Inside the Kray Family

by Rita Smith

  Once we’d seen Reg reunited with Ron for ever, there was just one last gesture I had to make for him, and that was to place white roses on Frances’ grave and kiss the headstone, just as he had done in life: a tribute from me to him and the only girl he’d ever loved.

  Conclusion

  Peter Gerrard

  That two not very well-educated East End boys could take over London’s underworld is more to do with the period during the 1950s and 1960s, when they were active, than that they were criminal masterminds. At that time London was wide open and ready to be taken. Key underworld figures were getting past their sell-by date. Police corruption was rife and the newspapers were hungry to replace the ageing underworld bosses Jack Spot and Billy Hill who, as time went on, were becoming less exciting copy than they had been.

  So who better to replace them than the two apparently ruthless and charismatic twins? Once the headlines started to appear, it was self-perpetuating on both sides. In their quest for infamy the twins saw their gradually increasing column inches as public confirmation that they were indeed what they had always seen themselves as being. In the end the media and the twins fuelled each other – the legend had begun.

  Violence was the key to everything they achieved. Yet what they did achieve was less organized crime than, as put to me by one of the firm, “disorganized crime”. No long-term plans, no carefully executed robberies of the century, no tightly knit band of followers – simply, the firm was a loose bunch of Jack the Lads prepared to trade on the reputation of two men whose bargaining power lay in the fact that they were capable of vicious violence to get what they wanted.

  Ronnie Kray was the key. He was the bogeyman – with his paranoid psychosis he was the ultimate threat that hung like a shadow over anyone who might think of getting in their way. If it were not for him the Kray legend would never have got off the ground.

  As a team, Reg and Charlie should have ended up as millionaires running semi-legitimate enterprises. Charlie had the business acumen while Reg had a similar flair, with the added bonus of being willing to use controlled violence when needed – a necessary asset within the world they chose to operate in.

  Ron never craved for wealth nor cared about figure-heading some vast criminal empire. All he wanted was to be seen as an all-powerful figure comparable to his heroes, General Gordon, Winston Churchill or Al Capone. That he gained side benefits from being seen as such was incidental to him.

  I don’t remember him ever being diagnosed as such, but his behaviour certainly points toward him being a sociopath; the definition being someone who has no concept of the consequences of their actions or any social conscience whatsoever.

  When Reg killed Jack McVitie he was drunk, and if not physically goaded into the act by Ron he was at least driven by the mental bond that whatever his twin could do, he was man enough to do the same. When it was over he took great pains to cover up the murder, fully aware that he could eventually be brought to book.

  Ron on the other hand slashed, stabbed and shot his way through many years, concluding his comparatively short career by publicly killing Cornell in cold blood. After every wounding or that single murder, he personally made little effort to disguise the fact that he was guilty – being quite happy to leave his mess to be cleared up by others. His sensitivity to slight or imagined insults was another symptom of his paranoia, and he spent a great deal of his time brooding over his very real “Death List” or planning revenge. He was a loose cannon and his mental instability would eventually sweep away everything else his brothers were working toward.

  I first met Reg in Blundeston Prison while researching the background of an underworld executioner by the name of Alfie Gerrard – no connection to myself, but the name had grabbed my attention and I wrote to Reg for some information. Here was a man who received hundreds of letters a week, so I was impressed to get a reply almost by return. We corresponded for a short while, and then he sent me a visiting order inviting me to go and meet him.

  I’m not sure what I expected when I arrived at the Norfolk prison. His letterheads carried a photograph of himself taken in 1968, and there had only ever been one picture in the newspapers taken while he was inside over the last twenty years. This was one of the reasons most people had a fixed mental picture of him and Ron as still being the men they were in their heyday. All my knowledge of him was from books and cuttings, and in the waiting room it was a strange feeling to think that in minutes I would be meeting one of the most feared gangsters of all time.

  When he was finally allowed into the visiting room I was surprised by how small he was. With his short greying hair he appeared older than his years, though he looked fit and carried himself with confidence. His nose, heavily veined, gave away the fact that while alcohol is illegal in the prison system, somehow he’d managed to get his hands on a reasonable supply.

  What surprised me more was his soft voice, his extreme politeness and the obvious pleasure with which he greeted me. Surely this was not the same man who could break a jaw with one punch and think nothing of it? But when I looked into those piercing eyes of his and then down to his fists, which seemed disproportionate to the rest of him, yes, I could see the man he must have been on the streets.

  As we talked we were constantly interrupted by prisoners’ wives and elderly mothers coming across to wish him well, and each one he received without any sign of exasperation. Each one got his full attention and a genuine enquiry after themselves or whoever they were visiting. An autograph, a hug, the occasional peck on the cheek, and he made fans for life.

  At a prearranged signal from him I surreptitiously retrieved two miniature bottles of vodka from my inside pocket and poured them into a plastic cup of orange juice, under the cover of a large notebook. I did this on every visit for years and only once did I go empty handed. On this occasion I arrived in Maidstone too late for me to call into an off-licence, so I was unable to stock up on the usual spirits and as luck would have it that was the day they chose to give me a full body pat down. Normally, a body scanner passed over you with no contact was enough – anything further you had a choice: subject yourself to a full search or forget the visit. If I had been carrying contraband I would have refused and left the prison without being found out, so it was a good fail-safe in a way.

  As often happened, Reg telephoned the night before and suggested I meet someone outside the gates and then take them in on my VO. Never a problem. This particular day it was a young girl who looked about twelve, but must have been older. Why she was going in God only knows, but it was none of my business to ask. I had not noticed she was carrying a handbag until we reached the scanner desk – too late to tell her that any bags are thoroughly searched. Not pockets, only bags or packages.

  In complete innocence she gave the officer a little smile and placed her handbag on the desk. I could only watch in horror as with a Paul Daniels-like flourish the PO drew out half a bottle of brandy and held it above his head. I went weak at the knees for this girl and myself because I had the same tucked into my waistband. The chief PO came over and went absolutely ballistic. As I said, this girl appeared to be about twelve, and he towered over her screaming that he should have her arrested and did she know it was a serious crime, etc., etc. By this time she was frightened and in tears, and I think that softened him up because he said he’d overlook it this time, confiscate the alcohol, but if she ever tried it again he’d bring the full weight of the law down on her. Then it was my turn, and while I was being scanned the chief apologized to me for the noisy aggravation right under my nose, not realizing she was with me.

  Only a week later, while this incident was still fresh in my mind, the same thing almost happened with a very well known actress. As before, my instructions from Reg were the same. Meet this lady outside the gates and bring her through on my VO. But having learned a lesson on the previous occasion and knowing that Reg asked all his visitors to bring a small token, I asked if she had any drink on her. She dug around in her shoulder ba
g and produced a small plastic bottle of gin. When I told her what would happen she said, “Oh, God. Now what shall I do?” Apart from her acting talents one of her popular assets was a Sabrina-like bust, so half-joking I nodded at her cleavage and said, “They won’t dare look in there”. So that’s where she hid the bottle, and I couldn’t help smiling as every PO in the reception area was mesmerized by this ample bust, and unaware that there was more in those double Ds than they were imagining.

  On that first visit, though, two things struck me, one of them almost literally. Back then smoking was allowed on visits, and I must have given an unconscious signal that I was about to reach for my cigarettes on the table. Before I could, Reg picked up the packet, took out a cigarette and held it up to my face. As a reflex I opened my mouth to take it and Reggie’s fist came flying up. As I jumped back he laughed and said, “Too late, I would’ve broken your jaw by now. That’s my cigarette punch.” A well-known trick but one he seemed to think was exclusively his and something he was obviously proud of. Again I looked at his hands thinking that I wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of them.

  The other revelation was one that would be repeated on every visit thereafter. I was introduced to his “friend”, a fresh-faced kid of no more than eighteen. I’m not homophobic and do not normally assume that male friendships are anything more than just that, but a certain closeness planted a seed that I found difficult to accept, bearing in mind that this was the notorious hard man Reg Kray and ten years before he would publicly, though posthumously, admit to being gay.

  As I said earlier, no recent photographs of Reg had been available for many years, so Lenny McLean and myself thought it would be quite a coup to get a picture for our book The Guv’nor. I got hold of a plastic camera to avoid the scanner, and Lenny managed to get a couple of shots while on a visit. When the film was developed I noticed that as well as Reg, Lenny had also caught this young man in the snap. They were always together so he was difficult to avoid

  When I took the photograph in to Reg to ask his permission to use it he said, “Use me by all means, but not the two of us together”. Then he fixed me with that look of his and said, “You writers take in everything you see. You’ve probably already worked out a situation in your head. What I’m saying to you is there are certain aspects of my private life that should stay private, so I’m trusting you to keep any thoughts about me inside these walls until I’m ready to say otherwise.”

  There was no threat in the way he spoke, and in fact nothing revelatory in the words he used, but I understood the implication. Why he felt he had to keep his sexuality a secret I do not know. Perhaps he was not aware how the outside world had moved on in terms of accepting gays, or perhaps it did not fit the image he had always portrayed. Either way it made no difference to me, nor would it to anyone else other than the Sunday newspapers, who would have had a field day.

  As always with Reg, if he found you interesting the next thing to expect was a summons from Ron, and it wasn’t long before I was invited to Broadmoor. At one time all any visitors had to do was arrive at the hospital, sign the book and they were in. Things had changed by the time I was going. First I had to telephone the doctor in charge of Ron, where I got the impression that I was being assessed during our conversation. Once past that hurdle, forms had to be filled in and a background check made before a laminated identity card was issued.

  If I expected a gloomy crumbling mental asylum I was mistaken. The entrance would have graced a top hotel, with plush seats and potted plants. Once through the scanner I was escorted across a park-like expanse of brick paving and shrubbery into the small block where Ron lived out his life.

  Unlike the generally surly and business-like manner of POs in the mainstream prisons, I found the staff here pleasant and helpful, even though they were serving the same function. I was shown into a brightly decorated, nicely furnished private room, where Ron was waiting for me. He gave me a hug, then pulled out a chair for me and asked what I would like to drink. I chose tea and he disappeared to get it.

  It was only when we were settled that I could study this man who had been, was and still is thought of as the supposed epitome of evil. He was gaunt; pale faced but immaculately turned out in a grey suit, dark tie and highly polished shoes. But it was his eyes that held me. Similar to Reggie’s but much more piercing and giving me the impression that he was reading my thoughts. Like Reg too, he showed a great interest in what I did, where I lived and what family I had. This was not polite conversation, but what I took as genuine enquiry because he never took his eyes from mine and listened to every word. I thought I might have felt slightly uncomfortable; instead, it couldn’t have been a more relaxed visit. In fact more so than with Reg because we could talk in private.

  He spoke of his mother and of how much he missed her, his music, his prayers, and of how he would like to travel when he was released. He gave me the impression that while he had accepted his years behind locked doors, he had now reached a point in his life when he wanted to live in the outside world again.

  After three hours it was time to go and as we walked down the passage to the main door, Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, came out of a side room. He and Ron ignored each other completely, and while he was still in earshot Ron said to me, “He’s scum. I won’t have anything to do with him.”

  Whenever my work took me to London I always stayed with my sister and her husband. And that is where I was that same evening when my police chief inspector brother-in-law took a phone call then passed the handset to me saying, “Ronnie Kray wants to speak to you”. It was Ron thanking me for a nice visit. Twenty minutes later the same thing happened, but this time it was Reg thanking me for visiting his brother. Shortly after Charlie Kray called with the same message. The courtesy of all three might have been seemed old fashioned, but I was impressed that each one of them had taken the time to call me for no other reason than to be polite.

  On subsequent visits to Ronnie over the years, not once did he ever ask for anything from me. I always took sixty cigarettes as a matter of course, but that was my choice, not his. In fact on one occasion, for no other reason than small talk, he showed me a heavy gold ring that had been given to him by one of the members of the Gambino family. I naturally admired it, so he took it off and said, “It’s yours if you want it.” Reluctantly but politely I turned down the offer knowing that our conversation would be relayed word for word to Reg, as it was after every visit. I knew that Reg would not have been very pleased, because by then I had become aware that unlike years previously, Reg had become the dominant twin.

  As an example I arrived at Broadmoor one day and Ron had a sheaf of notes he had written concerning his marriage to Kate Kray What he wanted me to do was use these notes to write an article that would refute certain allegations that she had published. He said, “Write something for the News of the World. Put my side of the story and tell them I’m not very happy with what’s been said so far. Whatever they want to pay keep it for yourself.”

  The next morning at eight o’clock Reg rang me to say he didn’t want me to pursue it – not Ron – him!

  Regularly people ask me what Ron was like and I always tell them I can only answer that from my own personal perspective. I never saw madness, arrogance or anything of the vicious killer he might have been. I saw an interesting man with a very dry humour and a deep compassion for the less fortunate – something he often spoke about. And although he seemed to hold something of himself back he still came over as a friendly and caring man. In fact everything that was the opposite of his legend.

  Something that often comes to mind when I read an article, a book or see a piece of film graphically describing insane murderer Ron Kray, is him reciting a child’s prayer. He told me that he prayed every night, but one he had learned from his mother was his particular favourite – would I like to hear it? Then without any thought that his image might be lessened he quietly went into, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to
keep” – and so on for a couple of verses. Coming from him I found it strangely moving.

  It is academic now, but at that time his past was just that – a lifetime away. So it is a tragedy that he was not allowed to spend the last years of his life in freedom. It was a privilege to call him a friend and I felt a genuine sadness when he passed away.

  Reg, so like his twin in younger years, was nothing like him in the latter part of his life. Up until Ron died Reg was equally caring. Nothing was too much trouble for him, and every request for help, or simply a signed photograph, was answered – and these ran into many hundreds. Even with this busy schedule he still found the time to write regularly to my young son Peter enquiring after his hobbies and schooling. And, always signing himself as Uncle Reg, he’d enclose drawings for our boy’s amusement. This giving was something I had noticed from my first visit to him and on every subsequent visit. He had nothing that he perceived as of any value to give, but as a token of appreciation for a visit he always found some kind of gift: the pen he may have been writing with, a used phone-card, a crayon drawing – and at one time he shared out packets of smuggled-in cigarettes.

  When he lost Ron he began to drink more heavily than usual, took to cannabis and became obsessed with scams to raise money. He had legions of young fans, each one a potential source of cash. He told me that if he sent out a dozen letters asking for money, nine or ten would reply to a given address sending cash, which would then be smuggled in. Or a hard-luck story to these same kinds of people about having no decent footwear would bring in a selection of expensive trainers.