Inside the Firm - The Untold Story of The Krays' Reign of Terror

by Lambrianou, Tony

  Some of our ex-fellow cons, however, came out of long prison sentences only to return to crime. Eddie Richardson, for instance, was sent down in 1990 on a charge involving millions of pounds’ worth of cocaine. The Richardsons today I would describe as friends, even though we started our careers on less than friendly terms. In prison they always made me welcome in their company, although we didn’t make a particular point of keeping in touch when we came out of the nick.

  One person I do still see socially, however, is Charlie Kray. Charlie wants to lead a normal life, like me, but because of his name he’ll probably never be able to do that. As for the other members of the firm … they’re scattered all over the place. Ian Barrie is living a quiet life in Scotland. From what I’ve heard, he’s repping for a company and prefers not to be in touch with anyone from the past. Ronnie Bender, who I’ve seen on occasions, is also keeping a low profile, living with his wife Buddy in the Isle of Dogs in east London. Connie Whitehead I still see occasionally in pubs and restaurants in the East End. I have to admit to a sneaking liking for him, despite the suspicions over his loyalty in the trial, but I never have anything to do with him when we meet. He keeps himself to himself and says nothing, although his wife, Pat, is a very nice lady whom I’m always happy to talk to. Tommy Cowley has, sadly, died of cancer. I always got the impression he felt guilty because he didn’t go down with us. The last time I saw him was in Durham prison when he came to visit Ron.

  And so to the Kray twins, whose parole I would wholeheartedly support, having visited both of them since my release. At the time of writing, they have each served twenty-two years in prison. That’s not justice, that’s a pound of flesh. Revenge. There comes a time when the authorities have got to justify keeping you in prison. When they can’t do that, they have to let you go. They cannot justify keeping Reggie Kray, at least, any longer. So you’ve got to put it down to politics. We all went away together and we should have come out together, too. We’ve all paid the price, if we deserved that price. Keeping Reggie Kray in prison for the McVitie murder is achieving nothing. What’s the point? Once your sentence stretches beyond a certain time, is there really any difference between eighteen years and twenty-five? What good is it doing anyone? This is where I think the system is going wrong.

  Reggie is in Lewes prison in Sussex, striving to keep his mind and his body in peak condition. It’s a credit to him, after all this time, that he’s still up to it. How much more can they ask a man to take? I say give him a chance, don’t kick him when he’s down. In my opinion, he should be given his parole while it’s still possible for him to come out and fit into society. As Chris and I discovered, there’s no such thing as rehabilitation, nothing which can prepare you for the realities of a society which has overtaken you by a couple of decades. Purely on humane grounds, Reggie ought to be released now.

  I’d like to say the same for Ronnie. I’m not here to argue the case against his doctors at Broadmoor Hospital, but Ron deserves to be given a little bit of hope. He still thinks about life outside, and his pride in his appearance is as strong as ever. He has never complained. Ron has his dignity, and I believe that dignity should be respected by the authorities. I find it tragic to think that they would be quite happy to hold him in there for the rest of his days. It’s time to consider the view that he ought to be given his chance.

  The twins are still very well respected in every level of society, not just in criminal circles, and a real cross-section of the public now genuinely feels that enough is enough. People ask if they still control things outside, or if they would take up where they left off on their release. I believe the answer to both questions is no. If they came out now, every eye would be on them. They could never reach that position of power again; they wouldn’t need to. The twins can make their money in other ways, particularly Reggie with his books. I also know that Reggie has a business brain which is second to none. He could do a lot of good in certain ways. He could go out, like they do in America, talking to people in institutions, putting a view across. He was always a very persuasive man, and we shouldn’t lose that talent.

  Certainly, if I had any advice for youngsters thinking of embarking on a career in crime, it would be this: forget it. Very few men earn a proper living by crime. You can’t beat the law. If anybody could have done it, we would have. We don’t deserve to be on any pedestal.

  It’s no big deal to go around saying, ‘I’ve cut somebody, I’ve shot them.’ The only future is in a prison in the middle of nowhere, limited and humiliated in every way possible, and the things you have to put your family through cost too much in the long run. I’ve sat in some of the toughest prisons in Britain reflecting on the fact that you can’t buy time back again. It’s gone. And so are the days of the Wild West. Go to work. An earned pound note is a better pound note than a bent one.

  I’ve said the same thing to every would-be villain who’s come knocking on my door. Some members of a black gang called the Yardies came to me for advice, and I said: ‘I’m telling you, you’re nicked. You can’t get away with what you’re doing.’ The face of gang activity has changed a lot since our days. It’s not so public as it was with us, and it tends to stay within its own ethnic community groups. There are the Chinese Triads, as well as the blacks and the whites, and they all keep themselves to themselves. The Pakistanis are beginning to firm themselves up now and, from what I hear, that’s where the next bid for power will come from. Trouble will come between the Asians and the blacks. In 1989, a black gang challenged a Pakistani firm in Commercial Road and the blacks withdrew because they realised the Asians would win. The Asians are already running protection rackets within their own community, and I foresee that they will have a lot of power round about the turn of the century.

  The point is that since the twins’ time there has been no all-powerful firm to co-ordinate and keep the other professional criminal gangs in check. And now that there’s such a diversity of outfits, that one power is needed more than ever. It will be interesting to see what confrontations happen where, and when. We may yet see a gangland situation developing along the lines of America’s, if the police don’t stop it first.

  Wendy has now adopted my name to become Mason-Lambrianou. We lead a simple life at home most of the time. We’ll sit indoors with a nice dinner, watch a bit of the box and take Prince for a walk. I can sit around, unshaven, in my tracksuit bottoms, and just enjoy a quiet life.

  But I do tend to live two lives. Once I get dressed for the weekend, get myself suited and booted, I become a different person. I go out to impress people. Wherever I go, people tend to find out about my past, and they won’t leave me alone until I give them what they want to see. So I tend to do that now and again, lay a little bit on for them. I dress the part, yes, and I play the part. They want to feel I’m at the height of activity and that I know everything that’s going on.

  I still consider my role in life is as a public relations man, and when I go to the pub, or to a restaurant or whatever, a lot of my conversation is a bit of a PR job for the twins. I’ve always respected them, always held them in very high regard, and anything I can do to help generate support for their release I will do. There’s no excuse for murder and unnecessary violence, but by the standards of today’s criminals the twins weren’t such bad men – certainly not bad enough to deserve the sentences they got.

  Still, their name does do some funny things to people, even today. When I’m chatting in company and any strangers suddenly hear that I was connected to the Krays, their whole attitude changes immediately. They become incredibly polite. ‘Anything we can do for you?’ They start looking for the scar on your face. You can see them thinking, ‘We’ve heard so much about all this, but you don’t look anything like it.’

  I might be in the pub on a Friday night and some bloke will say, ‘All right, Tone?’ and then turns to his girlfriend and whispers, ‘A pal of mine, him.’

  We’re always made welcome wherever we go. I could open my own brewery with
the amount of booze that comes at me. People keep on telling me about what good things we did, the Robin Hood side of it. They always want to hear what I’ve got to say, and they always tell me I didn’t deserve the sentence I got, but Wendy keeps my feet on the ground. She’ll say, ‘Tony, you’ve got red blood, same as everybody else.’

  People come up and want to be photographed with me. I’ve had people I’ve never seen in my life before pretending they know me and claiming they were on the firm. Everyone insists they’ve had dealings with the Krays somewhere along the line. How the twins are ever going to cope with this when they come out, I don’t know. The standard question from strangers is, ‘How long do you think the twins will do?’ If I don’t get asked that ten times a day, there’s something wrong.

  I’m always aware that my past is going to precede me, and I’m usually at pains to relax people. I’ve learnt to let their chatter go in one ear and out the other, but sometimes it gets a bit too much. Sometimes it can be very embarrassing, and at other times it can make me feel quite isolated. There are times when I try to be polite, but in the end I have to get away from it. I’ll listen for a while, nod my head, agree with whatever it is the person is saying, and then say, ‘Excuse me a second, I’ll be back.’ But I won’t. If Charlie Kray is in the room, I’ll say, ‘Look, there’s Charlie over there. I’m sure he’d love to have a chat with you,’ and Charlie will do the same thing to me. It’s a standing joke between us.

  Wendy and I might be out enjoying ourselves, and if someone comes up and wants to start talking to me about the twins or the trial or whatever, it can wreck our night. If it happens once too often I can turn on someone, and Wendy can always tell now when it’s about to happen. You don’t like to hurt people’s feelings, but there comes a time when you think, ‘I’m never going to know ’em because I don’t want to know ’em. I’ve seen too many of ’em.’ I’ve stopped using a lot of my old haunts. Wendy’s been good there. She’s a great reader of situations and she gives her view out as she sees it. She’ll say, ‘Look, you don’t need this person or that person.’ I still get the hangers-on, though. I suppose, in a way, I might have encouraged it at one point. But not any more.

  I do like my brothers round me now and again. We remain very close, although we still have our arguments when we get together. For most of 1990, Chris was refusing to come out with us lot because of it. He knew he’d got no control over the rest of us. It’s purely a family thing. We’re very explosive and we can shout at each other so furiously it could give the wrong impression, but it would never come to blows. That’s the Lambrianou brothers.

  My relationship with Chris is a strange thing, in view of what happened in the past. We don’t have a lot in common any more. He lives quietly in Oxford with his second wife and family, doing market gardening. He might come down to London once or twice a year, but our communications are very limited. I think the fact that we lived on top of one another for a long time drove us apart. But it’s nice to know that he’s settled down. He’s a good family man. And he knows I’m here if he needs me.

  The closest brother to me at the moment is probably Jimmy. After we were convicted, he moved out to Banbury and became a businessman with his own factory, working in sheet metal. He’s become very successful. He helped design the new telephone kiosks, and he invented the air-door, the air system which keeps cold air out of buildings in the winter and hot air out in the summer. It’s used in airports. He owns racing greyhounds, too. He’s done well in life, and I’m proud of him.

  Leon is the brother who makes the most effort to keep the family together. Where the brothers are concerned, he’d do anything. He’d be the first one there. Nothing pleases him more than having one or other of us to his house. From a working boy who had nothing, he’s now got all the best pitches in the markets in Kent and the outskirts of London. He employs his son to run it all for him, and he has a staff of four or five people. He’s got a lovely house in Herne Bay, Kent.

  Nicky we all still treat like the baby of the family, even though he’s a man in his forties. We continually argue about him, and we’re always having a go. He’s received spells of imprisonment in recent years for drug offences, receiving stolen property and robbery. He has a mind of his own, Nicky – a very game man. He lives in Banbury, but he still sees a lot of us. He’s extremely likeable, and I do my best to keep my eye on him.

  Part of me is always in prison. It will never leave me, I know that. Sometimes I can be walking along and find myself talking to the dog, and laughing over an incident that might have happened ten years ago in Parkhurst. I often think back to what I left behind. A lot of people I know are still inside. I try to visualise what they’re thinking, and what they’re going through.

  I think about how long I did, and I try to remember the seventies, but I can’t. I can remember isolated incidents like the troubles in Gartree in 1972, I can remember that very hot summer of 1976, I can remember being moved from Gartree to Maidstone in 1977. But I think about the actual length of time I was inside, and it doesn’t mean anything to me.

  I still remember what it’s like to walk fifty yards, turn right, walk fifty yards and turn right again. I remember Leicester maximum-security block, and the fact that there wasn’t a bit of green in the exercise yard. You don’t know what you miss until you haven’t got it. Today, if I see anyone damaging a tree, or drawing graffiti or dropping litter, I go absolutely potty.

  In all sorts of small ways like this, a life sentence leaves its paw marks all over the rest of your life, shapes your thinking and your behaviour, and above all shows you the value of freedom. You don’t understand that until you’ve been locked up.

  I like to think I’m a trustworthy person now. I may have had difficult times since my release, and I may have had very bad patches when I’ve been short of money, but I’ve shunned any criminal opportunities that have come my way, tempting though they may have been. I’d sooner be without. At least I’m free.

  I do have regrets about my past, I must admit, but more important than anything else, I’m not ashamed of it. It’s important to me as a person that I can hold my head up, knowing that I didn’t point the finger at anybody, that I was with the twins and I fell with the twins. I went into the deep end and, somehow, over the years, I’ve managed to make it to the shallow water. I haven’t achieved a lot in my lifetime, but I came through my sentence more or less in one piece, against all the odds.

  I don’t see myself in trouble in the future at any time. I’m just getting on with my life and enjoying what I’ve got left of it. If I can help anybody, I will do it. I ask people not to involve me in crime, and they don’t. They accept me as I am today. All the money I have ever gained from crime couldn’t buy me what I’ve got going for me now. For once in my life, I’ve got no problems or pressures, I’ve got a stable home and hopefully, in the future, I’ll have a baby son or daughter to complete the family.

  In the meantime, though, I’ve got the only two things I want. I’ve got Wendy, a woman I respect and love. And I’ve got Prince. My commitment to them is absolute. In my limited freedom I’m a content and happy man, for the first time in many, many years. I don’t think I could ask for anything more.

  About the Author

  TONY LAMBRIANOU was born in Bethnal Green, at the heart of London’s East End, in 1942. His Greek Cypriot father was a restaurateur. His mother, a Geordie, came from Irish stock and brought Tony and his four brothers up as strict Catholics. A trusted member of ‘The Firm’, he was imprisoned until 1983 for his part in the murder of Jack ‘The Hat’ McVitie. He died in 2004.

  CAROL CLERK is the former news editor of Melody Maker, winning The Publisher Award for Best Feature in 1985. She has had books published about The Pogues, Madonna and The New York Dolls, and has also written with Reggie Kray. She continues to write for various music publications.

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