Dave nearly choked. ‘My little band of men will be wearing £2,000 overcoats, mate. They won’t want to be wearing any bibs – fancy coloured or otherwise.’
‘But I insist your men wear something that identifies them,’ Sir Paul said.
‘Okay,’ Dave said. ‘I’ll have some little red badges made, saying Courtney Security. Will that do?’
Sir Paul agreed, albeit reluctantly. ‘I’ll allow you to do the security, Mr Courtney. But not everyone is a Kray fan, you know. A sniper attack or assassination has not been possible for thirty years because the twins have been locked up, but, the Krays being driven at ten miles an hour, who knows what might happen. Something we’ve got that you haven’t is a firearms’ unit.’
‘Sir, the one thing you’ve got that we haven’t is a firearms’ certificate,’ Dave said. ‘We’ve all got fucking guns!’
Sir Paul’s face was a picture: if he could have nicked Dave there and then, I’m sure he would have. I found it hilarious, but, in the light of what happened to Dave later, I wonder whether his cockiness that day did him any favours. Policemen, particularly high-ranking ones, do not like being made fun of. And they never forget. I told Dave that his association with the Kray name would affect him badly for the rest of his life, like it had with me.
I never thought there would be any trouble at the funeral, but we did get a scare the day Ronnie’s body was taken to the undertaker’s. One of the staff there told a newspaper she had received a phone call from someone threatening to break in and desecrate Ronnie’s body – and Reggie went spare: he told Dave not just to guard the funeral parlour itself, but to sleep next to Ronnie’s body in the Chapel of Rest.
Easier said than done: Dave’s band of hard nuts may have been fearless in the line of strong-arm duty, but not one of them was brave enough to sleep in that room on his own – Dave included! In the end, he had to persuade three to do it – and, as he said afterwards, it was harder finding them than the 150 he needed to handle the funeral security.
‘A ghost is scary enough, but imagine the ghost of Ronnie Kray,’ Dave admitted to me. ‘I slept in there a couple of times myself and don’t mind admitting I was scared shitless. I can imagine how frightening Ronnie was with the hump when he was alive, because he looked scary enough when he was dead. But I’m pleased we did it, to put Reg’s mind at rest.’
I hope Reggie was as grateful as me for the work that went into that funeral. From the outset, Dave said he wanted to organize a State-like occasion, fitting for Britain’s criminal monarch, a flamboyant affair that would show the world what England could do for its most famous gangster. He succeeded spectacularly, but, unfortunately, ended up £14,000 out of pocket. Dave didn’t believe Reg’s promise to cover all costs – such as wages, travelling expenses and walkie-talkies – but went ahead anyway because he felt the international publicity would be good for his security company and eventually earn him more than what he was laying out.
Unfortunately, Dave never got paid and, worse, his connections with the country’s major villains – most of whom were employed for the funeral – brought him to the attention of the authorities and he has had all sorts of aggravation ever since. The curse of the Kray name again!
That night before going into the witness box, I found it hard to sleep and started wondering about my decision to talk directly to the jury. It hadn’t once crossed my mind not to. After what had happened at the Old Bailey I was taking no chances. What had I to lose? One had only to listen to those incriminating tapes to know I was certainly going to be found guilty, at least on the first charge of offering Jack cocaine. My only chance of getting a lenient sentence was to let the court see the real me, no matter how degrading and humiliating that would be; to stand before the jury and convince them that I was, indeed, a pathetic, if likeable and charming, old man, not a top-class gangster, so dangerous and well-connected that I needed round-the-clock surveillance.
The thought that had been nagging me most of the time since my arrest was there again: was I right to plead not guilty in the face of such crushing evidence? Mr Goldberg had told me the judge had indicated I’d get a much lighter sentence if I did admit the charges – six years, probably, seven at most. With parole, which I’d certainly get, being a model prisoner, and less the time I’d been held on remand, I’d be out in three years or so. It was tempting, because Mr Goldberg said I could plead guilty without compromising Ronnie Field and Bobby Gould, which obviously I wouldn’t want to do.
But I could not plead guilty unless I was prepared to betray Reggie and lose the respect of all those people who’d kept me going all these years. It was the East End code: always keep your mouth shut and admit nothing. And I was trapped by it, no matter how much I wanted a lighter sentence. With everything else in my life in shreds, the respect of my friends was something I could not, would not, throw away.
Not for the first time I found myself wishing Dave was in the next cell. How I’d love to hear his cheeky banter now! Dave wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea: he was loud, brash, talked at a hundred miles and hour, and was very much in your face. He didn’t suffer fools – gladly, or otherwise – and I’m sure people were in awe, if not frightened, of him. But I’d known him for years, even been on holiday to Marbella with him, and wouldn’t hear a bad word said about him. We’d got close when he was organizing doormen for London clubs, and he’d given me a job as host at the London Hippodrome, off Leicester Square. Someone told me later that he saw me as the perfect man for the job because of my ‘charm and impeccable manners’. That pleased me, as you might imagine. I was only there a couple of weeks, but it was the closest I’d come to a proper job, since coming out of prison, and I revelled in it. A shame it couldn’t have lasted longer; maybe then I wouldn’t have attracted the attention of those Geordies.
In our time on Cat A, Dave was a diamond who knew who I was – the real me that is – and what I was going through. There were times, during those six months, when I was so low I could barely open my eyes and get out of bed, but Dave’s fast wit and general good humour always lifted my spirits. Despite my anxiety at what lay ahead, he had me in stitches and brightened most days. Behind the wisecracks, though, Dave is nobody’s mug: he’s a clever, very intelligent, guy, quick to cut to the chase and size up situations for what they were, not what they appeared to be.
He’s honest, too, and always tells it how it is: he gives people the truth, not just what they want to hear. That’s why I liked talking with him. He was the only one in that high-security wing I’d have dreamt of opening up to the way I did. The others in there didn’t have a clue what I was all about, but Dave knew the full SP. He knew what rubbish I’d had to endure because of the Kray name. And he understood, more than most, why, even as I faced another prison sentence, I felt compelled to uphold that name, keep the legend going. I was the Kray flagship, he’d say. And he was right: as the only Kray brother free, I’d been the one that all those people fascinated by the twins could look at, speak to, touch even; the one the twins were judged by.
It sounds pathetic, but that’s all I’ve had to do in the last twenty-two years – be a sort of ambassador for my brothers, so that they can continue to sell their books and get fan mail from all those thousands of strange gangster groupies.
With all doors to a respectable job locked, money became a big problem, which was hard to take, because I’ve always been a sociable animal and I loved having a few quid in my pocket to enjoy myself. This is why, I think, I started accepting offers from people on the strength of my name. As is clear from those incriminating tapes, I love a good drink and, to be frank, if someone was prepared to get them in for me in return for a few stories about the twins, who was I to refuse?
In the late seventies and eighties, when I was living with Diana in her flat near Crystal Palace, I didn’t have to prostitute myself in this way: Di was hard-working and always made sure I had money in my pocket to pay my way. But when she kicked me out and I threw in my lot with Judy and her
children, my life changed significantly: with all the money from the film long gone and Judy having next to nothing from her £14,000 a year salary to spend on socializing, I started living on people’s generosity more and more and very soon it became a way of life, with me going more or less anywhere, provided it didn’t cost me anything to get there, and I didn’t have to put my hand in my pocket. I’ve got to be honest: in this respect, the Kray name worked for me and provided an enjoyable social life I wouldn’t have had otherwise. There was the odd business opportunity, too: all sorts of strangers would worm their way into my company, with various weird and wonderful schemes, so that they could bask in that inane, reflected glory of being seen with the Kray twins’ closest living relative. Of course, I loved it, didn’t I? When you haven’t got two bob, and there are holes in your shoes, a bit of hero-worship does wonders for one’s morale and self-esteem. I found I became all things to all people, telling them what they wanted to hear.
Now, in my cell, thinking about my appearance before the jury, I thought back to those long months on remand, when Dave made me laugh at the image I’d invented for myself. He’d say: ‘If someone asked you if you could get a bright pink Scud missile delivered to Peckham the following Saturday, you’d say: “I’ll see what I can do – get us a brandy and coke…Someone wants a combine harvester, painted yellow, driven by a black man – I’ll have a chat – mine’s a brandy and coke…Madonna tickets? Singing on stage with her? I’ll make a phone call. Brandy and coke? That’ll be lovely.”’
It sounds ridiculous, but Dave was spot on: I found it impossible to say No – to anything, or anyone. Even if a guy asked me if I could arrange to have someone hurt, I’d say, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Then, the drinks would continue to flow and the subject would never be mentioned again. It was all about keeping the Kray legend going: I couldn’t admit I was unable to do something, give the cold shoulder – in the same way I couldn’t admit I was skint.
It doesn’t please me to admit it, but throughout the nineties I was – no two ways about it – a ponce. And it was that lifestyle that landed me in this mess. I remember opening my heart to Dave, saying how much I wanted to talk to the jury as I was talking to him; how much I wanted to tell them: ‘It’s my name. It’s the second time I’m going to prison because of my name. There’s no £39 million cocaine deal. I have no money, not even a home of my own. Look at the holes in my shoes, my wcrn-through suit. All I have done is talk a load of rubbish to someone because he gave me loads of booze. Yes, I am guilty of that. Sentence me for that. But not for being a drug dealer, because I’m not.’
I don’t mind admitting it, I cried in Dave’s cell more than once; and when he saw my look of defeat, and I told him I was going to die in prison, his eyes filled with tears, too. Dave, more than most people I know, could identify with what I’d gone through. He had image problems, too: because he’s publicly loud and brash, oozing self-confidence, people assume that’s the real person. But there’s more to Dave Courtney than meets the eye and he was a good understanding friend to me. More than once, it had crossed my mind that we were both in the position we were because the circus that was Ronnie’s funeral had drawn the attention of more than just the public and media.
Quite honestly, I don’t know how I got any sleep that night before my evidence, and, shortly after nine o’clock the next morning, I was walking robotically along the tunnel to the court. It was the day the Press had been waiting for; the moment when the evil Kray twins’ older brother spoke up for himself. What were the reporters and jurors expecting? I honestly didn’t know. Would I appear to be everything they thought I’d be, or a bitter disappointment? All I was sure about, as I stepped from the dock and walked to the witness box, was that I had to be myself. Everyone close to me had told me that. Let those twelve jurors see the real you, they said. Tell them how different you are from the image they have of the Krays; let them see you have not got it in you to deal in drugs. That was the easy part. What I was going to find more difficult was swallowing my pride and self-esteem and admitting how shabby and shallow my life had become. And, more important, what I really was.
A plonker.
Chapter Twenty-five
Standing in front of Mr Goldberg answering his questions was easy, rather like a gentle game of tennis: he would lob the ball mildly so that I saw it clearly and whacked it back strongly; every one a winner.
‘What is your attitude to drugs?’ he asked.
‘I’ve always been anti-drugs. And everyone knows it,’ I said. ‘I saw the terrible effect they had on my brother Ron, over the years. If I’d been involved in drugs, people would have known it. I can’t buy a newspaper without people knowing it.’
‘What do you think of people who sell drugs?’
‘I despise them. I wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole.’
‘Why did you have anything to do with Jack, who you suspected was a drug dealer?’
‘Because I felt I could get money out of him by pretending to be a drug dealer myself. I had no compunction about conning people like him.’
‘Did you tell Jack you had access to drugs?’
‘Yes, I said I could get him tons of puff. But it wasn’t true. It was just a story to get money out of him.’
‘Did you say you had seen a ton of cocaine?’
‘Yes. But that was a story, too. There isn’t that amount in the country, I shouldn’t think. Jack must have known I was spinning him a line.’
And so it went on, with Mr Goldberg skilfully pointing me in the right direction to help explain why I said what I did on those incriminating tapes. To me, it all added up: I was telling Jack and his pals everything they wanted to hear merely to get some of the ‘wads of money’ Patsy had told me they had. I just hoped the jury saw it that way, too.
I felt composed and sure of myself under Mr Goldberg’s questioning, but when he brought up The Mermaid Theatre I felt my throat tighten: the mention of it naturally made me think of Gary and that usually set me off. I fought to keep my emotions under control as I heard Mr Goldberg ask why Ronnie Field and Bobby Gould were at the show, on Sunday 2 June.
I told him that I bumped into them at East Croydon Station and they had said that they might come.
‘The Crown’s allegation is that, at The Mermaid, you drew Jack into a corridor to meet Field and Gould and you talked about drugs,’ said Mr Goldberg.
And that tipped me over the edge.
My eyes filling with tears, voice shaking with emotion, I told him that was untrue. ‘I would not insult my son’s memory by talking about drugs there.’ And I meant it. Gary was everything to me and, that Sunday, he had been dead only three months. I was still in deep, deep grief and missing him more than words can say.
Jack had made a big deal out of me introducing him and Ken to Field and Gould. But I told Mr Goldberg that the place was teeming and, as Gary’s dad, I was moving around the room, introducing lots of people to each other. Yes, I introduced Ron and Bob to Jack, but I left them speaking together and had no idea what they talked about.
Mr Goldberg was taking me through the whole sequence of events slowly. But I was ahead of him. I’d had nine months on remand to think about Jack’s treacherous behaviour and I knew the scenario backwards. After The Mermaid, I did not speak to Jack for more than two weeks. I had no reason to: I had nothing to say to him. It was him who contacted me. Why? To get me and Ron up to Newcastle to talk about drugs.
He rang on Tuesday 18 June. The conversation, which he taped, went like this:
‘Well, how’s you?’ Jack asked.
‘All right, thanks. How you been?’ I replied.
‘Oh, we’ve been busy…Ken and I were across in Brussels for a few days.’
‘Oh, have you?’
‘Getting some business sorted out.’
‘Oh, good, good…the lottery have you, mate? How you been, all right otherwise?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
I laughed. ‘See you soon and have a drink
or something.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I was ringing you for actually…what I was thinking of doing was, if you were okay for next week.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I was going to invite you and Ronnie up, just the two of you.’
‘Yeah.’
‘See if we can get some business sorted out.’
‘Yes.’
‘What I was thinking was maybe Wednesday next week.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll sort you a couple of tickets out.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And just fly up. We’ll meet you. We’ve got somewhere nice and quiet lined up where we can maybe get some business sorted between us and yourselves.’
‘That’ll be nice, mate,’ I said. ‘Very nice of you.’
Jack told me he would arrange for two airline tickets to be left at Gatwick for me and Ron, then he said: ‘So, yeah, then stay over and we’ll get some business sorted.’
‘Oh, that’s smashing, mate.’ Then I laughed. ‘I could do with it.’
‘Yeah.’
‘To be quite truthful, at the moment, you know, after Gary and all that…I’ve not done nothing for fucking four months, have I, you know?’
A few minutes later, Jack rang back asking what names me and Ron wanted to use at the hotel where we would be staying.
‘Normal names,’ I said, ‘…Field and Kray.’
What names did we want to use? I didn’t know what he was on about.
Being guided by Mr Goldberg, I found it easy to bring all that happened then into focus. Three days after I’d squeezed £500 out of Jack, he rang, anxious to know if Ronnie was coming up to Birmingham for my birthday party. Ten days later, on Saturday 20 July, he rang again, wanting me to ask Ronnie to contact him. The following Wednesday morning, he called again, asking me to book him and Brian into The Selsdon Park Hotel for the next night, because he was meeting Ronnie and Bob there.
Me and My Brothers Page 36