I talked it over with Judy, who felt I should make the effort. Yes, it would be an emotional night, with people who had known Gary all around me, but, maybe – like the previous trip in March – it would do me good.
Patsy was true to his word. The friend who owned The Wake Green Lodge Hotel, in Moseley, was a charming Tunisian in his thirties, named Fethi Torki, and he made it clear that I was to be his guest for two nights. What a relief that was: I hadn’t a bean in my pocket and one look at the wonderfully extensive menu in the hotel restaurant, Medallion Vert, told me that this was a high quality establishment with prices to match. Dover sole, for example, was just 50p short of twenty quid and lobster in brandied tomato sauce was verging on thirty. For connoisseurs for whom money was no object, Fethi’s wine list offered everything, from basic German hock at £8.50 a bottle, to classic Chateau-Lafite Rothschild at £150.
Later that Thursday afternoon, I was shown to my room and had a shower and a brief nap. A couple of hours later I put on fresh clothes and went downstairs to meet Patsy. He was standing by the bar at the far end of the restaurant about to buy drinks for two smallish, stocky guys he introduced as George and Deano. I recognized George from Gary’s funeral; he was the one who had driven Patsy down in Indian Joe Sunner’s Jaguar. While I was chatting to them, and a girl they introduced as Lisa, another bloke came through the restaurant towards us.
I was wondering who the guy was when George said, ‘I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Jack, from Newcastle. Jack – this is Charlie Kray and this is his mate, Patsy.’
We shook hands and smiled at each other. Jack was a tall, well-built, good-looking guy and really pleasant; he seemed pleased to meet me.
After a few minutes, Deano called out, ‘Best of order for one minute.’ We all went quiet. ‘This is just a little token from me and our kid, Georgie, and Jack and Lisa. I know all you southerners call us northerners tight, but we’ve all clubbed together. We’ve got Patsy this lovely present and I hope he likes it and appreciates it. Happy birthday.’
Everyone clapped as Deano handed Patsy a smallish package. He opened it and took out a CD.
‘Simply Red,’ he said. ‘Thanks a million. It’s me favourite music.’
‘No, no,’ Deano interrupted with a jokey speech. ‘What we’ve got for you, you know what you could have won…’
Someone shouted, ‘The Star Prize!’
Deano handed Patsy a very large package. ‘It’s from me, Jack, Georgie and Lisa,’ he said.
‘Christ Almighty,’ Patsy said as he took the package.
‘Unfortunately, we haven’t got a receipt for it,’ Deano said, and everyone laughed.
They had bought Patsy a fabulous music centre.
It was obvious they had bundles of money. They would not hear of me or Patsy buying any more drinks, and on Jack’s left wrist was a Rolex watch, which I suspected was worth around twelve grand.
We stayed at the hotel until around 9 P.M. when Patsy said it was time to move on to his party at The Elbow Room. Jack promptly told the barman to charge all the drinks we’d had to his room. Thank God for that: it must have come to over a hundred quid.
Before we made a move, I decided to pop into the loo. I hadn’t been in there long when Deano came in.
‘Lovely night, eh, Charlie? We’re going to have a great time at Albert’s.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Mind you, I haven’t got the money to keep up with you guys.’
‘Don’t worry about it, old mate,’ he said.
And he slipped me fifty quid.
I was pleased I’d decided to come up to Birmingham. These guys were the business. Who knows, I thought, some of their wealth might rub off on me. We might be able to do some business.
When we arrived at The Elbow Room, I was far from sober, but not in one of my depressions, thankfully. Whether it was because of the company, I don’t know, but I felt great and determined to enjoy myself. When I rang Judy, drunk-enly, at midnight, I told her about Jack and his pals, and the money they were flashing around. I said they were really lovely, genuine guys who liked me. She said she hoped something might come from the new friendship.
Over the next couple of weeks, Jack kept in touch on the phone. And when I told him that a friend of mine, John Corbett, was holding a charity evening at his pub in Kent to raise money for St Christopher’s Hospice in Crystal Palace where Gary had died, Jack was enthusiastic.
‘I’ll get you a football signed by the Newcastle United team, which you can raffle,’ he said. ‘I’ll pop down with a pal of mine, Ken, and give it to you and John.’
They came on 23 May and I arranged for them to stay at The Selsdon Park Hotel, near our home in Sanderstead. John and I took them to a couple of nightclubs in Croydon, ending up at The Blue Orchid, and, once again, Jack would not let us put our hands in our pockets. He was such a lovely guy; so generous.
When I told Jack that another friend of mine, Laurie O’Leary, was putting on a variety show at The Mermaid Theatre – in memory of Gary – he was as enthusiastic as he had been about John’s pub charity.
‘Ken and I would love to come down, Charlie,’ he said. ‘It would be nice to show support and meet some of your friends.’
I thought it would be nice, too.
That Sunday evening, 2 June, was a roaring success. An Elvis Presley lookalike called Liberty Mountain was top of the bill and very good. But, for me, the star was Brian Hall – the East End actor who played Terry, the chef, in Fawlty Towers. He performed an hilarious skit on the famous Cabaret number, ‘If You Could See Her Through My Eyes’, using a pig puppet for a prop, and had everyone in stitches. It was a terrific, professional performance by any standards, but what most of the 300 people in the audience did not know was that Brian should not have been on stage at all. Only a year before, he had had his left kidney removed after doctors discovered a cancerous growth, and now he was suffering from a tumour behind his left eye. He should have been at home in Sussex, looking after himself and his lovely wife, Marlene, but he chose to honour his commitment to Laurie. That says it all about Brian Hall.
After the show, certain guests were invited upstairs for drinks. There were people from all walks of life, including Billy Murray, my old mate, Freddie Foreman, and his actor son, Jamie, and of course, Big Albert.
And there was Jack and his sidekick, Ken. They were keen to meet as many people as they could and I obliged. I was happy to. They had been good to me and had travelled a long way.
I introduced my new-found friends from Newcastle to dozens of people that bitter-sweet night. One of them was Ronnie Field. Another was Bobby Gould.
My hopes that some money might be forthcoming from the Newcastle connection rose a couple of weeks later when Jack rang, suggesting that I fly up for a meeting. He said, ‘We might be able to get some business sorted between us.
‘And bring Ronnie,’ he told me. ‘Don’t worry about money – I’ll arrange for two tickets to be left at Gatwick. It’s easier and quicker to fly.’
I couldn’t believe my luck. ‘Some business sorted between us.’ After all the disappointments with Ian and the oil deal, maybe these wealthy Geordies were going to come up with something that would end my financial misery.
Ronnie and I flew from Gatwick on Wednesday 25 June. Jack and Ken picked us up at Newcastle Airport in a Range Rover and drove us to a five-star hotel, The Linden Hall, on the outskirts of the city, where Jack introduced us to another of his friends. He was a hulking great geezer, dark haired, six foot and pushing twenty stone. He had a goatee beard and Jack said his name was Brian.
Once again, Jack proved a faultless host, plying us with drinks the moment we walked through the door. It was the night England were playing Germany in the semi-final of the European Championship at Wembley and the Geordies were keen to watch it. I was, too, although I must admit I would have preferred to talk about the bit of business Jack had in mind before settling down to watch a football match, no matter how crucial it was to the cou
ntry.
Later that afternoon, I rang Judy at work to tell her that we had arrived safely and were going to eat in the hotel restaurant before watching the match.
‘Jack is looking after us brilliant,’ I said. ‘They’re really lovely people.’
And I meant it.
I lost count of the number of Scotch and cokes I had, and by the time we went to bed I was so drunk I could not find my room key. I staggered downstairs to ask the girl on the reception desk if I’d left it there. I can’t recall what she said, but the key must have turned up somewhere, because I woke up in the right room the next morning.
The trip was pleasant enough; I’d drunk myself silly and it hadn’t cost me a penny. But I still had not solved my financial worries.
That July, another emotional period was looming: what would have been Gary’s forty-fifth birthday on Wednesday, the third; and my seventieth on Tuesday, the ninth. Big Albert insisted on throwing a party for me in Birmingham on Thursday, the eleventh, and I, in turn, insisted that Judy got time off from work, so that we could go together. Seventy years is a significant landmark in one’s life and it promised to be quite a night, if tinged with sadness over Gary.
Money, though, was now a critical problem. I didn’t even have enough for a packet of fags, let alone a coach ride for two to Birmingham. When Jack rang, the Sunday afternoon before my party, I took the opportunity to ask him if he would lend me five hundred quid.
‘That’s no problem, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I mean, I know it’ll be safe.’
I was embarrassed. ‘But I need it, like, well tomorrow, sort of thing. I know you can’t get it tomorrow, but I was wondering if you could put it in the post tomorrow morning early. I’ll get it Tuesday morning, ‘cos I need it before I go to Birmingham.’
‘Ain’t a problem, mate. I’ll get that in the post for you.’
‘I appreciate it, Jack,’ I said.
And I was very grateful to him.
The cash arrived in a Jiffy bag by registered mail on Tuesday morning. It was a life-saver: it helped reduce Judy’s bank overdraft, bought some essentials for the house and left us a little bit of spending money for Thursday.
Again, I found myself thinking: what a lovely, generous fella Jack was.
As luck would have it, Fethi was holding a spectacular VIP dinner/buffet at his hotel that Thursday, to launch officially his Medallion Vert restaurant after extensive refurbishment. He had hired a huge marquee for the grounds and the food that kept coming out of hotel kitchen would have graced a State banquet.
Again, Fethi allowed Judy and I to stay at the hotel for nothing – as a birthday present for me, presumably. Jack and Brian were staying there, too, and we all met up at the bar, preparing to enjoy Fethi’s hospitality before going on to The Elbow Room. With Jack and Brian still eager to get the drinks in, the evening was a wonderful curtain-raiser to my own party, and it was made even more special when Jack handed me a little package, neatly wrapped in colourful paper.
‘Happy birthday from Brian and me, Charlie,’ he said.
When I opened it and saw a beautiful gold-plated cigarette lighter, I was lost for words. What lovely guys, I thought: they’ve only known me eight weeks, but they must think a lot of me to buy me a birthday present. I did not have much time to dwell on what to say to thank them, however, because Jack was back at the bar again, ordering more champagne.
Around 10 P.M., me and Judy went on to The Elbow Room, leaving Jack and Brian at the hotel. They re-joined us around midnight, by which time I was feeling no pain –and certainly not my age!
We all rolled out of the club at around 3.30 A.M. Me and Judy took a taxi to The Wake Green Lodge. Jack went back, too, but not Brian: he had struck lucky with an attractive blonde and, it seemed, was going back to her home.
I did not hear from Jack again until Saturday 20 July, when he phoned, asking me to tell Ronnie to contact him. Four days later he rang again to say he was coming to London the next day, the 25th, and would I book him into the Selsdon Park again. I wondered why he couldn’t ring the hotel himself, but I did it anyway. On the afternoon of the 25th, I was at Robin McGibbon’s home, near Bromley, in Kent, working on the revision to this book when Judy rang, telling me that Jack wanted me to pop into the hotel and have a drink with him, Brian, Ronnie Field and Bob Gould.
I did not really want to go, but as I had to pass the hotel on the way home, I decided to pop in for a quick whisky. Typically, Jack tried to twist my arm to have a double, but I insisted on just a single. I was whacked from working on the book and all I wanted was to get home to Judy and the kids and put my feet up.
The following Wednesday morning, I drove to Kent again to work on the book. I spent from 11.30 until 4.15 reading the completed up-date, then left to pick up Judy from work at 5 P.M.
I was in a good mood. I was still as broke as ever, but my account of all that had happened since Me and My Brothers was published in 1988 read well and I was confident that sales of the new edition would help ease my financial worries.
How wrong can you be! What happened two hours later not only put the block on the book, but put me behind bars.
Judy had cooked dinner and, at 7 P.M., we were settling down to watch television when there was a firm knock on the front door. Judy answered it then came back into the lounge, followed by four policemen – two uniformed bobbies and two plain-clothed detectives. As they walked in, two other detectives came into the room through the patio doors.
One of the detectives gestured for me to get up, then told me I was being arrested on drug charges. All the time he was cautioning me and advising me of my rights I was in a daze; seeing six policemen in that tiny lounge seemed unreal and I had no idea what it was all about.
The detective in charge asked me to go upstairs with them because they needed to search the bedroom. I assumed they were looking for drugs, but they found none because there were none to be found. It was all very calm and civilized, while the detectives went through the rest of the house. A very subdued and confused Judy made cups of tea for the uniformed guys, who sat making polite conversation with her and the three children.
I was asked to sign for various papers the police were taking with them, then, at 9 P.M., I was asked if I wanted to change out of my tracksuit bottoms into something more appropriate.
Judy was shocked. ‘Are they taking you away, Charlie?’
‘Yes, darling,’ I said. ‘They’ve arrested me.’
Judy was crestfallen. She assumed I would merely be asked to report to a police station with my solicitor the next day.
I kissed her goodbye, then went with the police to a car waiting outside to take me to Ilford police station. As we drove off, I looked at Judy in the doorway, her face creased with worry. I felt my eyes filling up. Just what did all this mean?
I found out the next day when the full story was outlined in the presence of my solicitor. And at 10 P.M. that evening, when Judy was allowed to see me, bringing fresh clothes for my appearance in court the next day, I broke it to her as gently as I could.
We were allowed to spent five minutes alone together in an interview room. As she came in, I got up from a chair, and took her in my arms and hugged her.
‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ I said.
Then, my voice choking with emotion, I whispered, ‘That lovely guy, Jack. He’s an undercover cop. He’s been tape recording me talking about cocaine.’
Chapter Twenty-two
There were twenty tapes in all: some were recorded from transmitters concealed on Jack’s body, others on the phone. On most of them, I was told, me and Ronnie Field could be heard offering to supply Jack and his two mates, Brian and Ken, with five kilograms of cocaine every two weeks for two years.
After Judy left, I sat in my cell and let my mind drift back over the summer months to that Thursday evening in May when I’d met Jack for the first time in The Wake Green Lodge Hotel. I needed to know why the police had slipped Jack into me to set me up, and who had helped
them.
My old mate, Patsy, had made the introduction at the hotel, but he would not have known Jack was old Bill, I could bet on that: we went back more than thirty years; and anyway Patsy had no reason to cause me any aggravation.
I could picture the other two guys with Patsy that night, but, for a while, I couldn’t remember their names. Then they came back to me: George and Deano. Funny, I thought now: neither Patsy, nor I, had thought of asking their surnames. And, on reflection, Deano was an odd name. Why wasn’t it just Dean? That night was the first time I had met him, but I’d met George at Gary’s grave. I vaguely remembered Patsy saying that George had driven them down in Indian Joe’s Jaguar. Now, sitting in my cell in Ilford nick, I started wondering what that had all been about. George had never known Gary. Why had he made a two hundred-mile round trip to be at his funeral? And, by the sound of it, he had never met Patsy before, either.
And what about Deano, who was supposed to be George’s brother, slipping me that fifty quid. It hadn’t struck me as odd at the time: I thought he was just a lovely fella with bundles of money, who liked me. But now, trying to piece it all together, it sounded iffy.
Patsy’s birthday present, for instance: Jack had met Patsy for the first time that Thursday night and George and Deano had known him only a matter of weeks, yet they had splashed out on a music centre that must have set them back two hundred quid, not to mention the Simply Red CD. In view of what had happened, it did not take me long to work that one out. They had massaged dear old Patsy’s ego to get to me. The fifty quid from Deano was just a little taster to whet my appetite; I would soon be getting a birthday present, too. My mind went back to the same little hotel, almost two months to the day later. George and Deano were off the scene by then and Jack was there with Brian, another mate he’d introduced me to along the way. I remembered Jack handing me the gold cigarette lighter, neatly wrapped in colourful paper, smiling: ‘Happy birthday from Brian and me, Charlie.’
Me and My Brothers Page 32