down.’ The words seemed to come from a long way off and I was floating again and the next thing I heard was Ronnie banging on the door of the first cell, asking what had happened.

  ‘I got ten years,’ I said.

  Ronnie went mad. He started kicking the door, then he began shouting. ‘Ten years! The rats gave you ten years!’

  There wasn’t much else I could say. I was taken to my cell, where I sat, saying over and over in my mind, ‘Ten years. Ten years. Ten fucking years!’

  Then Freddie Foreman and Connie Whitehead were put in the cell with me. Freddie had got ten years for disposing of McVitie’s body. Connie had got nine; two for having a gun and seven for complicity in the McVitie murder.