In 1984 we had another drama while at a wedding. Diana swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of brandy, then felt so ill that we decided to leave for home, which was now in Crystal Palace, South London. Diana’s brother, John, and his wife Dede, who were over from Canada and staying with us at the time, were surprised to see us home so early. But it was nothing to the shock they got when Diana slumped in an armchair and stopped breathing.
Dede went into a panic. John told her to quieten down: he had been a medic in the Navy and was now medical director of a hospital. He was calm; he knew what had to be done.
What a relief! I thought. My memories of the first crisis were still quite fresh and quite honestly I didn’t want the responsibility of trying to pull Diana through again: the thought of failure petrified me. Thank God this time someone was on hand who knew more about medicine than I’ll ever know.
But when I saw what John was preparing to do I knew Diana’s life was in my hands again. He was taking a carving knife out of a drawer, saying that Diana needed a tracheotomy.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, shocked.
‘It’s the only way, Charlie,’ he replied. ‘It’s the only way to make her breathe.’
‘No it’s not,’ I said sharply, my panic and concern for Diana giving a rough edge to my tone. I knelt beside her and took a deep breath, then I whacked her sternum hard, probably harder than necessary but I was taking no chances.
Looks of relief swept our faces as Diana started to breathe again. Dede had called an ambulance and I went with it to the nearest hospital. I told a doctor what had happened, but he was very offhand and seemed to think Diana had been drunk and it was all a waste of time. After a check-up she was allowed home.
The next day, her doctor hit the roof. He rang the hospital, demanding to know why Diana had been treated so shabbily, despite her medical history, in such a dangerous situation. He asked Diana for the name of the doctor who had treated her so that he could take it further, but she persuaded him to drop it.
Things go in threes, they say, and we did not have long to wait for Diana’s hat-trick of crises. We were having a meal at a Crystal Palace restaurant when Diana said she was going outside for some air. She promptly collapsed on the pavement.
The first I knew about it was when a girl came running in, saying a lady had fallen down, hitting her head. I dashed outside while someone rang for an ambulance. Diana’s breathing had not stopped this time but she was out cold so I turned her over and started giving her the kiss of life anyway. I didn’t manage to bring her round, but then the ambulancemen arrived and took over. Diana finally came to fifteen minutes later and was soon feeling well enough to insist that she was okay and did not want to go to hospital. To this day, we don’t know what brought that attack on.
I was getting quite a dab hand at the kiss of life. And my prison training in medical crises was to come in useful again, in tragic circumstances.
During the early eighties the twins’ telepathy was working strongly. In their letters to each other neither had mentioned confessing to their respective crimes, yet they both did so at roughly the same time. I don’t know the reasons; they haven’t told me and I haven’t asked. I think, perhaps, they both decided they had served so many years that it didn’t matter any more.
They owned up in front of a panel reviewing their cases for parole, and one of the questions each twin was asked was: ‘Do you feel any remorse?’
Ronnie decided he could not lie just to get parole. He said he was unable to feel remorse because of the situation behind the killing: he knew George Cornell was going to kill him, so he killed him first. And, he said, he would do the same again in similar circumstances. He accepted that the panel would not agree with him; they would probably let the other person shoot. But that was not his nature, he said.
Reggie said he was sorry about what had happened. But it did not do him any good. He was told his parole was being turned down and he would not be released until the 1990s.
I was bitterly disappointed at that decision, but delighted that Reggie had confessed to the McVitie murder because it meant, at long last, that I could tell the truth about my involvement that fateful October night. Family loyalty means everything to me – no matter how terrible the circumstances – and all the time the twins denied killing McVitie I had to pretend I hadn’t gone to Harry Hopwood’s house. However, with the admissions came my chance to get the truth out in the open and clear my name once and for all.
My first thought was to seize the chance quickly with both hands. I remembered my anger and bitterness throughout my years in captivity, my fantasy about seeing my reputation redeemed in blazing newspaper headlines. Well, here was the perfect opportunity to hit those headlines and make all those pompous prosecution legal eagles see that, in my case at least, they had got it wrong.
It would not give me back six years and eight months of my life; it would almost certainly not win me an official pardon. But it would make me feel better and make the rest of my life taste sweeter. I thought and thought about it, trying to convince myself I should go against Dr Klein’s advice, but in the end I didn’t. His words, ‘They won’t let you win,’ hammered away inside my brain and convinced me that no matter how much I wanted the world to know that ‘Charlie Kray is innocent, OK?’ the battle was not going to be worth it – even though Reggie had confessed. Dr Klein is more experienced than me. He has studied for years and years and knows about life. I am positive he was right in everything he told me and I am so, so glad I decided not to go back on his advice.
Chapter Seventeen
Just before 9 a.m. on Tuesday 5 April 1983, the phone rang at my home in Crystal Palace. It was Gary, calling from the flat in Bunhill Row, where he was living with the old man. Gary was sobbing. He had woken up and found the old man lying at the bottom of the stairs. I told him to ask a neighbour to ring for an ambulance; I would get over as fast as possible. As I got ready, I knew what had happened and, ten minutes later, an ambulanceman phoned to confirm it. The old man was dead.
The ambulanceman was kind and gentle and told me to take my time; there was nothing anybody could do and he didn’t want me to have an accident. He and a colleague would wait until I arrived.
On my way through South London to the City I saw a crowd of people standing round a man on the ground. They were just staring at him, not knowing what to do, so I stopped the car and ran over. I suggested someone rang for an ambulance, then I loosened the man’s tie and checked his pulse and breathing. They were fine – the man, who was a postman, had just fainted. I put him in the recovery position and told the crowd that he was going to be all right, but I couldn’t wait because I had an emergency of my own. I got back in the car and carried on to Bunhill Row.
Five days later, we buried the old man next to his beloved Violet in Chingford Cemetery. The prison authorities made it clear the twins would be given permission to attend the funeral, but neither Ron nor Reg asked for it.
The old man had said he did not want another circus. Neither did they.
I went to the graveside at least once a fortnight, often more. Like visiting the twins, it was something I felt I had to do. If the weather was bad, I wouldn’t go, but then I felt guilty. It is lovely and quiet in that cemetery and I’d go there with Gary to put flowers down, clean the stone and sort it all out. I’d read the stone for the millionth time – ‘May you both rest peacefully. Our love and memories are always with you. May God bless you both’ – and I’d talk with Mum and the old man as though they were there. Afterwards, me and Gary would go to the car and I’d look over and say: ‘We’re off now.’ Driving away I always felt better for having gone.
By 1986, my relationship with Diana had changed dramatically. It was nearly nineteen years since we had met at that club opening in Leicester, and although we still loved each other, we had fallen out of love and now had an unspoken understanding that each was free to have flings with other people, as long as we were discreet and did not get heavily i
nvolved.
I had to admit I had my cake and was eating it, too; I could treat our lovely flat as home; at the same time I was able to go off in search of female company, with Diana’s agreement, if not her encouragement. I didn’t always know what Diana was doing; I never asked. We had become like brother and sister, and certain things, like outside relationships, were better kept private. Then, that summer, something happened to me that would disrupt my cosy life and make me face some harsh realities.
I fell in love again.
Her name was Judy Stanley. She was a bright, articulate, strong-minded woman of thirty-five and the mother of three children, a girl of seven and two boys, aged six and three. We met in a restaurant in Surrey on the day Judy was officially separated from her husband – and we clicked immediately. I was not sure whether Judy would welcome starting her newly acquired liberation with a date with a man twenty-five years older than her, but I asked for her telephone number anyway. To my surprise and delight, she gave it to me and, several weeks later, we began a relationship that would grow and grow until we became what was unacceptable to the understanding Diana and I had – ‘heavily involved’.
I did not like cheating on Diana, but I could not help myself – I really couldn’t. I became obsessed with Judy and would make all sorts of excuses to ring her. For the previous years, my life had been chugging along in a low gear, but now, overnight, it seemed, I had changed up and was motoring. I’d always been what my friends called Champagne Charlie, always ready for a good time, but Judy had given me an even keener zest for life.
To start with, however, we were on different wavelengths, out of sync, if you like. Maybe I was out of practice; maybe Judy was too important to me. I was terrified of making the wrong move and scaring her off. Whatever the reason, I never seemed to ask the right questions. I wanted to take her to a wine bar in Croydon I knew she liked, but instead of coming straight out with an invitation, I’d say: ‘Are you going to the wine bar tonight?’ Mostly, Judy had no plans to go there, so, naturally, she would say no. I learned later that if I’d invited her to go there with me, she would have said yes. So our relationship got off to a slow start.
Thankfully, we found ourselves in the wine bar on the same night a month later and I seized the opportunity.
‘I’ve got this friend in Suffolk, Jeff Allen,’ I said. ‘Lovely fella, with a beautiful house. Would you like to go there for the weekend with me?’
I knew it was a long shot; even if Judy did fancy the idea, finding someone to look after her children might be a problem she could not overcome. But I did not want to risk being seen with her in Croydon by anyone who knew Diana.
To my delight, Judy said she could make arrangements, and would like to come.
We travelled by train from Liverpool Street and had lunch in the buffet car on the way. What an experience that was for Judy. She had led such a sheltered life that, to her, travelling on a train was merely a means of getting from A to B; she had never dreamed of having a cup of tea on one, let alone a four-course lunch with wine and liqueurs.
We had a lovely weekend with Jeff and his wife, Ann. They liked Judy immensely; the four of us got on great. I did feel guilty about Diana, because my feelings for Judy were different from those I had had for any woman other than her, but I have to admit it did not stop me enjoying the weekend. When we stepped off the train at Liverpool Street, though, I was far from relaxed. I was getting near home territory and could be spotted by anyone.
I was terrified of Diana finding out about Judy: taking an attractive woman away for the weekend was definitely not part of our arrangement.
Judy was like a drug to me: I had to see her as often as possible. But it was not easy. Diana and I had been through a lot together, one way and another, and the last thing in the world I wanted to do was hurt her.
It was vital to me that she never had an inkling about Judy. I feel now that I was less than fair to Diana, but, when it comes to facing up to things, I’m an emotional coward and I took the soft option. I wanted to protect Diana’s feelings at all costs, and, at the same time, I did not know how far my relationship with Judy would go. I wanted to be with her as much as possible, but I had no idea where our affair would lead us. Certainly moving in with a mother and her three children was not part of my plans and, just in case Judy was thinking in this direction after our weekend in Suffolk, I made it clear I wasn’t. I don’t know whether it was the adoring look in her eye, or simply that, subconsciously, I felt my future lay with her, and I was frightened of commitment, but when I saw her next, at her home, I told her: ‘I’m not getting married, you know.’
I blurted it out five minutes after sitting down and it tickled Judy. ‘That’s a relief,’ she said. ‘I’m only just getting divorced, thank you!’
And so the affair began in earnest, with both of us knowing the ground rules. I would have loved to roll out the red carpet for Judy, because she had never had that treatment in her life, but money was a major stumbling block. The odd deal here and there came off, but I did not have the cash to wine and dine Judy the way I wanted.
The only big pay day likely at that time was a film about the Krays. Roger Daltrey, who had made millions as the singer with the rock band The Who, was fixated with the idea. He felt it was the only British gangster film worth making and was convinced that, handled the right way, it could be a powerful blockbuster, as good, if not as financially successful, as The Godfather.
Very early in the negotiations, Roger said he was going to Parkhurst to talk things through with Reggie and asked me to go with him. I always travelled from Waterloo to Portsmouth, then took the ferry to the Isle of Wight, so I said we ought to meet at Waterloo.
‘No,’ said Roger. ‘I’ll meet you at Battersea.’
I was confused. ‘The Portsmouth train doesn’t stop at Battersea, Roger,’ I said.
‘Who’s going by train?’ he said. ‘We’re flying there in my helicopter. Is that okay?’
‘Suits me,’ I said. And it did. It certainly beat a five-hour round trip by trains, ferries and taxis. And since the millionaire rock ‘an’ roll star would be picking up the bill, it would be cheaper, too.
Naturally, Roger needed special permission to land near Parkhurst, but he had all this sorted. His pilot brought us down on the landing pad of a hotel a couple of miles from the prison, where a taxi was waiting to pick us up.
We spent the whole two-hour visit talking about the film and what the twins and me wanted as an up-front payment. Then, as we prepared to leave, Roger said: ‘Reg, ask permission to watch us fly over the prison. We’ll give you a wave.’
Reggie did get permission and he admitted later that the ‘fly past’ gave him a real gee. Well, it’s not every day of the week that someone serving thirty years for murder gets a personal cheerio from a rock ‘n’ roll millionaire from the clouds, is it?
Roger piloted the helicopter home himself, and as we hovered over his home in Sussex, he called out: ‘Look, Charlie – my trout lakes.’ As I looked down, trying to spot them, I heard him and the pilot laughing. I couldn’t see what the joke was but a second later I felt it! The helicopter suddenly turned on its side and dropped out of the sky, leaving my stomach several hundred feet behind.
We landed in Roger’s grounds and he jumped out, telling the pilot to drop me back at Battersea Heliport, as one might order a chauffeur to give a lift in a car. Watching the helicopter soar off back to Sussex, all I could think was how nice it would be to have bundles of money and live like that.
All the money in the world does not guarantee realizing one’s dreams, however, and pulling everything together to make the film happen proved a headache for Roger. He had paid for not one, but three scripts to be written. He even had similar-looking actors lined up to play the twins –Hywel Bennet as Ronnie and a less well-known actor, Gerry Sunquist, as Reg – and an up-and-coming East Ender, Billy Murray, to play me. I was particularly thrilled at the prospect of being played by Billy. He came from Canning
Town and was a genuine bloke, as well as an accomplished, brave, young boxer.
Roger saw Jean Alexander, who played Hilda Ogden in Coronation Street, as our mother, Violet, but he did not want her to have a big role. Nor did he want violence to be a major force in the film. He was fascinated by the twin element, and the fatal power of one brother over the other. The film he had in mind was about the bond between the twins more than the fear they instilled in people. This, naturally, would come into it, but the proposed movie would not be a cheap, blood and thunder adventure, more an atmospheric and profound thriller, where words, for once, spoke louder than actions.
Sadly, Roger’s dream of producing the movie came to nothing. Despite having the rights to John Pearson’s bestseller, The Profession of Violence, and a binding agreement with the twins and myself, he could not seem to make it happen. And when two other film producers, Dominic Anci-ano and Ray Burdis, came on the scene, saying they were going to make their own film about the Krays without our permission, Roger decided it was time to bail out. Anciano and Burdis had the financial backing of a company, Park-field, which was prepared to buy all the rights Roger owned. Albeit reluctantly, he decided that, if he could not make the film he wanted, it made financial sense to get back all his investment and let someone else have the headache of getting the Kray story on the big screen.
It was a disappointment for the twins and myself; we all liked Roger and would have liked him to make the film. But, to be truthful, it didn’t really matter to us who was behind it, as long as it happened and we all made some money. And money we did make from Parkfield: a quarter of a million pounds, split equally among the three of us, to be precise. By current Hollywood standards, it may not sound a lot of money for the rights to one’s entire life story, but, to the twins and me, in 1988, it was a fortune.
Me and My Brothers Page 25