The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) (48 page)

Charlie had been moved again, this time to Parkhurst Prison. He had been in Frankland prior to this and had been moved because he was suffering from chest pains and on visits he had been struggling to find his breath. He had been happy at Frankland and had made a lot of friends there through me.

The Home Office decided that Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight was the best place for him, as it was in close proximity to St Mary’s Hospital. He was taken down from the high-risk prisoner status to Category B so his health could be monitored if need be. I wrote to Charlie as soon as I heard he had been moved, just to let him know that I knew his whereabouts and was thinking of him. He phoned me to let me know he was okay and that he appreciated everything that I had done for him during his stay in Frankland.

He finished by saying that he would be in touch soon, and that he would sort out a visitor form for me in the next few weeks. This was the last time I spoke to him. Charlie’s health worsened further … when the Home Office gave permission for Reg to visit him I knew that Charlie’s days were numbered.

On 4 April 2000, Charles James Kray passed away, with Diane and Reg at his bedside. He had heart problems which developed into pneumonia. He was weak and physically frail. He was seventy-three years old. Reg was devastated, he later told me that he was so overcome with guilt that he begged Charlie for forgiveness on his visit. I called Roberta to pass on my condolences and would have to sort out the arrangements for travelling down to London for what would surely be another big send off.

Ray Cann and Graham Borthwick telephoned and along with Ian Freeman we made arrangements to travel down.

I arranged the wreath for the funeral once again through Fitzy and Colly. It was in the shape of a diamond and had the work “geezer” underneath it. The local papers were on hand to get some shots of us picking up the wreath and ran a story on it. Graham drove us down to Dave Courtney’s in Plumstead, south London, the night before.

There was something else on my mind other than the funeral as we made our way down; the woman from Sheffield I had a previous relationship with. She was now with someone else, a man I had met many times before and had a lot of respect for. She told her new man that I had beaten and robbed her, and that I called him an old dinosaur and that I said he was past his “sell by date”. I had to laugh; this was like schoolboy stuff, but in the whole scheme of things she was trying to ruin my reputation and get me beaten up in the process. Her new man was a very well known face in London – a hard man with a fierce reputation. Through third parties I had heard threats were being made and I took them seriously. I had to. I was concerned that the matters were getting out of hand. She was telling all sorts of lies but I was powerless to shut her up. I was not frightened, but knew I would have to be a little more cautious on my trips to London, starting with the funeral. As if there wasn’t enough to do and think about on a day like this, now it would be impossible for me to relax. I was concerned about a confrontation at my friend’s funeral. I would keep a safe distance from him and hope he would soon see what she was doing.

The funeral had been delayed but with Reg making the
arrangements
you could guarantee that the day itself would run like clockwork. It was going to be a long day. I only managed a couple of hours’ sleep the night before at Dave Courtney’s before I was awoken with a cup of tea and a cockney, “Whey aye man ye bugger ye know!” … Dave had been practising his Geordie accent. Dave explained that the lads were all meeting here at 8.30 a.m. He had that sparkle in his eye so I knew he had something up his sleeve. I was sure we would all know in time. By 9 a.m. the rest of the lads were all suited and booted and ready to go.

Dave let us have his white Rolls-Royce, with his personalized number plate “BADBOY”, for the day while he went with Brendan and Seymore in his new Jag. Mad Pete had the privilege of driving Dave’s Roller, while Graham, Ray, Ian and myself were his
passengers
. Nine-thirty struck on the bright, spring, south London morning and right on cue Dave’s well-rehearsed plan came into effect. The Satan’s Slaves are a motorbike gang and have bases up and down the country, and all over the world. Dave knew a lot of the members of the various chapters and built up some strong friendships with them. He had arranged for six of their top men to ride as outriders to our convoy of cars, making sure we all had a safe journey all the way to Bethnal Green and English’s Funeral Parlour once again.

It was a strange feeling this time round for me. Five years ago, when Ron had died, I had been naive and was still quite new to this way of life, and still meeting people and finding my feet, I suppose. Back then, if I’m honest, I was still getting a buzz from it. Now though, I felt sadness for Reg. He had seen this happen to both his brothers and each time he was the centre of attention. I never thought this was fair. It was also sad that Charlie had died a prisoner and not a free man. Regardless of his crime and his sentence – being in prison at that age ground him down immediately.

With Charlie there was still the spectacle of it being a Kray funeral. Charlie was a well-loved and respected bloke; he was also well known for his love of parties and good times: Champagne Charlie. Reg’s popularity was evident at the funeral. All the
up-and-coming
hard men were there, the top boys from each town and city … something like this was an opportunity to get their name and face known; a perfect chance to gain notoriety, not criticism. I had been there, done it, and printed and sold the T-shirts. I had lived it. I had not only met the three brothers, I had become friends with them and stood by them through the years.

We reached Bethnal Green in good time with our escorts doing us proud, much to the bemusement of other traffic and the local constabulary. Outside the parlour were a lot of familiar faces, and I introduced Ray, Graham and Ian to Bruce Reynolds, Frankie Fraser, Freddie Foreman, Tony Lambrianou, Charlie Richardson and a few of the other lesser known faces. Once we had shook hands with the chaps, we put our wreaths in place and went for a drink. I had a tip-off that because of “that” woman from Sheffield, I would not be welcome at the church. Apparently she knew the people responsible for security and I would not be allowed in. I told the chaps that I would go to the church alone, but they wouldn’t have it. If we were going then it was all for one and one for all. I appreciated their
solidarity
. We finished our drinks and made our way back out to our cars, only to be stopped in our tracks by an announcement on a megaphone by the police officer in charge. There was a gas leak on Bethnal Green Road and he wanted to limit the traffic travelling to the church by car. We would have to walk the half mile or so there and back. It was a sunny day so there was little or no complaint. We looked like a mini army, all suited and booted and crombied up, walking through the heart of East London with Dave Courtney leading the assault with what he refers to as his “Knights of the Round Table”. Inspired by his fascination with King Arthur, the Knights, of whom I am proud to be one, are his best friends from different parts of the country. His house is based on Castle Camelot, and he even has the moat and the drawbridge. He has twelve seats at the round table in his dining room.

We had not been walking long and could see the church in our sights when it happened, taking us all by surprise. He had either been following us, or lying in wait for some time, silently … then he attacked. A Yorkshire terrier jumped out from nowhere and went straight for Ray, attempting to chew his leg off. It lightened the moment as we made our way through the already swelling crowds. Dave got us through the gates and we began to make our way past the flashing lights of the press and up the steps to the church. I saw Rob Davis on the door. I knew him well and had a lot of time for him. He knew about the “situation” I had found myself in and we were both keen to avoid any fuss. I was there simply to pay my respects. Reg had not entered the argument one way or the other, so Rob was able to make an on-the-spot decision. The church was packed to the rafters and I stood at the back of the church with Dave and Ray as I had done five years earlier for Ron. Because the church was so packed and due to the circumstances I did not get a chance to speak to Reg and let him know I was there. He was on his own now and I wanted him to know I was there and thinking of him. My mind was soon put at ease though. Ray handed me an order of service and said, “Reg thanks us for coming down.” Ray had managed to slip to the front to let him know we were there. Reg shook Ray’s hand, hugged him and told him to tell me thanks. I smiled inside. He knew we were there and that meant a lot to me. He knew he had friends there. We may not have been in touch so often by this time, but he knew. We were still close. The service was very much like his brother’s, with the hymns “Morning Has Broken” and “Fight the Good Fight”, and there were readings from Sue McGibbon and Freddie Foreman’s son, Jamie. Charlie had a lot of supporters.

Charlie’s body was carried from the church to Shirley Bassey’s “As Long As He Needs Me” and just like the last time, all eyes were on Reg to study his reactions. We formed a line of honour outside the church as Charlie’s coffin was placed back in the traditional hearse for his journey back to the family plot in Chingford, Essex. We returned to our cars and once our escorts gave us the nod we were off. Making our way to Chingford rather than following the procession of cars, we arrived in good time and took our place on a hill overlooking the graveside waiting for Reg and Roberta to arrive. Reg had seen his mother and two brothers buried while serving his time. At each one of them he’d been handcuffed to an officer … and each one was getting harder for him to bare. I would have thought that a few allowances could have been made for this funeral, but obviously the law is the law.

As Charlie was lowered into the ground I felt a lump in my throat. I’d had a lot of good laughs with Charlie, as I had at his trial. He was the perfect host and a gentleman, and I knew I would certainly miss him. I felt close to him because we had socialized on many occasions. It wasn’t just prison visits for a few hours at a time, it was a friendship of talking on the phone and meeting up and going out together … and he was the best there was for a night out. Charlie was the type who would do anything for a friend. He has a tremendous lust for life and to see him die in such circumstances left a bitter taste. Everyone was outraged that he was put in prison again but realizing just how little time he had left made it worse. Our floral tribute had been the perfect words to describe him: Diamond Geezer.

As the crowds of onlookers dispersed, a man shouted out, “Three cheers for Reg Kray … hip … hip.” The crowd reacted
accordingly
. With that, Reg shook the hands of those around him, kissed Roberta and was whisked away. That night we watched the funeral coverage on TV, and then I showed the lads around the West End as Dave and Jenny had a prior engagement at a boxing event with Ian Freeman.

Travelling back the next day I picked up the papers to see all the coverage of the funeral. As with Ron, it had taken some time for the realization to sink in. Charles James Kray was dead. When you see it in the papers and on TV like that, that’s when you know it happened. On the day it’s just like you are on autopilot, like it is going on but not actually real. When you see yourself and friends in that third-person situation in the media, then you know you were there and you know it did happen. The headline of one paper proclaimed, “Then There Was One” – the Krays were dying one by one, and now Reg was the last of the family line.

I had to work that night and, because of the traffic, I didn’t have time to go home to rest or change clothes. I was shattered. When I finished and could finally get home I had a message from Reg waiting for me. “Hello, Steve, Reg Kray speaking. Thank you and thank your friends for taking the time to come down south to Charlie’s funeral. You are a good friend. I’ll ring another time, God bless.” I played the message over a few times and I admit I shed a few tears. For all his faults, this man had to cope with his entire family dying whilst he was in prison. He had to deal with the despair, anguish and torment that the death of a loved one brings but he had to deal with it under different circumstances to most others. There was the build up in the newspapers as a Kray death looked imminent. Then he had to make all the arrangements and to deal with the pressures of all the media attention – being in the
spotlight
throughout the service only to be taken straight back
immediately
afterwards. Prison can be a lonely enough place, but now he really was alone. It showed more than anything how strong his character was and I, for one, hoped that he had enough fight left in him to beat the system, gain parole and spend at least a few years of freedom in the arms of the woman he truly loved.

In the year 2000, Reg had his parole hearing. To be fair, for all Roberta’s hard work I could only see Reg becoming de-categorized and not on a release programme. A lot of stories had circulated about Reg’s health, and I had been asked numerous times by my friends in the media to confirm he was fit and well. As far as I was concerned there were no problems. You can’t always believe what you read in the papers, but there had been a lot of coverage over the last year and half of Reg’s frequent trips to the hospital wings at both Blundeston and Wayland prisons were with what were described as irregular stomach complaints. Some reports suggested ulcers, others possible cancer. Reg, although admitting to pains, assured us all that it was nothing to worry about and that he had faith in the doctors he had been dealing with.

I wasn’t convinced. In April, at Charlie’s funeral, Reg had looked pale and it was quite noticeable that he had lost weight. A lot of observers had put this down to the worry and stress that he had endured with Charlie’s illness and his parole board hearing. Our worst fears were confirmed when in September it was announced that he had been admitted to hospital in Norwich for tests. The reports at first were a little unclear and then Roberta dropped the bombshell … Reg had undergone exploratory surgery and a cancer had been detected. He had only weeks to live. I sat and watched the story break on the lunchtime news and still couldn’t believe what I was hearing. As I watched and was taking it in, journalists started phoning me wanting some reaction to the story. I told them I was shell-shocked and that the Home Secretary should show immediate compassion and release Reg so that he could at least taste freedom before he passed away. Reg’s solicitors Mark Goldstein and Trevor Lynn reiterated what I had said when they were interviewed on later bulletins. The Sunday papers carried haunting images of a frail Reg lying in his hospital bed with tubes leading from his torso, his breathing aided by an oxygen mask. It was a sad picture to have to look at. He looked very ill. He
was
very ill. He was dying and yet he was still considered to be a danger to society.