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  After the visit to London from New York of John Smith, we got a message that Angelo Bruno wanted to come to London to see us. Bruno was a Mafia godfather from Philadelphia, a very big man indeed in American crime.

  We booked him into an hotel in London, along with Rocky Marciano, the former world heavyweight boxing champion, who was a close friend of Bruno’s and a useful cover – Bruno would say he was accompanying Marciano on a trip to London, instead of it being the other way round. Also with them was Bruno’s minder, Eddie Pucci.

  Pucci, a Sicilian-American, we had met before. The Mob had sent him over with the son of a prominent entertainer who was worried about the kid’s safety. In fact, there was so much concern about this young man that we were actually asked to make sure that he was minded for twenty-four hours a day. Apparently his father’s own connections with the Mafia meant that he was a potential target for other criminal organizations.

  Our meetings with Bruno took place at the Hilton Hotel. Bruno was very security-conscious and every time we started talking he would get Pucci to turn the radio on in case the room was bugged.

  Bruno was said to be a very violent man, but we found him extremely quiet, thoughtful and respectful. When we met for the first time there was an old Jewish gambler in the room, a man Bruno had met many years before and had asked to see again when he was in London. We were all talking and I took my cigarettes out and offered them round. I offered Angelo Bruno a light first of all, but he said, ‘Give it to the older man first.’ This is just an example of the quiet way he had.

  Bruno was very protective about his family, friends and those who worked for him. If anyone did anything to upset any of them, the unfortunate culprits always got the same message: ‘If you kick the dog,’ he would tell them, ‘you kick the master.’ Then he would deal with them according to the severity of their crime.

  We got on well with him and were on the way to setting up several deals when two things happened: the law moved in on us and death moved in on him. He was slain by gunmen while sitting in a parked car in Philadelphia. We were sorry to hear that.

  We were also sorry when Eddie Pucci bought it shortly after we were arrested. Ron had just sent him a bull terrier as a gift, something he’d said he’d like when we’d last seen him. We got on with Pucci particularly well because he shared our love of late-morning drinking sessions. Pucci was shot dead on a golf course in Chicago. And they thought England was a violent place at the time.

  Sadly, 1966 had ended so violently, with Cornell and the Richardsons, that the Mafia’s interest in doing big business with us seemed to cool off a little. They weren’t stupid, they could see what was going on in London – and they wanted to be sure that Ron and I were big enough to ride the storms. We, of course, had no doubts. By 1967 we were also doing business with the Canadian Mafia, in the shape of a man called Don Ceville.

  Early that year a large amount of money, in the shape of bearer bonds, had been stolen from banks in Ontario and Montreal. These bonds were really hot in the States and Canada and we were asked if we could dispose of them through our European connections – for a nice percentage, of course. We managed to launder some of this money via financial contacts in London and Paris.

  It was a whole exciting new world for Ron and me. Suddenly we could see a different direction to go in. We’d enjoyed the clubs, the spielers, the protection and all the rest of it, but suddenly we saw that there were other, more lucrative, less physical ways of making a bob.

  But then, just as suddenly, things began to go very, very wrong indeed. First of all, I lost my wife Frances in June of that year. It nearly bloody finished me. It was a blow from which I never really recovered. I loved my wife. With Frances gone I seemed to lose interest.

  To make matters worse, Ronnie’s health was going downhill again. All his life, in his bad times, when his head was bad, he’d suffered from terrible depressions and rages. But always my brother Charlie and I could deal with him. Now it seemed to be getting more and more difficult. To tell you the truth, I felt at times I was going crazy myself. And all the time we were aware that the police were increasing their watch on us. We couldn’t even go and have a quiet drink in peace.

  Then, finally, it got to me – I snapped. I got very drunk one night and was told a man called Frederick had been saying nasty things about Frances and the way I’d treated her. I couldn’t take it. I got a gun and had two of the boys take me to the flat where I knew Frederick lived with his wife and kids. It was a mad, crazy scene. I smashed my way through the door into his flat, there was a lot of cursing and shouting, then I shot Frederick in the leg. It could have been his head for all I cared. I just lost control. As it happened it was in the leg and he wasn’t seriously injured. A doctor who was on the firm’s payroll took care of him. But that episode put more pressure on us.

  Then came our rows with a member of the firm called Jack ‘The Hat’ McVitie (see chapter 6). He was a thug, a hardman we used on a number of occasions, normally when we needed a little pressure applying to someone. But McVitie was drinking too much and taking drugs and becoming unreliable. Not only was he scamming us, he was actually boasting about it as well. McVitie had to be dealt with severely. I killed him, I stabbed him to death. At any other time in our lives maybe I wouldn’t have killed him, just hurt him. But this was a bad time for us, a pressure time, so I killed McVitie. It cost me dear.

  At about the same time one of our closest friends and another member of the firm, Teddy Smith, disappeared without trace. He simply felt the heat was being turned on, got frightened and did a bunk. Later we learned he went to Australia, which is where I think he still is. But the muckspreading really started and we were suspected of murdering him. Not true. But, like all muck, some of it sticks. Other members of the firm began to worry, wrongly, about their own safety. The time was right for Nipper Read to strike, and he did.

  We had seen the signs, of course. Suddenly people who had always wanted to be with us weren’t around any more, the likes of Scotch Jack Dickson, Ronnie Hart, Albert Donaghue and others. They just ran away. We thought that they’d simply done a bunk, like others before them, that they hadn’t got the balls to tell us outright that they wanted to leave. In fact, it was far more sinister than that. One by one, the police, in the shape of Nipper Read, had got at them. Deals were being done all over the place. ‘You tell us about the Krays and we’ll make sure you get protection and an easy time in court. And don’t worry about afterwards – we’ll make sure you get clean away.’ A despicable way for any police force to act, but it was the only way they were ever going to nail us.

  The trial and the traitors we talk about later (chapter 7). But give them their due, the police did their job well – they knew they had one chance and they took it. If they had failed, the Krays would have been as unbreakable as we thought we were.

  Ron and I had made two mistakes. First, we did our own dirty work. We killed two men. A Mafia boss would never kill – he’d always get one of his button men to do it for him. Angelo Bruno once said to us, ‘Never get shit on your own hands.’ And he was right. We always wanted to lead by example, to show the others that we weren’t frightened to get our hands dirty. It doesn’t matter that the people we killed were worse than vermin – we should never have done the job ourselves.

  Second, we trusted too many people. We made it too soft for them. We took blokes on trust and gave them a good living and some great times. We expected loyalty in return. And that’s where Nipper Read screwed us. He realized what we seemed to have forgotten. That, basically, most people are a bunch of shits. With most people it’s self first, self middle and self bloody last. And, when the crap hits the fan, it’s every man for himself.

  We showed loyalty to our men all the way through. But when the heat was on they deserted us and ratted on us – virtually every one. That’s why the Krays went down.

  We knew the net was closing in on us. We could have tried to run but we didn’t. Why? Because, in all honesty, we did
n’t think we would go down. We underestimated the cunning and the cheating of the police. And even if we did go down, how could we have possibly guessed that the penalty would be so unbelievably monstrous?

  But what the hell. At least we reached the top of the pile. We’ve seen and done things most ordinary guys could only dream about, met people and felt excitement most people never get the chance to feel.

  The end came for Ron and me at around six o’ clock on the morning of 9 May 1968. We’d decided on a real old knees-up the night before to try to forget our troubles. Ron was in a good mood but I really had the blues. But it was a good night. We went drinking in a pub called the Old Horns in Bethnal Green Road, then we moved on to the Astor Club. We stayed there until five in the morning, that’s how good a night it was. Ron had a companion with him, a young man, and so did I, although my companion was of the female variety. No woman had ever replaced Frances in my life but every man needs a little company every now and then.

  We went back to Ron’s flat at Cedra Court, in Walthamstow, and had just got into bed and were starting to doze off, when the front door came flying off its hinges and the place was jam full of coppers, led by Nipper Read. They stuck handcuffs on us and Nipper made the usual arrest statement. We didn’t pay much attention. Being arrested wasn’t a shock – we’d been expecting it for a long time. We still thought we’d beat the rap, but if we didn’t it was just a matter of guessing how many years. Not too many, we thought, and then we’d be free men again. Little did we know.

  As London woke up on that sunny May morning in 1968 and two sleepy gangsters were driven at record speed to Scotland Yard, we knew only one thing: the party was over, but it had been fucking great while it lasted.

  3

  REG: THE SWINGING SIXTIES

  Show business stars have always been attracted to the underworld. I’ve had many dealings with showbiz stars over the years – some pleasant, some not so pleasant. Let me tell you about the night when Richard Harris, the actor, very nearly got himself killed.

  Just before my arrest in 1968 I invited the photographer David Bailey and one of his top models at the time, Penelope Tree, to a party in the East End. David was a very close friend and had taken some wonderful photos of Ronnie and me. I once asked him what his favourite hobby was and he replied simply, ‘Sex’. David and Penelope and I then went on to the opening of a new club in the King’s Road, Chelsea. David had also invited Francis Wyndham, the writer, and Duffy, another top photographer.

  We were having a very pleasant evening, apart from the fact that the next table was occupied by Richard Harris and his friends. Harris was obviously very drunk and began making derogatory remarks about me. He seemed to be getting a kick out of trying to cause a scene, but I did not react. This really got him wild and he began to get very aggressive in his comments. It seemed like he was trying to provoke me into hitting him. But I realized there was no point – I knew he was drunk and I also knew that if a brawl started it would be me who ended up sitting in the dock, the villain of the piece. And no doubt some of the papers would have made him out to be some sort of hero for putting me in my place.

  I allowed for the fact that he was drunk, I realized that I had nothing to prove, and I reminded myself that Harris was merely an actor and not a face from the London underworld who was trying to undermine me. If it had been another face then he would very quickly have been sent packing. As it was, I stood Harris’s ramblings for as long as I could, then I left, but not before I sent him a short note. It said: ‘Dear Mr Harris, Just thank your lucky stars it was me you picked on tonight, and not my twin brother Ron. Yours, Reg Kray.’

  It must have had the desired effect. Harris later tried to make up for his awful behaviour by sending me a signed photo and a nice message.

  Many people claim to know us whom we’ve never met. I saw an article recently in which Christine Keeler, the lady at the centre of the Profumo scandal, allegedly said she had been a close friend of ours. Well, I have met Christine on a couple of occasions – once at the Grave Maurice pub in Whitechapel and once at the Society Restaurant, in the West End, and I think she is a very sexy lady. But though she may have brought down a government and befriended a politician, she certainly wasn’t very close to the Kray twins.

  Her friend in bondage, Mandy Rice-Davies, also seems to write occasional articles talking about her friendship with Ron and me. Well, Mandy, we’ve never met, but why not come on up and see me some time?

  Max Bygraves is another who has talked publicly about things involving Ron and me that have never happened. He once told the press that Ron and I had sat in his audience ‘like a couple of dummies’. He said we’d sat there looking menacing and refusing to applaud.

  Sorry, Max, we may look like dummies, but neither of us have ever been to see you perform. Nor, I hasten to add, would we wish to. You go on making money, old pal, and good luck to you, but not at our expense, OK?

  I’ve also been hounded for years by people claiming to be related to me in one way or another. In August 1986 the Sun newspaper ran a headline which said: ‘Reggie Kray is my father’. In the article a bloke called Chris Woodward claimed his mother – a Margaret Richardson – had had an affair with me in the sixties, and he was the result. He also said that as he now had a son, I had a grandson.

  I wish it were true. His mother claims that she was one of the firm’s molls (groupies) in the sixties. She may well have been – there were always plenty of women hanging around. But she certainly wasn’t involved with me personally.

  She said in the article that she had finally decided to reveal our affair ‘in a bid to win freedom for Reg after all these years’. It was a nice thought but a bit late in the day.

  Not many folk know it, but during the mid-sixties I actually had dancing lessons. I was trying to improve my social graces so I went to a dance school in the Tottenham Court Road. It was run by the Clark Brothers who, at the time, were ranked among the world’s greatest tap dancers. They first came to this country to appear in a Royal Command Performance. At that time they were not nearly so well known over here as they were in America. Ron became a friend of theirs and we organized a big party for them at the old Queen’s Hall in Commercial Road to make them feel at home. Many celebrities attended, which really showed how far Ron and I had travelled from the back-streets of the East End. There was Tom Driberg, the MP, who was a regular customer at many of our clubs, and Joan Littlewood and many other stars, including some great boxers – Len Harvey, Ted ‘Kid’ Lewis, the former welterweight champion of the world. Even in his late seventies, Ted would still come and show us his amazing technique on a punchball in the backyard at Vallance Road. The former featherweight champion, Terry Spinks, was also at the party. Terry was a genuine little fellow who, like so many other fighters before and since, spent his money far quicker than he earned it. But the one thing he never lacked was friends.

  We were very close to the Clark Brothers in those days and when they went to Blackpool to appear for a season we stayed at the huge house they had rented in the St Anne’s area. They were happy times but, sad to say, once Ron and I were in trouble and got put away, we never heard another word from the Clark Brothers.

  The great Sophie Tucker was a star we were very close to. Ron was really her favourite and she would phone him from all over the world. Whenever she phoned Ron would play her a recording of her singing ‘My Yiddisher Mama’. It was his favourite song.

  Judy Garland was another friend, and also Stubby Kaye who used to write to me in prison. It was through Judy Garland that I met the Beatles. Judy and I were going together to the Establishment Club, and as we walked in we bumped into the Beatles. Judy knew them all and made the introductions. We spent a pleasant time together and I feel, given more opportunity, we could all have become good friends. There’s always a bond, a sort of affinity, between people who’ve come from nowhere and climbed to the top, no matter what business they are in.

  Danny La Rue used to frequent the K
entucky Club in the early sixties and performed on the stage there several times. When Danny later had his own club in the West End I often used to go there. Once, after Ron and I had been acquitted of demanding money with menaces after two trials at the Old Bailey, Danny had a field day with a mock trial relating to Ron and me. The audience loved it.

  Terry Dene, a top pop singer of the fifties and early sixties, was a close friend of Ron’s and often used to stay at the flat Ron had at Cedra Court in Walthamstow. One morning in the early hours Terry arrived quite drunk and, getting no answer from the doorbell, began climbing the drainpipe to Ron’s bedroom on the second floor. The caretaker thought we were being burgled and called the police. These days Terry has turned to Christianity and we wish him happiness in his new life.

  Billy Daniels was another we were very fond of – a great entertainer, famous for his version of the song ‘That Old Black Magic’. Daniels came to see me in Parkhurst on several occasions – maybe because he remembered that I once saved him from a severe beating.

  Billy’s big failing was his drinking. He would drink a lot and then become very aggressive. Before he started drinking he would be a sweet, gentle man, but after a few drinks he would imagine he was a gangster. On one occasion in the early sixties, in a London hotel, he got a bit aggressive with an ex-boxer, a former heavyweight called Tommy Brown. Brown used to be called the Bear and he could easily have broken Daniels’s jaw with one punch. He was just about to when I intervened and managed to quieten things down. The following evening Billy Daniels missed a performance at the Palladium in order to come round to the Kentucky Club and apologize to Tommy Brown and myself. He also gave me a pair of cuff-links as a further gesture of goodwill. Billy knew how close he’d come to a damn good hiding. He also knew who’d saved his bacon.

  It’s said that on one occasion in New York he was even closer to trouble. He had offended Crazy Joe Gallo, the Mafia boss whom Ron later met. Daniels had been going out with a beautiful air hostess but did not realize that she was one of Gallo’s regular girlfriends. Billy was summoned to a tenement basement in downtown New York where Crazy Joe used to keep a caged lion. He would let the lion attack anyone who displeased him. Billy apologized profusely, on his knees at one stage. Gallo let him off on condition that he never saw the girl again. Billy told me later that he never felt the same way about air hostesses – or lions – after that.