The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) (47 page)

By now Dave was close to having a blue fit. “I’m fighting a losing battle. I’ve got old blokes trying to get in here, saying they are old friends of Ron, Reg, Charlie and any old uncle you can think of. I can’t let everyone in, for God’s sake.” I didn’t envy his job one bit, but I knew that if anyone could pull off the biggest organized funeral since Winston Churchill’s, then he could. Once everyone had paid their respects, the wreaths were loaded on to the horse-drawn carriage and the twenty-two limousines, which were following behind in procession. The horses were black and beautifully dressed with long black plumes protruding from their heads. We were ushered from the parlour and as we made our way outside the flashing from the cameras dazzled us once more. There was pandemonium outside. Things were beginning to happen. Dave told me to make sure I got into a car … it didn’t matter which one. We made our way down to the eighth car; a black, six-seater, top-of-the-range limo. No expense was spared. The cars were immaculate inside and out, and each one was decked with floral tributes (our wreath remained with Reg’s tribute alongside Ron’s coffin throughout the day, and could be seen clearly in photographs in most national newspapers the next day). Inside our car were Ray, Michael, Janet and Alan Alsop and me. The driver started the engine and with the rest of the procession we were off on our long journey, first to St Matthew’s Church in Bethnal Green, and then on to the Kray family plot in Chingford Mount Cemetery, Essex, on the outskirts of London.

It was an unforgettable journey. We had only to travel
approximately
three-quarters of a mile from the parlour to the church, but it took over forty-five minutes. The crowds of people were ten deep, all leaning and peering over metal fences, which had been put up by the police. I stared out at all the people. It was the sort of mania that’s normally reserved for rock stars or movie idols … certainly not the sort of admiration the authorities would expect the public to bestow upon a notorious murderer. Cries of “We love you” and “Good on you, Ron” could be heard, whilst in the distance the
clip-clop
of the horses’ hooves weaved their way to our first port of call. I wonder what was going through Reg’s mind as we passed along roads and streets that he had not seen for the best part of
twenty-five
years, and how he would feel as he passed along the street where he and Ron once lived. As we neared the church, I caught a glimpse of Patsy Palmer (Bianca from the BBC soap “Eastenders”) paying her respects. The East End of London had changed so much since Reg had been taken away from it, and as we finally reached St Matthew’s I promised myself I would ask him how he felt about what he has seen. The scene when we reached the church was
unbelievable
. It was bedlam … simple as that. Roughly 1,200 people had gathered outside the church gates and many were chanting, “Free Reg Kray. Free Reg Kray!”

I led the occupants of our car towards the church doors. Reg had arrived about two minutes before us and was already inside. At the doors the orderly queuing system for friends and relatives had been reduced to a free-for-all. At one stage it looked like we would not get in. There was a public address system set up for those outside to hear the service, but I did not want to have travelled all that way to be stuck outside. I noticed the funeral director and luckily he
remembered
me … he ushered the five of us to the front of the crowd and into the church. The pews at the back of the church were all that was left, but I saw Dave and he waved me over.

The coffin was carried into the church by Johnny Nash from north London, Teddy Dennis from the west, Charlie Kray from the east and Freddie Foreman from the south.

Close friend Laurie O’Leary also helped take the coffin in. Frankie Fraser had originally been asked but felt his height might be a hindrance. Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” played as the coffin was placed alongside Reg. The atmosphere was tense as the service began, the smell of incense hanging heavily in the air. Reg, Charlie and Dave had masterminded the day’s events to Ron’s specifications and it was running like clockwork. Throughout the service Reg remained handcuffed to the officer. It did not seem to bother him too much. The officer was just there with him as opposed to trying to be heavy-handed. Every so often Reg would place his free hand on top of the coffin in a moving display of affection. But why handcuff a man who had no intention of escaping? Why humiliate him? Was it a political statement by the Home Office that this man would never be free? Whatever the reasoning, to me it was inhumane. Okay, the officer was just doing a job … but if they wanted to they could have handled the situation differently and let him mourn without being chained to someone.

Sue McGibbon read out messages and telegrams from
well-wishers
. She also read out a message from Reg. It went, “My brother Ron is now free and at peace. Ron had great humour, a vicious temper, was kind and generous. He did it all his way, but above all he was a man, that’s how I will always remember my twin brother Ron.”

As the service ended, Ron’s coffin was carried out to Whitney Houston’s song “I Will Always Love You”. I don’t think there was a dry eye to be seen in the rows and rows of hard men. As Reg left the church he winked at our group … he was bearing up. It was bedlam once more as we made our way back to the car. The five of us held on to each other as we made our way through the swaying masses. It was too easy to get split up as journalists, television and radio interviewers threw questions at us. I was not interested in commenting, not today of all days. But I noticed a few others such as Patsy Manning, a close friend of the family, were willing to stop for a chat.

When we eventually made it back to the car, our driver was a little stressed, to say the least. Someone had climbed into our car and refused to move. The driver had tried to explain to him that he had the wrong car, but he would not have it. After a quiet word in his “shell-like” he left to find another car and more people to annoy. Drama over, the driver started our six-mile journey to Chingford Cemetery … take two … enter nutcase, door left. The front
passenger
door was pulled open and in stepped a middle-aged woman who was madder than a coach load of hatters at a magic mushroom convention. Her name was Georgina and she was armed with valium in one pocket and a half bottle of whiskey in the other (for Reg apparently). She told us a tale of woe – she was meant to marry Ron before he died and told us a few other things I can’t remember. The driver looked back for some kind of assistance, but as the procession of cars had already started to move, I told him to drive on. We would have to take the unwanted passenger with us. As the car pulled away we all exchanged anxious glances in the back of the car as Georgina said, “We were going to have kids you know.” This was going to be a very long six miles indeed.

This gave me another excuse to just sit back and watch the crowds. Young people, old people, hundreds upon hundreds had gathered just to catch a glimpse of the brothers. There were many memorable sights throughout the day from that limo rear window, but nothing more memorable that the sight that greeted us at the Bow Flyover. Construction work was taking place, yet the whole workforce had downed tools and were standing in a line by the roadside, hard hats off and heads bowed … it was one hell of a sight. I can only imagine how Reg and Charlie must have felt. As we reached Chingford, it had taken one-and-a-half hours to travel six miles, though with Georgina in the front, it felt like one-and-a-half days.

The horses pulling Ron’s hearse had struggled up the steep bank leading to the cemetery gates and we followed them in. By now we were almost used to the strobe-effect lighting from the constant photographers and the pushing and pulling of the crowds. As we followed the road to the family plot, our hitchhiker decided it would be a good idea to walk the rest of the way. There were no arguments from any of us. The surrounding fence to the cemetery had a lot of holes in it and I was shocked to see people, many of them kids, clambering through. If ordinary people had made it to the
graveside
, we might not gain our place next to the family. I need not have worried. There were so many people around the grave, but they all kept a respectful distance as Reg first laid flowers on his mother’s and father’s graves, and then his wife’s. He paused a little longer there, his face full of sorrow and regret.

Just then I felt a hand on my shoulder, it was Dave Courtney looking less flustered than he was earlier outside the funeral parlour. He asked me to look after Charlie for the rest of the day and make sure he wasn’t hassled by anyone. I told him I’d be honoured.

We made our way to where the family had gathered directly behind Charlie and Reg. There was a tremendous feeling of grief … then looking around I began to wonder. It seemed a lot of people were there out of curiosity or to somehow enhance their status from their association. There were “tourists” – people just there to be part of it all – staring at Reg all the time, studying his face for
reactions
and to witness the London gangland boss cry. As the vicar read the last rites and Ron’s body was finally laid to rest the cameras flashed en masse for the last time. Ron Kray was the centre of the world’s attention again, even in death. He would have loved it. Reg threw the first piece of soil down on to the coffin and then arose, and then, one by one, we all did the same. Reg then turned,
embracing
Charlie, shook hands with Freddie Foreman and then out of the blue turned around to me and said, “Thanks for coming, Steve.” He stretched out his hand and I grabbed it. This time it was my grip that was the strongest. Reg was finally drained of all energy. “I’ll be in touch, Reg,” I said. With that he was led away, pausing to say some more goodbyes.

As Reg left I stared in disbelief at people, who will remain nameless, photographing the activities at the graveside. A number of people whom I used to respect lost it that day. After one last glance at Ron’s grave, we all returned to our limo. All of the wreaths lined the pathway to the grave, hundreds of them, and we paused to read as many as we could. We finally found our wreath, lying
alongside
Reg’s. To me it symbolized how close I had become to the Kray family and was glad to see it was still next to Reg’s.

The driver had been told our destination … the Guv’nor’s public house was the venue of the wake. Without the lovely Georgina, our journey seemed to be quicker and we arrived at the wake within twenty minutes. There were already quite a few people in there, and I could see that it was soon going to be packed out. It was a typical London boozer – dim, cramped, but with wet beer and good
conversation
. Already there were people such as Frankie Fraser, Freddie Foreman, Charlie and his son Gary, Tony Lambrianou, Dave Courtney and, of course, Lenny McLean.

Lenny was still known as the Guv’nor of London and when I met him again at the wake I did not need to introduce myself. Lenny was the sort of bloke who would remember a name and it’s always good when that happens. I never got the chance to meet up with him again before his untimely death in 1998, but followed his acting career with great admiration. The man was a real gent, a legend and someone who I was proud to call my friend.

Tony Lambrianou was a member of the Kray firm and was one of the few that stood by the twins, receiving twenty years as his “reward”. I’d read his book
Inside the Firm
and got on well with him. This was the first time I had met Tony … soon after he
introduced
me to Freddie Foreman and before long I was talking with Frankie Fraser, Charlie Kray, Freddie and Tony about Ron, Reg and their memories of the old days.

Charlie Kray was the perfect host as usual, smiling and chatting to everyone who was there and thanking them for coming.

He told me it had been a great send off for his brother and that he would have loved it. As we spoke, the early evening news appeared on the large television screens. A hush fell upon the room as people watched the first pictures from the funeral. The cameras only proved what I had already thought – that Ron Kray had received a funeral normally reserved for royalty. Thinking of Charlie’s words … it was true, he would have loved it. It was the best send off a man could ask for. There were tributes and messages from rock stars, TV stars and movie icons. The streets were full of mourners and
well-wishers
, people who were just dumbstruck by the whole thing, all his friends and media people from anywhere you care to mention. It was the ultimate two-fingered gesture to the authorities as Ron had the popularity to bring the nation’s capital to a standstill.

As the night progressed I had my photo taken a few times, but did not really consider it appropriate at a wake. Lenny had called me over for one and there were others taken as well. I bumped into Tony Lambrianou again as he was about to leave. We wanted to make sure we kept in touch so we exchanged numbers and he promised that he would call.

By the time I had finished talking, Michael had left, Ray was bored to tears and Georgina had blagged her way in. It was late now so we had one last drink and decided to return to Newcastle. We made it back early the next day and I went straight to bed as soon as I got home. Just as I was drifting off, the phone rang – it was Reg. I was surprised but pleased to hear from him in such short space of time.

“Hello, Steve, I’m just ringing to thank you for coming down to the funeral. I was in a daze for most of the day to be honest, but I’m pleased it went well. Anyway was Bulla Ward there? He was, wasn’t he? Bring him to see me, OK? My units are running out, I’ll have to go. God bless.”

He did not give me the chance to answer. I decided to leave it at that. He may have known that Bulla wasn’t there when I told him … or knew he wouldn’t turn up. He probably decided to leave it until the next day. I knew Reg had been through a lot lately and I had much sympathy for him. At least to hear him like this on the phone, I knew he was getting back to his old self. I’d smile to myself after such “conversations” … we were similar in some respects. We were both stubborn. It was as if we could not let the other have the final word on particular issues. I think he knew that I would not be enquiring about Bulla again – he just needed to make his point.