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  Let our hearts soar high.

  As high as birds in the sky,

  As we think of being free,

  As at long last the end of the road

  We can see.

  POSTSCRIPT

  Since I wrote this chapter, Elaine has told me that she wants a divorce. She cannot stand the strain of living this way any more. I have agreed to her request. She has my blessing. It was a great blow, but just another chapter in the saga of the Kray twins. I call it ‘The Stage of Life’:

  We are all actors on a stage and, whatever parts we have been given, we must play it through to the best of our ability and not grumble at the part that has been given to us. It is not up to us to question the part we have been given. It is up to us to play it to the best of our ability.

  You will find there are people with worse parts to play than us, but we must see it through to the end, the evening of life, until the curtain goes down – and hope that we will get a worthy ovation.

  We must consider the other actors on the stage, our friends and the people we love. We must not take for granted the good things about ourselves that God has given us and the beauty that is around for all of us to see.

  There is none so blind as those who will not see and none so deaf as those who will not hear.

  11

  REG: LIFE IN GARTREE

  Christmas 1986 was a great one for me. Ridiculous, isn’t it? In the nick yet still I can say I had a great time. I was back in Parkhurst after my spell at Wandsworth. I was back with my small circle of friends, in particular Pete Gillett. And I still had in my mind the promise that, if all went well at Wandsworth (which it had), I would be considered for a move to Maidstone or Nottingham. That would not only make my life more bearable but would also bring closer the day of my final release. Good enough reasons to be happy to be back – even in a hellhole like Parkhurst.

  On Christmas Eve a friendly screw brought us in some turkey, with roast potatoes, peas and gravy, some Christmas pudding, plus a couple of bottles of wine and a drop of the hard stuff. Five of us had a really good meal in my cell and then Pete got out his guitar and began to play and sing. We all sat around, singing songs, having a quiet drink and reliving better times in our lives. We even gave each other small gifts. It was a magical time and that feeling of goodwill continued well into January.

  Then the whispers began on the prison grapevine, that amazing source of information for all prisoners. The word was that Reggie Kray was on the move. Everyone was pleased for me, but I had my doubts. I had a gut feeling that if I was about to be moved, it was going to be a bad move – otherwise the prison authorities would have kept me in touch. As it was, I hadn’t heard a word from them. I could smell a rat, a double-cross.

  Then, at just after nine at night on Wednesday, 21 January 1987, my cell door was opened and three screws walked in.

  One of them said, ‘The governor wants to see you – right away, and get all your things together, you’re being moved to another cell.’

  So this was it. I was on the way out of Parkhurst. All the signs were there – the summons by the governor, the move to another cell – a kind of spartan departure lounge – prior to being shipped out. And the whole thing happening at that time of night – there could be no other reason. I suddenly knew this would be the last time I would see my cell at Parkhurst – and the last time I would see my mate Pete for some time. He still had a few more months to serve.

  I said to be the screws, ‘OK, I’ll not cause any fuss. But I want a word with Pete before I go.’

  One of the screws said that wasn’t possible. So I told him, ‘If I don’t see Pete I’m not moving from this fucking cell.’

  They knew I meant it and they didn’t want any bother, so one of them went next door and unlocked Pete’s cell. He came out straightaway. He’d heard the row and knew that something was up.

  It was a very emotional moment. Pete was the best mate I’d ever had, apart from my brother Ron, and now we were being split up. And I was going God knows where.

  I said goodbye to Pete, shook his hand, kissed him on the forehead and said, ‘Stay in touch.’ Then I was taken to the governor’s office where two assistant governors were waiting.

  ‘Where am I going?’ I asked them.

  They told me they thought I was going to Maidstone and I asked if Pete could be moved to Ford, an open prison near Arundel in Sussex, where the footballer George Best had spent some time. I thought he would be better and happier at Ford rather than, say, Northeye, another open prison in Sussex where there had been some trouble in recent months. In fact, I was destined for Gartree, another maximum-security prison, in Leicestershire, and Pete went to Northeye. Once again the prison authorities had done the dirty on me.

  Shortly after our farewell on that fateful night in January, Pete sent a letter to my brother Ron. I was sent a copy of that letter by Ron and I’m sure that Pete won’t mind me repeating it in this book. He wrote:

  Dear Ronnie,

  I feel desperately upset as I write this letter. About half an hour ago, the cell door opened and I walked out and saw Reg and three screws. He was being taken away, where we do not know.

  The fact it’s happened the way it has indicates to me that it’s a bad move. Please God I’m wrong.

  My heart feels heavy, Ronnie. I dread Reggie’s fate. If he was off to Maidstone, I cannot see why he was ghosted out tonight in this fashion.

  His face – though he was trying to look calm and strong – will stay in my memory for ever. I’m terribly upset by this. I can’t begin to put my emotions down on paper. I just hope, being his twin, you’ll understand why I feel so lonely and totally helpless to comfort him. The anguish on his face made me cry like a baby. Today, to make it worse, we had an argument. It makes for no big deal, but it has sickened me that, on our last day, we should argue.

  I will try to find out where Reg has gone before I post this to you in the morning, Ron. Tonight we sat together, ate our last meal, and talked about you, Charlie, Reg and me, as though we knew it was our last meal – though no one had indicated as much.

  Reg will not be happy until I am out of here. He feels that someone will make a move on me in his absence. I can handle myself, but it won’t stop him worrying. There are some dirty slags in here.

  I suppose it was humane of the screws to open my cell to let us see each other, talk, shake hands, and say goodbye. Reg kissed my forehead and was gone. I can’t remember being so hurt inside for a long time.

  I will end now, Ronnie, as I just don’t know what to say. The more I try, the worse I get. I’ve never had a friend like Reg before, so it is hard to talk at this moment.

  Goodnight and God bless.

  Peter

  As it turned out, it was a couple of days before Pete found out where I had gone. Even my brother Charlie wasn’t told until I had been gone for several hours.

  I found Pete’s concern very touching. I was angry that, despite the promise I was given, he was taken to Northeye prison in Sussex. But I am pleased that he served his time out there without any incidents and he is now a free man. I hope he will bear in mind all the advice I gave him during our time together. If he does then he will remain a free man. I am confident he will.

  Meanwhile, at 8.15 the next morning, 22 January, after a night in which I barely slept a wink, I was handcuffed and put in a prison van with a police escort and driven away from Parkhurst for the last time. It was the end of a traumatic time in my life, and my long stay in Parkhurst, if nothing else, should now qualify for a place in The Guinness Book of Records!

  We crossed the Solent by ferry – with me, of course, still locked inside the prison van – and then began our mainland journey. I asked the screws with me where we going but they would not tell me. I was angry. I never spoke another word for the entire journey. We kept driving until 1.15, when we arrived – not at Maidstone, not at Nottingham, but at Gartree prison, which is near Market Harborough in Leicestershire.

  Gartre
e, in case the prison officials at Parkhurst are not aware of it, is in a different bloody county to Nottingham prison, and it’s a bloody sight farther away from Maidstone – in my case, several years away in terms of my freedom.

  They call Gartree the Village and, from a distance it may look like a collection of buildings such as you would get in a village. But that, believe me, is the only connection. It is a much more modern building, or series of buildings, than Parkhurst – and it is built in the American style of prison. Long, low buildings set in the middle of acres and acres of flat, ploughed fields, without a tree in sight and some way from the main road. It’s an escaper’s nightmare – not that I had any intention of trying to escape.

  I was desperately unhappy when I arrived, but a con I had never met before had put some flowers in my cell to brighten it up. A thoughtful gesture. I have to confess that, although I am bitterly disappointed about being moved here and not to Nottingham or Maidstone, life at Gartree is pleasanter than it is at Parkhurst.

  At first I was rushing round like a madman, trying to get everything done, trying to let everyone know where I was. But a con I befriended early on, Paul Hanmore, pointed out that I had plenty of time to do all the things I wanted – several more years, in fact. Paul also said that any move from the Isle of Wight to the mainland should be regarded as a favourable move in terms of eventual freedom, but I’m not so certain about that.

  It’s very clean here and I haven’t seen a single cockroach since I arrived – Parkhurst, Wandsworth and the Scrubs are crawling with them. They are disgusting creatures that make prison life even more unpleasant.

  There are five wings here, plus the main security block, E Wing, which is where I am. Still regarded as a security risk! A, B, C and D are all normal location wings. Then there’s F Wing, which is the Rule 43 wing – that contains sex offenders, child killers, grasses and other cons who want or need protection and segregation from the normal cons. One or two sex offenders and the like are scattered around in the other normal blocks, but most cons prefer to ignore them. No one likes these monsters, but if anyone has a go at them, he just gets nicked himself, and it’s hardly worth getting into more bother than you’ve already got. However, as is well known, sex criminals and the like occasionally have ‘accidents’.

  The screws deliberately scatter a few nonces (sex offenders) on the normal wings, because they are the ones who will always grass on anything and anyone, just to keep in the officers’ good books. The penalty for anyone caught grassing is, of course, a bloody good hiding.

  There are no sex offenders or the like in E Wing. We are the so-called hard men of the prison and we simply wouldn’t tolerate them. Among those in here with me is the cop killer ‘Hate ’Em All’ Harry Roberts. He’ll have his own story to tell one day.

  The cells here are small – 7 feet by 8 feet – and they always seem to be either boiling hot or freezing cold. But at least they are single cells. And there’s another amazing luxury – you are allowed to operate your own light switch! You can turn your own cell light on and off when you want, not when the screws want. That may sound ridiculous, but for me, after years and years without the right, turning on my own light switch is a privilege I value.

  We are also allowed certain other luxuries like curtains, bedspread and tablecloth to make the room a little more comfortable. The beds are bolted to the floor so, apart from the table and the chair, you can’t do much in the way of altering the layout.

  I spend a lot of the time here drawing and painting. Besides keeping myself fit, it more or less dominates my life. I’ve tried many hobbies over the years to occupy my mind. I even tried astronomy. That idea was suggested to me by Paul Wrightson, one of our QCs at the Old Bailey. I enjoyed it for a while but now I find painting and writing more absorbing. Keep fit, of course, is my real obsession, and because of it I now have a good physique for a man of my age. There is no fat on me at all, but there is still a lot of good, firm muscle.

  Pictures of me appeared in the Sunday Mirror not too long ago. They were taken at Parkhurst by another con who’d had a small camera smuggled in to him by a relation. The idea was that this con would take some pictures of me in the gym, lifting weights and so on, and then we would sell them to a Sunday newspaper. That’s exactly what happened, though as usual I got ripped off. The paper paid a lot of money for the pictures – but I never received a penny. Once again someone else has done a bunk with my share of the loot. Years ago that would have meant instant retribution, but now I no longer worry. The people who cheat me will be the losers themselves in the long run. Life has a great way of evening things out, as I’ve discovered to my own cost.

  But I was pleased with the photographs because they proved to the world that I am still in great shape physically – better than I’ve been for years. Mentally I’m still in good shape too. And I was pleased that the Kray name is still big enough, even after all these years, to guarantee a picture spread in one of our biggest-selling Sunday papers.

  There’s a tough young con in here whom I’ll call John. He’s got a heart of gold, but he’s the noisiest, most aggressive bastard I’ve ever met. I wanted to point out to him – gently – that it’s not a good thing to be too noisy and aggressive. So I showed him the Desiderata which hangs in my cell. I pointed out the words: ‘Avoid loud and aggressive people – they are a vexation to the spirit.’ I waited for his reaction. John looked, then said, ‘Too fucking true, Reg. I smack people like that in the jaw.’

  Two other cons in Gartree achieved fame when they made a spectacular escape. John Kendall and Sydney Draper were whisked away by a hijacked helicopter which landed in the prison grounds. Kendall was rearrested in February 1988, but Draper is still on the run – and good luck to him. I feel for men like this. I understand their desperation.

  But I feel most for the young cons – some of them barely more than boys, young men with so little hope – who are being sent to prison on long sentences and packed into a system which is no longer big enough to accommodate them. I ask myself why so many of them finish up in prison.

  And invariably they are doing time for crimes of violence. For much of this I blame the violence shown on the television screen, especially during the hours when children are able to watch. The violence of the Rambo films, for example, must have an influence on young minds. You’ve only to watch young offenders in prison as they watch films of this kind – they see themselves in the role of hero or anti-hero. And what about Michael Ryan, the gunman who ran amok at Hungerford in Berkshire, dressed like Rambo and armed with a Kalashnikov rifle like the kind used by Rambo? Don’t tell me that this unfortunate individual did not at some stage have his mind corrupted by screen violence.

  I have also seen rapists glued to the television as they watch films and plays in which women are the victims. I have seen one infamous killer of women who would only watch films containing gory or violent scenes. He seemed to relate the violence on the screen to his own acts of violence. Anyone who believes that the media cannot influence young minds is a fool.

  I know the government is at long last showing concern about the violence portrayed on British television. But they must do more than show concern, they must act dramatically, otherwise our prisons will be packed even tighter with violent and dangerous criminals. And the toy manufacturers should cease to make violent toys – replica guns and knives and so forth. This may sound strange coming from someone like me, but too late I have learned the lessons of an early life of violence.

  The more violence is portrayed on the screen the more violence there will be in the streets. And gone are the days when the victims of a gangster’s violence were other villains. Nowadays anyone is fair game – especially the very young and the very old.

  I still get dozens of letters here, some of them really touching. Just before my birthday on 24 October last year I received a letter from a man called Vincente Rossano, who was living in Harrow in Middlesex. I am sure he won’t mind my quoting from it.

&nbs
p; Hi there Reg,

  You won’t remember me, but you helped me and my late wife back in 1967. We were in a pub in Whitechapel, opposite the London hospital. It was night-time and you and your brothers came in with your mates. You bought everybody a drink and you asked me what I was sad and upset about. I said my wife and I had been sleeping rough. You said, don’t worry.

  Well, to cut a long story short, about an hour later one of your mates said to go with him. He took us to a flat in Arberry Road, Mile End, and told us we now had a furnished flat with a month’s rent paid in advance, and not to worry any more.

  He said you had arranged it. Well, I can’t ever explain how I felt that night, I was so grateful for somewhere for me and my wife to stay in warmth and security.

  I also got a job putting cats’ eyes in the roads, good money in those days, which I also think you arranged. I have never forgotten this kindness you showed me.

  Three years ago my wife died but now, on the anniversary of her death (16 October) I remember back all those years ago to a cold and rainy night in Whitechapel.

  So, happy birthday, Reg, and may God have compassion and release you very soon. You have paid your debt to society. I am now in a bed and breakfast hotel, but one day I will shake your hand and repay the favour.

  Yours faithfully,

  Vince

  Letters like that, for obvious reasons, mean a lot to Ron and me. It shows that many people haven’t forgotten us – for good rather than bad reasons.

  Our true friends haven’t forgotten either. Names like Alec Steen, Geraldine Charles, Henry Berry, Dave Gannaway and Ken Stallard may not mean anything to you, but to me and Ron they have given a priceless gift – friendship – when the rest of the world no longer wanted to know. And there are others I must mention – Mick Bartley, Rocky Lee, Vinnie Manson, Tony Knightley, Alf Berkeley, Wayne Oldyer, Paul Hanmore, Mick Archer, Guy Smith, Joe Lee and Harry Gracer. My apologies for taking up time and space, but these people are important to me and Ron. There are others, of course, but I can’t mention them all. I hope they will forgive me, but they will know who they are and they will know how precious they are to the Kray twins.