Wannabe in My Gang? (25 page)

Why Kray was targeted for this elaborate set-up is not known because the undercover police are not obliged to say. Kray is in the dock only because he is a broken, shambolic figure, desperate for cash, who had to invent stories to keep up a front. If all the stories he told the police on tape – losing one-and-a-quarter million pounds on a deal, contacts with the Israeli Secret Service and the rest – were accepted as rubbish, why weren’t his statements about enormous quantities of drugs?

Mr Goldberg told the jury that they could be forgiven for thinking during the trial that they were in danger of being murdered in their beds. There was only one reason for them being under 24-hour surveillance for the past 5 weeks – the defendant’s surname was Kray.

The police claim the jury protection was the court’s decision, not theirs, but it is the police who have created the atmosphere you feel in this court. It suits their case for the hype surrounding the name Kray to stay in place. It was indeed a remarkable and unique case, the like of which we would not see again. A sad old-timer has been badly set-up.

The jury left the court to consider their verdict at 12.04 p.m. and returned the following day a few minutes before 3.30 p.m. When the jury foreman was asked if they had agreed on a verdict on count one, he replied, ‘Yes.’ He was asked, ‘What is that verdict?’ and replied, ‘Guilty.’

When he was asked if they had reached a verdict on count two, which was the more serious charge, he said that they had not yet reached agreement on that verdict. Throughout the following day the jury deliberated and then just before 3 p.m., Charlie was called back into the dock. ‘Have you reached a verdict on count two?’ the jury foreman was asked. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘What is that verdict?’ ‘Guilty,’ he said.

Shortly before he was sentenced, Charlie said to the judge, ‘All of my life I have advised people, particularly young people, never to be involved in drugs. I went along with the stories, as the officers did. But they are all untrue. It was only to get money. I swear on my son’s grave that I have never handled drugs in my life.’

Charlie had either forgotten the night of Patsy Manning’s 60th birthday party when he had snorted cocaine in the toilets of the Elbow Rooms in Birmingham or he was trying to fool the judge. I know Charlie lied about not touching drugs, but I will never believe he was a drug baron. He had played the Kray name game and lost.

You may think you’re clever by immersing yourself in a gang and you may get away with fucking with the law for so long, but you’re fooling nobody but yourself. One way or another, as Charlie found out to his cost, they will get you in the end.

Bobbie Gould was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment and Ronnie Field to nine.

Turning to Charlie, the judge said

Charles Kray, you have been found guilty on both counts by the jury on overwhelming evidence. You showed yourself ready, willing and able to lend yourself to any criminal enterprise which became known to you. There was never a real question of entrapment of you by these officers, but when caught, you cried foul. I am pleased that the jury saw through that hollow cry. Infiltration by officers is an important tool in society’s fight against crime.

Throughout this case, you professed your abhorrence against drugs, but the jury’s verdict has shown your often repeated protestations to be hypocrisy. Those who deal in class ‘A’ drugs can expect justice from the courts with little mercy. Eight years on count one, twelve years on count two, to run concurrently.

As Charlie was led down the steps to begin his sentence, he knew that as a 70 year old, unless he could win an appeal he would never be a free man again. Like his brother Ron, he would die in custody.

Charlie was moved from Belmarsh Prison to Gartree Prison in Leicestershire, where his brother Reg had been 15 years earlier. Not long after being at Gartree, Charlie was moved to Parkhurst Prison on the Isle of Wight. He was the oldest man in Britain being kept under maximum-security conditions. Charlie was really too frail for that type of pressure and by now he also had a heart condition.

In March 2000, Charlie Kray was admitted to hospital. He only stayed a few days before he was returned to prison, but he continued to feel unwell. His brother Reggie requested a visit as he was concerned about Charlie’s health. When Charlie was readmitted to the hospital a few days later, Reg was told he would be allowed to go and see him.

On 18 March, Reg Kray left Wayland Prison with four prison officers as escorts. When he arrived on the Isle of Wight he was taken to St Mary’s Hospital to see Charlie, who was sitting up in bed waiting for him. A prison officer had been assigned to remain by his bedside 24 hours a day. The brothers were allowed a 30-minute visit before Reg was taken to Parkhurst Prison where he was housed in Charlie’s cell on C-Wing. Reg was permitted to visit Charlie on two further occasions, during which time a doctor told Reg that Charlie was getting progressively worse.

He was in a wheelchair, having to take regular oxygen and his legs had swollen to twice their normal size. The doctor said that Charlie had heart wastage, which could result in heart failure. Applications were made to the Home Secretary, Jack Straw, to give Charlie compassionate parole so he could spend whatever time remained of his life at home. This is normally granted when the inmate is terminally ill, but in Charlie’s case, it was to no avail. Instead, the prison service and the Home Office talked about sending Charlie back to Parkhurst, either to the hospital wing or C-Wing. This really upset Charlie, as he thought it totally inconsiderate and inhumane.

On Monday, 3 April, Reg Kray was rushed to St Mary’s hospital. Charlie’s condition had deteriorated. When he reached his brother’s bedside Charlie kept saying to Reg, ‘I hope Diane gets here soon, please God, she gets here in time.’ Diane was Charlie’s regular girlfriend over the years and thankfully his prayers were answered. The following night Charlie died, holding Diane’s hand. Reg was not present when Charlie passed away – three prison officers called at his cell to tell him that the remaining member of his family had died at 8.45 p.m.

On 19 April 2000, Reg was taken from prison to Bethnal Green police station to attend Charlie’s funeral. There were 200 police officers and a motorcycle escort for the funeral procession and helicopters circling above. At the funeral parlour, Reg put a photograph of himself, Charlie and Ronnie inside Charlie’s coffin. Charlie had told Kray family friend Wilf Pine that whatever happened, he didn’t want a celebrity funeral like Ron’s. He wanted his coffin to be taken to Diane’s home, then to be buried quietly beside his parents and his son at Chingford. Above all, he wanted no fuss and no media circus. As usual, Charlie’s wishes didn’t count.

Nothing was going to be allowed to stop the Reg Kray roadshow. Too much depended on this funeral for Reg to waste it. He knew exactly what had to happen. Charlie, now lying safely in his coffin, was soon forgotten. As Reg walked from the funeral parlour, the crowds surged forward and bouncers and police had to join hands to hold them back. The crowd were cheering, ‘Good old Reg’ and ‘Free Reg now’. Reg Kray was back amongst his people at last. There was no disguising the excitement and the affection of the crowd. There were brief handshakes and shouts of ‘How you doing?’ for those who were privileged to touch him, even some
Godfather
-style embraces for surviving old companions. Following the service at St Matthew’s Church at Bethnal Green – where Ronnie’s service had been held – the huge funeral cortège made its way to Chingford Cemetery.

The funeral was no longer about Charlie Kray, it was all about Reggie. But his greatest moment was yet to come.

Descending from the darkened people-carrier the prison service had brought him in, and surrounded by his many friends, Reg bore a wreath of a broken heart made up of red and white roses. But these roses were not for Charlie. Pausing by the grave of his long-dead first wife, Frances – with tears in his eyes – Reg laid them on the grass beneath her headstone. He then paid his last respects to his brother as the coffin was lowered into the ground. As this was happening, somebody shouted, ‘Three cheers for Reg’, and the cries rang out across the cemetery and with this, the show was over. The blue Renault with the darkened windows was already waiting for Reg. On this peak of high emotion, with the shouts of acclaim still ringing in his ears, Reg stepped aboard. As he did so, he raised his one free hand to the crowd and waved.

The door slammed shut and he was gone. Charlie could not possibly have had his final wish fulfilled and been allowed to go quietly, but his brother’s funeral was to be Reggie Kray’s grand finale as a living celebrity. Although he didn’t know it yet, Reg Kray was a dying man.

12

REUNITED AT LAST

On 12 January 1998, I stood trial for breach of the peace, using threatening words and behaviour and assaulting the police officer who had stopped me whilst I was visiting my mother. Never have I come across police officers that were so honest or, as I thought at the time, so fucking stupid. The sergeant admitted he had walked over to chat with me earlier on in the evening and the officer I assaulted admitted he had pulled me over for no reason other than to ask me if I had been anywhere nice. I represented myself and found it wasn’t too difficult to make the magistrates wonder why I had been stopped for no apparent reason on two separate occasions by two separate officers within the space of seven hours. I told the court I had only just arrived in the village after leaving my home in Essex because the police had told me a firearm had been brandished outside my house. This shooting ‘incident’ had occurred, police believe, because I had given evidence for them in a high-profile drug trial. As soon as I arrived in the village I was confronted by a sarcastic police officer and later that night by another. I was not by any stretch of the imagination intent on causing a breach of the peace, I was a man who had snapped under enormous pressure. I was found not guilty of using threatening words and behaviour and of causing a breach of the peace, but I was found guilty of assaulting the officer. The magistrate said that although it was a serious offence, given the circumstances in which it occurred I would only be given a two-year conditional discharge. All that meant was I had to stay out of trouble during that period or I could be brought before the courts for the same offence again.

The prosecution asked the magistrates to order that I pay £500 in costs, but they refused and said I would only have to pay £100.

Eight days after I had appeared in court, Mick Steele and Jack Whomes, the two men accused of murdering Tucker, Tate and Rolfe, were found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment. Two more lives ruined, two more families torn apart by the events of 1995. Anybody who knows anything about the case knows that these two men should never have been found guilty and I am confident that one day their convictions will be overturned. Steele and Whomes will never be able to regain the time they have lost in prison and Tucker, Tate and Rolfe will remain dead, come what may. There are no winners in the end.

Although we appeared to be emerging from the fog the events of 1995 had shrouded my family and me in, the strain on us all was proving too much. Paul Betts had appeared on television calling me a bastard and saying I was responsible for the death of his daughter Leah. He based his allegations on the fact I had admitted I turned a blind eye to drug dealing in Raquels. The publicity his allegation created resulted in older children telling my children at school that their father was a murderer. How can you tell your tearful son or daughter to ignore such crap? What can you possibly say when he or she asks if it’s true? In an effort to stop these ridiculous allegations, I wrote an open letter to Paul Betts which was printed in the press. I urged him to confront me on live TV so we could debate who was really responsible for Leah’s death, but unsurprisingly he declined.

It was becoming apparent to me that staying with my children was causing them to be unfairly tarnished. They were suffering for something none of us had done.

Paul Betts’ vile allegations were causing the children so much upset that Debra suggested, and I agreed, that we should part for their sake. Debra and I had to look at the situation in a cold clinical manner and do what was best for them and not what suited us. We sold our home in Mayland, Debra moved to a home near her mother and I returned to Basildon. I did not arrive in the best of moods. I was in turmoil over my family and I was tired of being blamed for causing the death of a girl who had been foolish enough to take drugs. I felt Paul Betts’ allegations were as ridiculous as somebody blaming a pub landlord for getting them convicted of drunk driving. We all have choices in life and we all have to take responsibility for our actions. I was also sick of hearing about people who were supposed to want to kill me and of being advised where I should or should not go. So many people appeared to have fucking opinions on me, yet few knew me and none had ever had any dealings with me. If people didn’t like me moving back to Basildon, that was a matter for them, not me. I had been driven out of one home, I was not going to be driven out of another. I started drinking in my old haunts. Most people I met droned on and on about the murders of Tucker, Tate and Rolfe as few in the town believe the men accused of the murders were guilty. In fact many believe I had been instrumental in luring the trio to their deaths.

Nobody said they had a problem with me personally and several had nothing but good memories of the trouble-free rave nights we had created at Raquels. The club had since closed down after the door team that had replaced us was unable to control the local villains who had swarmed back there after my departure.

A few months after moving back to Basildon, I bumped into a girl named Emma Turner, whom I had first met at Raquels. Emma and I had always got on well and we began to see each other quite regularly. Before too long I gave up the flat I had rented and moved in with her. Since the catalogue of court appearances had ended, I had been able to take on a full-time job driving a tipper lorry. Within a short period of time I was given a managerial position and offered a post in Peterborough, Cambridgeshire.