Goldberg came to the dock. ‘Was that guilty on the first charge?’ I wanted to know.
‘No, Charlie,’ he said, his face creased with disappointment. ‘It’s the second. I’m sick, totally sick. But try not to be too depressed. There are grounds for an appeal.’
I was so confused that I just stood there, not taking it in, and then I was aware of Field and Gould moving into the dock alongside me, and the judge telling the court that everyone had had a long day and that he would not pass sentence on the three of us that day; he would do it on Monday.
Saturday and Sunday were the longest, most worrying days of my life. It took a long time for the jury’s verdict to sink in and, to be truthful, I did not understand how they had reached it. While giving evidence, I’d sworn on oath that I’d never handled drugs, and I meant it: I would never dream of doing anything that would jeopardize me going to Chingford Cemetery to tend my Gary’s grave. That is everything to me.
For comfort that terrible weekend I looked at his photo more than ever and talked to him as though he were with me. God knows what the judge was going to do on Monday; throw the book at me, I shouldn’t wonder.
Whatever the sentence was going to be, I was relieved Gary would not be around to suffer it. He’d been such a soft, sensitive, innocent young man and, seeing his dad behind bars in the winter of his life would have destroyed him. I was pleased, in a strange, sad way, that my dear mum was not alive either. She had gone through enough with all that happened in the sixties, and I would not have wanted her to witness my humiliation. She was such a wonderful woman, and that Sunday I tried to keep my mind off what lay ahead by thinking about her and her lovely ways.
The next day, the public gallery was packed for the sentencing. There were the familiar faces of friends I’d seen over the final days of the trial, but there were people there for the first time. Funny, isn’t it, how certain people like to be in at the kill?
I had resigned myself to a long sentence. No matter how ludicrous it was to me, and everyone who knew me, I’d been set up as the linchpin of a deal that was, supposedly, going to swamp the streets with millions of pounds’ worth of cocaine. So, no doubt, I would get a sentence that would reflect that.
For an hour and a half Mr Kelsey-Fry went through the entire case again, then there were mitigations on behalf of the three of us.
Then the judge retired for twenty minutes.
When he came back, he wasted little time. Reading from typewritten statements, he said he was sentencing the three of us in ascending order of importance of our crime.
He gave Bobby Gould five years and Ronnie Field nine.
Then, turning to me, he said: ‘Charles Kray, you have been found guilty on both counts by the jury on overwhelming evidence. You showed yourself ready, willing and able to lend yourself to any criminal enterprise which became known to you. There was never a real question of entrapment of you by these officers, but, when caught, you cried foul. I’m pleased the jury saw through that hollow cry: infiltration by officers is an important tool in society’s fight against crime. Throughout this case, you professed your abhorrence against drugs, but the jury’s verdict has shown your oft-repeated protestations to be hypocrisy. Those who deal in Class A drugs can expect justice from the courts, but little mercy. Eight years on Count One, twelve years on Count Two, to run concurrently.’
I was shocked by the sentence; but, after listening to the judge for nine weeks, I knew it was going to be severe. What did hurt, though, was being accused of hypocrisy. It’s one of my pet hates; I can’t bear double standards.
When asked if I had anything to say, again I failed to do myself justice. Don’t ask me why, but all I could think to say was:
‘All my life I have advised people, particularly young people, never to be involved in drugs. I went along with the stories, as the officers did. But they are all untrue. It was only to get money.
‘I swear on my son’s grave that I have never handled drugs in my life. The jury have got it wrong for me before and the jury have got it wrong again.’
And then I was led out of court and back along the tunnel to the High Security Block and to my cell and to a life of God knows what.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Back in my cell after the verdict, I looked at myself in the highly polished piece of metal that served as a mirror, and was shocked at what I saw. I didn’t mind the laughter lines round the eyes; they were testimony to the fun I’d had, and, God knows, there had been plenty of that, before and after McVitie. I didn’t give a toss about my sunken cheeks, suitcases under the eyes, or that my skin was prison-grey. What with being caged in a maximum security jail, and the never-ending angst of the trial, I hadn’t had a decent night’s kip for the best part of a year; I was hardly going to look as if I’d been on a cruise, was I? I wasn’t bothered, either, at looking so old. I was seventy-one, for Christ’s sake.
No, it was the look of defeat in that gaunt, haggard face that got to me; it was the look of a beaten man, who knew it was all over; who was resigned to spending the last years of his life, banished from everything and everyone he treasured.
Jesus Christ, twelve years. TWELVE YEARS! Even if I got full remission, which I was bound to, given that I’m a model prisoner, I’d be a year off eighty when I got out. A year off eighty! What life would be worth living then?
I looked away from my haunted face and stretched out on the bed, my head on the pillow that had been flattened by hundreds of prisoners before me. And, again, I was consumed with the same question that had tortured me since that July evening in Ilford police station when I learnt that Jack was an undercover cop.
Just why had I been targeted for such an elaborate, costly sting?
I wasn’t a drug dealer, never had been. So it had to be because my name was Kray. But why had the Old Bill gone to such lengths to put me away? The only answer I’d been able to find in the year I’d been locked up was that Reg would soon be due parole, and the authorities didn’t want him to get it. In 1998, he would have served the thirty years recommended by the trial judge, Melford Stevenson, and, no doubt, the Press and public would be saying, as they had been for a long time, that enough was enough.
The Establishment didn’t feel that way, I was sure of that. Having witnessed the televised hero-worship of Reg at Ron’s funeral, the men in suits in Whitehall would have believed he still wielded the power he and Ron did in the sixties. Watching all that cheering and chanting of Reggie’s name, someone must have said: ‘No way can we have a Kray in the East End again. Let’s find a way to keep him inside – make him ineligible for parole.’
Think about it. Reg had kept his nose clean for years, was now likely to marry a respectable young woman, Roberta – and, more significantly, had, at last, shown remorse for the brutal slaughter of Jack McVitie. He had everything going for him. With his recommended time up and other, more dangerous, killers being given lesser sentences, the authorities would have risked a public outcry if they had refused parole. So, they had to find another way to keep Reg banged up.
What better than to discredit his elder brother? Stitch him up as a conniving drug baron with the money and contacts to flood Britain’s streets with millions of pounds’ worth of a Class A drug? That would do it, wouldn’t it? How can we possibly let Reg Kray loose when his brother is such an evil criminal? That would quieten the Press, wouldn’t it? And the noisy majority who’d been screaming for years for Reg’s release.
The more I thought about it, I was in no doubt that someone at the Home Office had sent a directive to the Met to fit me up. Anyone who’d been close to me in the last twenty years knew I had neither the money, nor the wherewithal, to put any sort of big bucks deal together. But that wouldn’t be a problem for a well-oiled police force adept at framing innocent people, would it? If anything, it would make it easier. I was a soft touch: not only was I desperate for money, I was well used to people I didn’t know being friendly, so they could boast about having been in my company
.
Anyway, there was nothing I could do now. My future was out of my hands. Of course, there was the appeal, and Goldberg seemed confident we could win one. But I wouldn’t be holding my breath. Not after what had gone on in court over the last nine weeks. Not after hearing my drunken voice on those tapes. To be truthful, if I’d been on that jury and heard all that talk of ‘charlie’ and ‘blow’ and ‘vacuum sealed’ and ‘regular, regular supplies’, even I’d have found me guilty! It was damning stuff, so convincing I almost believed I was an experienced drug dealer myself.
I had to cling to the hope of an appeal, even if it was just against the length of sentence, but, to be truthful, the thought of topping myself passed through my mind. If I didn’t win the right to appeal, or we did and it failed, what would I have to live for? I forced myself not to dwell on that morbid thought, because Judy had remained loyal throughout the trial and, despite the long sentence, I was sure she wouldn’t desert me.
Apart from Judy, the one woman I knew would want to visit me was Maureen Flanagan, a lovely, blonde model, who had grown up in Bethnal Green and had been a close friend of the Kray family for more than fifty years. No one referred to her as Maureen. To everyone, she was simply ‘Flanagan’, or, even more simply, ‘Flan’, and she had a heart of gold. She’d always been a dear, loyal friend, as she proved by speaking up for me in court, and the one Reg and I turned to to organize the seating for Ronnie’s and Gary’s funerals. She was one of the Sun newspaper’s early Page Three girls in 1971 and I made sure the prison officers knew this when I learnt she had been cleared to visit me. She was due to come with her boyfriend, Derek Francis, but he had flu, so she brought another friend of mine, Les Martin, instead.
Knowing that being one of the first Page Three girls meant a lot to Flan, the first thing I did when she and Les sat down in the small Category A visiting room facing me was introduce her to my guards. Despite having her hair all messed up during the pre-visit security search, Flan still looked every inch the glamour model and I could see the officers were impressed with meeting her.
‘Flan’s the sister I never had,’ I told them. I’d always said this whenever I introduced Flan to anyone and knew she loved it. In many ways, I wished she had been my sister. Imagine what my life would have been like if Mum had given birth to her, not the twins!
‘My mother and brothers loved Flan,’ I told the prison officers. ‘Ronnie was always on to her to marry Reggie. He’s proposed three times, but she always says No.’
One the officers laughed. ‘I bet that’s the first time Reggie has had a knockback, isn’t it, Charlie?’
Flan and Les did their best to lift my spirits and, for a while, I was fine. But I found it hard keeping up the pretence of being good old Charlie, ready to laugh and joke, and finally took Flan’s hand. ‘I’ve got nothing left inside me to fight, darling,’ I said. ‘I did nearly seven years as an innocent man, and now I’ve got twelve. It’s all over for me. I know I won’t get out.’
Flan leant over the table and put her arms round me. She didn’t say anything, but I’d lost so much weight I knew she’d be shocked at being able to feel my ribs.
‘Remember your mum, Charlie,’ she said. ‘If she was here now, she’d be telling you that you must never ever give up hope.’
‘I should have listened to her years ago,’ I said. ‘She kept telling me I was different to the twins and should not live my life around them. She adored them, as you know, but in her own way, I think she always felt they were headed for disaster.’
Suddenly, talking about my mother choked me and I started to cry, and, of course, that set Flan off, too. She held me tight for a minute or so, then, to try to lighten the mood, said, ‘Now, come on, Charlie – it’s not like you to cry like a baby.’
I eased myself away and looked at the bright orange sleeveless top that Category A prisoners have to wear. ‘Well, I have got a bib on,’ I said, forcing a laugh.
I told Flan and Les I’d been having chest pains and that I’d been seeing the prison doctor.
‘What’s the chances of you getting early parole through ill health?’ Les asked.
‘No chance,’ I said. ‘Reg has served more than his recommended time and isn’t a threat. But the authorities don’t want two Kray brothers on the streets. Goldberg’s going to appeal, but they won’t ever let me out. I’ll be kept inside until I can’t walk.’
I was sad when the two-hour visit was up, but relieved, too, because pains in my chest were making it difficult for me to breathe.
As we stood up, I leant over and cuddled Flan again, closely. ‘You know more than anyone, I was never like the twins,’ I said. ‘They were strong and could handle prison. But I won’t make it. I’ve written and told Diana I won’t last two years.’
And I meant it.
Visits were always bitter-sweet. I always looked forward to them, always enjoyed the chinwag, but always felt low when I said goodbye. The time immediately after Flan’s visit was particularly distressing. Talking about my mother had hit me hard and now, alone in my cell, remembering how lovely she was, I couldn’t stop the tears falling again.
What an idiot I’d been to let the makers of The Krays movie portray Mum the way they did. I’ve got a lot of regrets about the way my life has turned out and, the jail sentences apart, one of the biggest is not taking my role as consultant on that film seriously enough. How she came over was a travesty and I’m as much to blame as anyone. No wonder the twins went spare at me. Thank God Mum wasn’t alive to see that load of tosh; she would have been ashamed beyond words. She never used bad language, but almost the first word she uttered on screen was: ‘Bollocks.’
The twins were right to have a go at me: as the only brother free I should have made sure that, if nothing else, the woman we cared for so deeply was shown in her true light. I’ve always felt very, very badly about this: I let my brothers down, but I let our mother down, too, and I’ve never forgiven myself. To be truthful, when I signed the movie deal I was more interested in the money I was getting than in using my £4,000 consultant’s role to protect the twins and our parents.
I’d signed away a big chunk of my share, in order to survive for ten years or so, but I still came out with £55,000, and having been broke for so long it was great to have money in my pocket. To my discredit, I paid less attention to the film than I did in making up for lost time – and living up to my nickname, Champagne Charlie. With my good-time girl Judy in tow, it was party time most days of the week.
As I say, I’m not impressed with my input as consultant. I was supposed to advise on the violence, but even when the twins were seen running around the East End with machine guns I kept my mouth shut. No wonder the twins didn’t like the film – and heaped all the blame on me.
While on remand, I’d been such a model prisoner – ‘faultless’, according to an official report – that I was granted what they called an ‘enhancement’, allowing me to have an extra hour on my visits. This is a big deal in the prison system and I was the only one among the twelve on Category A to be given the privilege.
After my sentence I felt sure this would go in my favour, perhaps encourage the prison service to downgrade me and transfer me to a prison in the South, making it easier for Judy and the kids and all my friends to visit me. So, you can imagine my shock when I was told I was staying in Belmarsh, still the oldest prisoner in the country on Category A. I was bitterly disappointed, not just because it was such a strict regime, but without Dave Courtney I’d have no one to turn to for some humour, support and general light relief to ease the crushing boredom. I didn’t have too long to be depressed: the following Monday (30 June) I was told I was being transferred. Any delight I felt, however, turned sour when I heard that I was going to Long Lartin, near Evesham, in Worcestershire.
The prison held bad memories for me, because it was where Reggie had tried to kill himself fifteen years before. I didn’t hold out much hope of being taken off Category A and I was right: I’d been a m
odel prisoner, but I was still a dangerous man, wasn’t I? And my name was Kray, after all!
As it turned out, Long Lartin had changed since Reg was treated so badly there. I could not have been made more welcome by the other Cat A prisoners: they were quick to give me phone cards and tobacco, and assured me that, as nicks go, Long Lartin was one of the less miserable. I quickly discovered they were right: the staff were very nice to me and I was allowed on to the prison grounds to enjoy the July sunshine. What a relief that was after the claustrophobia of Belmarsh. I quickly started working on my tan, which, as a free man, had always been one of my trademarks. That and my long hair, which I always combed in the most artistic way to cover all my bald spots!
Thankfully, I was allowed more than three visitors, and, after Judy, the first ones on my list were Laurie O’Leary and John Corbett. I wanted to see Robin McGibbon and his wife, Sue, too, but he had been commissioned to write a book on Battersea Dogs Home, to tie in with a BBC TV series, and they were going to be tied up on that for the next four or five months. I was disappointed they would not be coming, but Rob had visited me every week on remand, and had been in court every day of the trial. I fully understood that he now needed to earn a living!
Naturally, I was keen to see the up-to-date edition of Me and My Brothers, which the publishers had rushed out within a few days of me end of the trial. But, prison rules being what they are, the copy Rob sent me had been put in my locker, with my civilian clothes and other personal possessions, until such time someone decided it was safe for me to have it. Honestly, people who’ve never been in jail have no idea of the idiotic rules that make life even more frustrating for prisoners. Having worked so hard on the update, covering Ronnie’s and Gary’s deaths, and that awful film, I was keen to read the book, but I refused to let myself get in a state about it; I had other matters on my mind, and the most important was Judy. I’d detected a change in her attitude when she’d visited me in late August and it hadn’t come as much of a surprise when she wrote, soon afterwards, saying she wouldn’t be coming again. I was gutted, to be honest: we’d gone through so much together and I’d believed her when she’d assured me she was going to stick by me. But I had to face facts: she was so much younger than me, she had to think of the future, not only for herself, but for her three children, too. God knows where I was going to spend my prison life. What sort of existence would it be for her, traipsing to depressing nicks in far-flung parts of the country, for just a couple of hours’ chit-chat? So, much as I didn’t care for the cowardly ‘Dear John’ manner in which Judy dumped me, I had to accept that it was over and forget about her. I didn’t like it, not one bit. But I had no choice, had I? The good news was, with Judy out of my life, Diana would be applying to visit me; her loyalty never wavered.
Me and My Brothers Page 39