Our Story Page 19

  So my new life at Gartree goes on. No one bothers me here – they know better than that. Most of the cons I associate with are good blokes, and the screws are decent enough.

  How long I will be here God only knows. Maybe by the time this book is published I will be the guest of Her Majesty at some other fine penal establishment. One thing, and one thing only, is for certain – I still won’t be a free man. Not unless miracles really do happen. But, whatever happens, just like the Isle of Wight, this is one part of the country I don’t ever want to see again.

  12

  RON: PAINTING AND POETRY

  Poetry might seem a strange hobby for one of the men who once ruled London’s underworld – a man convicted of murder. And yet I find, along with reading and listening to music, that writing poetry is one of the things that relaxes my mind most of all.

  I’m not saying my poetry is any good when you compare it to the great poets. Over the years I’ve written dozens of poems and I’ve slung a lot of them away because even I didn’t think they were good enough. But it’s not a competition. Life isn’t a competition any more. And I’m glad, because it means that I can sit down and write my poems, lose myself completely in my imagination, and not give a damn about what anyone else thinks. It pleases me, and that’s all that’s important. It stills my mind.

  I’m not going to take this opportunity to ram poem after poem down your throats. In any case, you’d probably keep turning over the pages. After all, you’re not exactly a captive audience, are you? But I would like to show you three of my poems – three that mean a lot to me. The first one is called ‘The King’ and I was inspired to write it after listening to a programme on the radio about polar bears. The programme painted such pictures in my mind that when it was over I decided to write a poem about this brave and isolated animal. I could see similarities between the polar bear and my brother Reg and me. Hunted and alone in a wilderness, but still the king.

  The King

  The winter is cold

  Now the polar bear is bold.

  It is his, this wilderness,

  It is his stronghold.

  The vast stretches of snow,

  The long walks

  That by the ice are made slow.

  He is the King,

  It is his wilderness,

  This thing.

  The vast stretches of snow,

  He will be on the watch

  For the hunter with the bow.

  But he is the King,

  He will smash

  The hunter with his sling.

  Why not? It is his,

  This wilderness, this thing.

  He is the King.

  I hope you like that.

  Another poem I like I called ‘The Blind Boy’. Milton once wrote a poem with the same title but, as he and I are unlikely to be in competition, I don’t think he would mind if I borrowed his title. My poem is about a friend I had when I was much younger. He went blind, but he was bloody brave about it. I didn’t write this poem at the time; as a matter of fact I didn’t write it until 1986. I was just sitting in my room at Broadmoor one night when I thought about my friend and started to write my dedication to him.

  The Blind Boy

  His eyes could see no more,

  But he did not think he was poor.

  He could feel the shake of his friends’ hands

  And hear the music from the great bands.

  God was his guide; and, most of all

  He still had his pride.

  He always had the memory of his Mother’s face,

  And remembered her dignity and grace.

  He could see no more, but the memory

  Of his friends’ faces he would have in store.

  God was his guide; and, he knew that He

  Would show him the way and had never lied.

  And, finally, a short poem called ‘The New Moon’ which was inspired simply by looking out of my window here at Broadmoor one night and seeing this really beautiful new moon. I sat and stared at it, marvelling at its beauty, even as it shone on an ugly building like Broadmoor, and I began to write.

  The New Moon

  The New Moon is pale blue

  And beautiful,

  Like the flowering bluebell

  In the morning dew.

  This is God’s beauty

  That to all of us is free and true,

  And is meant for all God’s children

  Not just the few.

  It is in the sky

  So far away and high,

  When people say they believe in God

  Need we ask why?

  So there we are – just a sample of my poetry – and, of course, you’ve seen a couple of other poems of mine elsewhere in this book. I hope you’ve found maybe one that you enjoyed. As I say, this is one of the things I find is good for me. It helps pass the endless days.

  With me it’s poetry and with Reggie, apart from his fanaticism for keep fit and the endless letters he writes, the other big interest in his life – and this may surprise you – is painting. Like me, he may not be ready to take on the Old Masters, but he enjoys it.

  His first attempt at painting was for a charity in aid of the Addenbrooke’s Children’s Liver Transplant Fund. Addenbrooke’s is a hospital at Cambridge where they specialize in work on liver transplants. Reg heard about a man called Peter Maguire and his wife who were desperately trying to raise cash for their little girl Julie, who needed a liver transplant. So he wrote to Mr Maguire and offered to do a painting for him which he could sell to raise money for Julie. Peter Maguire was thrilled, one thing led to another, and in the end Reggie had about thirty other prisoners at Parkhurst and other prisons doing paintings and drawings. He also got me to donate a match-stick model of an old gypsy cart. Reg did a painting of two boxers in the ring and that alone was sold for £430 to a man called Arthur Haines. The whole auction, held at a hotel in Cambridge and called ‘Rogues’ Gallery’, made several thousand pounds.

  I read a newspaper quote from Peter Maguire after he’d received all those paintings from Reggie and the other cons at Parkhurst. Mr Maguire said, ‘Parkhurst is a very forbidding place and security is very tight. But you don’t think what the prisoners have done – they are just people. Although they are behind bars they are not animals – they have gone out of their way to help us.’ He also said, ‘They don’t benefit in any way, other than the satisfaction of knowing they are helping a charity and helping children. I think some of their work is rather good.’

  Reggie then went on to do other paintings for charity, including one for the Venture Boxing Club for boys in Liverpool, which had been burned down.

  Reggie has always been a lover of painting. His favourite painter is Constable, who lived in our favourite area of Suffolk. His favourite film is The Agony and the Ecstasy, which is about the great painter Michelangelo and starred Charlton Heston.

  I think his interest in painting began many years ago when we ran Esmerelda’s Barn in Knightsbridge. Two of our regular customers were famous painters – Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud. Both used to give Reg a lot of advice and encouragement with his painting. They also both used to play chemin de fer and would win and lose thousands of pounds at one sitting.

  The police at Portsmouth wanted to buy one of Reg’s paintings to hang in their mess, but their superintendent refused them permission. That upset Reg.

  Over the years Reggie has raised thousands of pounds for charity – and I’ve raised a few bob myself – and it’s all been done from inside either Parkhurst or Broadmoor.

  So that’s another side of Reggie Kray – and if you ever look in his prison cell, you will see a photo of Julie Maguire, the little girl from Gosport whose life he helped save.

  When he’s a free man, look out for Reggie Kray the painter, and also for Reggie Kray the songwriter, because his friendship with Pete Gillett inspired Reg to write a song which Pete hopes one day to put on record. Song lyrics sometimes don’t look much on paper bu
t I’ve heard Pete singing this song on tape and, believe me, it’s bloody good. It’s called ‘Masquerade’ and these are the words, as written by my brother.

  Masquerade

  I understand it’s a masquerade;

  Life’s path tells me this story.

  I know and understand,

  But I say: Why should it be me?

  Maybe I thought I was exempt of life’s problems,

  It’s just human nature.

  That we just have to say: ‘Yes, it happened to me,’

  I do not know why.

  I’ll hold you no grudge,

  But remember it could have been me,

  Holding you close tonight,

  But it is he.

  Physical or in my mind he is there,

  And I’m sad to say, but since that day

  There are many who have taken your place.

  Maybe we have both grown up and apart

  And though it is difficult to comprehend,

  This is the way the story must end.

  It’s just a masquerade!

  And here’s one of my most recent poems. I am pleased with it. It says a lot for me.

  Coloured, White or Jew

  We are all born the same

  From God we all came.

  Coloured, White or Jew,

  We are all God’s children not just a few.

  We should all be brothers

  And think of others.

  Coloured, White or Jew,

  Then to God we will all be true.

  13

  REG: JUST A THOUGHT

  Just a thought. Sometimes I wake early from a deep sleep and lie in the quietness of my cell. I can hear the beating of my heart and I think of a roaring sea crashing against the rocks on a barren beach somewhere in my favourite area of Cornwall. And I equate each roar of the sea along with the heavy beat of my heart …

  That’s all we’re left with now – our thoughts. Ron in Broadmoor, me in Gartree.

  Ron believes that he will never get out. I have been told that I will serve at least twenty-seven of the thirty years I was sentenced to. In my time I’ve been in prison with rapists, murderers and terrorists. Nearly all of them are now free men.

  Ron and I killed one man each. Both of the men we killed were violent men, gangsters. One, by his own admission, had already killed another man. The other had shot and wounded at least one man and would almost certainly have killed another – given the time and the chance he would have killed me. For that we have spent more than twenty years in captivity, often treated worse than wild animals.

  Ron and I will never kill again. We will never go back to the underworld. We’re too old for that now. We’re dinosaurs. We’d be eaten alive by the new young men who now control British crime in conjunction with the American Mafia. These men deal in drugs and death and make millions, but are rarely caught.

  It’s a different world now to what it was in 1969 when we went down. It’s a different criminal world too – it’s far more deadly. Then it was dog eat dog – criminals waging war against other criminals. Old ladies didn’t get attacked by vicious young thugs in those days. Young girls didn’t get raped in broad daylight. Coppers didn’t get kicked and punched and spat on at football matches. There was a kind of respect for people in those days. The streets were safe places to walk then – but not any more if what I read and hear is true.

  I don’t think even I would feel safe in the streets of London any more. In fact, neither Ron nor I would return to London. All we want now is the chance to enjoy some peace and quiet and solitude in the years that are left to us.

  But will we get it? We’ve paid the penalty – but will we ever get our freedom?

  You’ve read our story now, so now you will know us a little better than you did before. You must judge for yourselves. We did bad things, yes, we’ve admitted it. But were we that bad that we must continue to suffer this inhuman treatment year after year after year? Is there no compassion?

  I once saw these words on a card pinned to another prisoner’s cell wall: ‘I would hate, old, grey and gnarled, and lying on my death bed, to look at the crack – ever increasing on the ceiling – and cry to myself: God, I wish I had.’

  Often I’ve looked at the cracks in the ceiling of my prison cell and cried to myself: ‘God, I wish I hadn’t.’

  I appeal to the authorities – release us. Hasn’t justice been done? And hasn’t justice been seen to have been done? Look at the facts. Look at the wasted years. Then come and look at a broken man in Broadmoor and a despairing man at Gartree.

  I think you will know the answer.

  Endnote

  1 In 1969 Foreman was convicted for disposing of the body of Jack McVitie – see chapter 6.

  FRED DINENAGE: A FINAL WORD

  I have spoken with officials at the Home Office who tell me it is ‘unlikely’ that the Parole Review Board will consider the case of Reg Kray until 1991. They also feel it is ‘unlikely’ that he will be released until he has served at least twenty-seven of the thirty years to which he was originally sentenced.

  I have also seen the Mental Health Review Tribunal’s psychiatric report on Ron Kray, dated 9 June 1987. In it Dr D. Tidmarsh, the consultant psychiatrist at Broadmoor, concludes:

  Ronald Kray, now aged 53, is a chronic paranoid schizophrenic. In what for him is the unstressful environment of Broadmoor, his illness does not become florid and its symptoms are more or less controlled by medication.

  I am sure, however, that he would relapse if he were under stress, as he would be if he were returned to prison. As he is the first to admit, he can no longer stand the pace of prison or, I believe, the competition from other, younger prisoners, and in that environment he would deteriorate rapidly, with the risk of further violence.

  In these circumstances I recommend that he should stay in Broadmoor.

  Ron Kray tells me he is ‘satisfied’ with this report and ‘very happy’ that he will not be returned to prison.

  Reg Kray, in contrast, is ‘very unhappy, frustrated and angry’ at the attitude of the Home Office. There are those who believe he is justified in his feelings.

  OUR STORY

  The Kray twins were convicted of murder in 1969 and sentenced to a minimum of thirty years. Ron Kray passed away in Broadmoor Hospital in 1995. Reg was finally released on compassionate grounds in 2000 before losing his battle with cancer in October of that year.

  Fred Dinenage is a television presenter and former newspaper reporter. He has presented and reported for ITV for more than fifty years. Among his television credits are How?, World of Sport, Coast to Coast, Meridian Tonight and Fred Dinenage: Murder Casebook. He was awarded an MBE in 2010.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many people, in different ways, have helped me in the writing and publication of this book. I would especially like to mention Susan Hill, Geraldine Charles, Joe Pyle, John Buckland, Bob Deamer, Pete Gillett, Stephen Gold, my wife, Bez, and family and – of course – the twins themselves. And finally my sincere thanks to Wilf Pine, probably the best friend that the Kray twins, certainly Ron, ever had.

  Fred Dinenage

  First published 1988 by Sidgwick and Jackson Ltd

  This electronic edition published 2015 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-283-07243-7

  Copyright © Bejubop Ltd 1988

  Introduction © Fred Dinenage 2015

  Photo by William Lovelace/Getty Images

  The right of Reg and Ron Kray to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third party websites referred to in or on this book.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or
otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.