Just before 9 a.m. on Tuesday 5 April 1983, the phone rang at my home in Crystal Palace. It was Gary, calling from the flat in Bunhill Row, where he was living with the old man. Gary was sobbing. He had woken up and found the old man lying at the bottom of the stairs. I told him to ask a neighbour to ring for an ambulance; I would get over as fast as possible. As I got ready, I knew what had happened and, ten minutes later, an ambulanceman phoned to confirm it. The old man was dead.
The ambulanceman was kind and gentle and told me to take my time; there was nothing anybody could do and he didn’t want me to have an accident. He and a colleague would wait until I arrived.
On my way through South London to the City I saw a crowd of people standing round a man on the ground. They were just staring at him, not knowing what to do, so I stopped the car and ran over. I suggested someone rang for an ambulance, then I loosened the man’s tie and checked his pulse and breathing. They were fine – the man, who was a postman, had just fainted. I put him in the recovery position and told the crowd that he was going to be all right, but I couldn’t wait because I had an emergency of my own. I got back in the car and carried on to Bunhill Row.
Five days later, we buried the old man next to his beloved Violet in Chingford Cemetery. The prison authorities made it clear the twins would be given permission to attend the funeral, but neither Ron nor Reg asked for it.
The old man had said he did not want another circus. Neither did they.
I went to the graveside at least once a fortnight, often more. Like visiting the twins, it was something I felt I had to do. If the weather was bad, I wouldn’t go, but then I felt guilty. It is lovely and quiet in that cemetery and I’d go there with Gary to put flowers down, clean the stone and sort it all out. I’d read the stone for the millionth time – ‘May you both rest peacefully. Our love and memories are always with you. May God bless you both’ – and I’d talk with Mum and the old man as though they were there. Afterwards, me and Gary would go to the car and I’d look over and say: ‘We’re off now.’ Driving away I always felt better for having gone.
By 1986, my relationship with Diana had changed dramatically. It was nearly nineteen years since we had met at that club opening in Leicester, and although we still loved each other, we had fallen out of love and now had an unspoken understanding that each was free to have flings with other people, as long as we were discreet and did not get heavily involved.
I had to admit I had my cake and was eating it, too; I could treat our lovely flat as home; at the same time I was able to go off in search of female company, with Diana’s agreement, if not her encouragement. I didn’t always know what Diana was doing; I never asked. We had become like brother and sister, and certain things, like outside relationships, were better kept private. Then, that summer, something happened to me that would disrupt my cosy life and make me face some harsh realities.
I fell in love again.
Her name was Judy Stanley. She was a bright, articulate, strong-minded woman of thirty-five and the mother of three children, a girl of seven and two boys, aged six and three. We met in a restaurant in Surrey on the day Judy was officially separated from her husband – and we clicked immediately. I was not sure whether Judy would welcome starting her newly acquired liberation with a date with a man twenty-five years older than her, but I asked for her telephone number anyway. To my surprise and delight, she gave it to me and, several weeks later, we began a relationship that would grow and grow until we became what was unacceptable to the understanding Diana and I had – ‘heavily involved’.
I did not like cheating on Diana, but I could not help myself – I really couldn’t. I became obsessed with Judy and would make all sorts of excuses to ring her. For the previous years, my life had been chugging along in a low gear, but now, overnight, it seemed, I had changed up and was motoring. I’d always been what my friends called Champagne Charlie, always ready for a good time, but Judy had given me an even keener zest for life.
To start with, however, we were on different wavelengths, out of sync, if you like. Maybe I was out of practice; maybe Judy was too important to me. I was terrified of making the wrong move and scaring her off. Whatever the reason, I never seemed to ask the right questions. I wanted to take her to a wine bar in Croydon I knew she liked, but instead of coming straight out with an invitation, I’d say: ‘Are you going to the wine bar tonight?’ Mostly, Judy had no plans to go there, so, naturally, she would say no. I learned later that if I’d invited her to go there with me, she would have said yes. So our relationship got off to a slow start.
Thankfully, we found ourselves in the wine bar on the same night a month later and I seized the opportunity.
‘I’ve got this friend in Suffolk, Jeff Allen,’ I said. ‘Lovely fella, with a beautiful house. Would you like to go there for the weekend with me?’
I knew it was a long shot; even if Judy did fancy the idea, finding someone to look after her children might be a problem she could not overcome. But I did not want to risk being seen with her in Croydon by anyone who knew Diana.
To my delight, Judy said she could make arrangements, and would like to come.
We travelled by train from Liverpool Street and had lunch in the buffet car on the way. What an experience that was for Judy. She had led such a sheltered life that, to her, travelling on a train was merely a means of getting from A to B; she had never dreamed of having a cup of tea on one, let alone a four-course lunch with wine and liqueurs.
We had a lovely weekend with Jeff and his wife, Ann. They liked Judy immensely; the four of us got on great. I did feel guilty about Diana, because my feelings for Judy were different from those I had had for any woman other than her, but I have to admit it did not stop me enjoying the weekend. When we stepped off the train at Liverpool Street, though, I was far from relaxed. I was getting near home territory and could be spotted by anyone.
I was terrified of Diana finding out about Judy: taking an attractive woman away for the weekend was definitely not part of our arrangement.
Judy was like a drug to me: I had to see her as often as possible. But it was not easy. Diana and I had been through a lot together, one way and another, and the last thing in the world I wanted to do was hurt her.
It was vital to me that she never had an inkling about Judy. I feel now that I was less than fair to Diana, but, when it comes to facing up to things, I’m an emotional coward and I took the soft option. I wanted to protect Diana’s feelings at all costs, and, at the same time, I did not know how far my relationship with Judy would go. I wanted to be with her as much as possible, but I had no idea where our affair would lead us. Certainly moving in with a mother and her three children was not part of my plans and, just in case Judy was thinking in this direction after our weekend in Suffolk, I made it clear I wasn’t. I don’t know whether it was the adoring look in her eye, or simply that, subconsciously, I felt my future lay with her, and I was frightened of commitment, but when I saw her next, at her home, I told her: ‘I’m not getting married, you know.’
I blurted it out five minutes after sitting down and it tickled Judy. ‘That’s a relief,’ she said. ‘I’m only just getting divorced, thank you!’
And so the affair began in earnest, with both of us knowing the ground rules. I would have loved to roll out the red carpet for Judy, because she had never had that treatment in her life, but money was a major stumbling block. The odd deal here and there came off, but I did not have the cash to wine and dine Judy the way I wanted.
The only big pay day likely at that time was a film about the Krays. Roger Daltrey, who had made millions as the singer with the rock band The Who, was fixated with the idea. He felt it was the only British gangster film worth making and was convinced that, handled the right way, it could be a powerful blockbuster, as good, if not as financially successful, as The Godfather.
Very early in the negotiations, Roger said he was going to Parkhurst to talk things through with Reggie and asked me to go with him. I always travelled from Waterloo to Portsmouth, then took the ferry to the Isle of Wight, so I said we ought to meet at Waterloo.
‘No,’ said Roger. ‘I’ll meet you at Battersea.’
I was confused. ‘The Portsmouth train doesn’t stop at Battersea, Roger,’ I said.
‘Who’s going by train?’ he said. ‘We’re flying there in my helicopter. Is that okay?’
‘Suits me,’ I said. And it did. It certainly beat a five-hour round trip by trains, ferries and taxis. And since the millionaire rock ‘an’ roll star would be picking up the bill, it would be cheaper, too.
Naturally, Roger needed special permission to land near Parkhurst, but he had all this sorted. His pilot brought us down on the landing pad of a hotel a couple of miles from the prison, where a taxi was waiting to pick us up.
We spent the whole two-hour visit talking about the film and what the twins and me wanted as an up-front payment. Then, as we prepared to leave, Roger said: ‘Reg, ask permission to watch us fly over the prison. We’ll give you a wave.’
Reggie did get permission and he admitted later that the ‘fly past’ gave him a real gee. Well, it’s not every day of the week that someone serving thirty years for murder gets a personal cheerio from a rock ‘n’ roll millionaire from the clouds, is it?
Roger piloted the helicopter home himself, and as we hovered over his home in Sussex, he called out: ‘Look, Charlie – my trout lakes.’ As I looked down, trying to spot them, I heard him and the pilot laughing. I couldn’t see what the joke was but a second later I felt it! The helicopter suddenly turned on its side and dropped out of the sky, leaving my stomach several hundred feet behind.
We landed in Roger’s grounds and he jumped out, telling the pilot to drop me back at Battersea Heliport, as one might order a chauffeur to give a lift in a car. Watching the helicopter soar off back to Sussex, all I could think was how nice it would be to have bundles of money and live like that.
All the money in the world does not guarantee realizing one’s dreams, however, and pulling everything together to make the film happen proved a headache for Roger. He had paid for not one, but three scripts to be written. He even had similar-looking actors lined up to play the twins –Hywel Bennet as Ronnie and a less well-known actor, Gerry Sunquist, as Reg – and an up-and-coming East Ender, Billy Murray, to play me. I was particularly thrilled at the prospect of being played by Billy. He came from Canning Town and was a genuine bloke, as well as an accomplished, brave, young boxer.
Roger saw Jean Alexander, who played Hilda Ogden in Coronation Street, as our mother, Violet, but he did not want her to have a big role. Nor did he want violence to be a major force in the film. He was fascinated by the twin element, and the fatal power of one brother over the other. The film he had in mind was about the bond between the twins more than the fear they instilled in people. This, naturally, would come into it, but the proposed movie would not be a cheap, blood and thunder adventure, more an atmospheric and profound thriller, where words, for once, spoke louder than actions.
Sadly, Roger’s dream of producing the movie came to nothing. Despite having the rights to John Pearson’s bestseller, The Profession of Violence, and a binding agreement with the twins and myself, he could not seem to make it happen. And when two other film producers, Dominic Anci-ano and Ray Burdis, came on the scene, saying they were going to make their own film about the Krays without our permission, Roger decided it was time to bail out. Anciano and Burdis had the financial backing of a company, Park-field, which was prepared to buy all the rights Roger owned. Albeit reluctantly, he decided that, if he could not make the film he wanted, it made financial sense to get back all his investment and let someone else have the headache of getting the Kray story on the big screen.
It was a disappointment for the twins and myself; we all liked Roger and would have liked him to make the film. But, to be truthful, it didn’t really matter to us who was behind it, as long as it happened and we all made some money. And money we did make from Parkfield: a quarter of a million pounds, split equally among the three of us, to be precise. By current Hollywood standards, it may not sound a lot of money for the rights to one’s entire life story, but, to the twins and me, in 1988, it was a fortune.
The year before Judy and I started going out, Ronnie had surprised everyone by popping the question to a big, buxom lady in her mid-thirties, who had been encouraged to visit him by Reggie, to whom she had written, then visited, at Parkhurst. Her name was Elaine Mildener, and she came from Islington, in North London. She had two children from a previous marriage, but, when Ronnie asked her to marry him, she agreed immediately.
The Press, naturally, made a big deal out of the wedding, on 11 February 1985, and the cynics called it a sham, saying that Ronnie, a homosexual, had married Elaine purely to get £10,000 from the Sun for the exclusive rights to the newlyweds’ story.
Actually, the truth is that Elaine was one of those lovely, gentle-natured creatures it is impossible to dislike, and Ronnie took to her at once; he loved the idea of being a father figure to her two children. Despite being an inmate of Britain’s most famous hospital, he never found it difficult to get money and he honestly felt he could help Elaine and her kids.
And he did. Whatever deal he pulled off, courtesy of his many pals on the outside, Elaine always got a share. She was an uncomplicated person, and Ronnie liked her for it. She liked him, too, and respected him for the courtesy and kindness he showed her.
Everything seemed fine for a couple of years, but then, one day in the autumn of 1988, I visited Ronnie and he told me he was divorcing Elaine.
‘What on earth for?’ I asked. ‘You both seem to get on so well together.’
‘It’s not fair, Charlie,’ Ronnie said. ‘What sort of future has she and her kids got? She’s too nice a person to be married to a bloke like me, who’s likely to be locked up for the rest of his life. I’d like her to meet someone outside, a normal guy, and enjoy her life.’
I said Elaine would not be too happy and he agreed. But his mind was made up and, as was usual with Ronnie, there was no way anyone was going to change it.
So Ronnie started divorce proceedings. And I have to say it was the biggest mistake he made since that Saturday night in October 1967 when he triggered the terrible events that ended in Jack McVitie’s murder. It left the door open for a tubby, bleached-blonde to become Mrs Ronald Kray No 2 and eventually make his life a misery.
I met her in the Broadmoor reception area on one of my visits to Ronnie later that year. She introduced herself as Kate Howard and explained that she had been visiting Ronnie for several months. I had heard about Kate, but had never met her. She seemed a pleasant enough young woman, if a little brash and over-confident about herself, but I did wonder – as I did when I encountered other women on Ronnie’s visiting list –just why she was there.
I learned that it was, in fact, Reg who had arranged the visits. Kate, it seemed, had written to Reg in Gartree after reading a book about the twins’ lives. There was something in her letter that made Reg think he could do some business with her and he agreed to see her. At the time, one of Reg’s closest friends on the outside was a lively young guy in his twenties, named Peter Gillett, who had got to know Reg well in Parkhurst Prison, while serving time for armed robbery. Reg put Kate in touch with Peter in July 1988 and, although Kate was married, the two quickly became lovers.
Kate had big ideas about living with Reg and Peter in a country mansion when Reg was released. But her plans were dashed one afternoon when she was in bed with Peter. She let slip that her husband, Harry, was dying from multiple sclerosis and there was no way she could, or would, leave him. Appalled that Kate was sharing his bed while her husband was so ill, Peter ordered her out of his house. A few days later, he took her to Gartree with the object of convincing Reg that he should not have any more to do with a woman he felt was lacking in sensitivity and principles. Reg did not want to kick Kate into touch totally, because he was worried she would go to the papers with embarrassing letters he had written her. So, to keep Peter happy, he asked Kate to meet Ron.
I did not have any reservations about Kate on that first meeting, nor on subsequent visits. She was a bubbly, cheerful, chatty girl and seemed to make Ronnie happy; that was all that concerned me.
The money from the film changed my life dramatically for a while. Ronnie, of course, could not wait to give most of his share away and Reg put his into deals with people he had met in and out of prison over the years. For me, it was party time. I had been without serious money for more than twenty years and now that I had some, I was going to enjoy spending it, particularly as I had two women in my life to enjoy it with.
I got a kick out of introducing Judy to the high life. Before she met me, she was in a family set-up and unable to go to restaurants without thinking carefully what she ordered; usually she would only be able to afford the main course. With me, however, I made it clear that she should go through the card and hang the expense.
Throughout her married life, going to the local Beefeater or Berni Inn was something of an event, so you can imagine her delight at getting dressed up to the nines and having cocktails at the Hilton Hotel, and dinner in a fashionable Soho restaurant, before going on to some swish Mayfair club for a nightcap or three.
Judy enjoyed all we did so much she said it was as though I had waved a magic wand and transported her out of her run-of-the-mill, fairly dull and humdrum life into a glittering and expensive world where anything was possible and only the best would do. I could not do enough for her and kept telling her how much I wished I’d had her with me in the sixties when money was around all the time and the twins and me thought it would never dry up.
I’ve always enjoyed giving more than receiving, and Judy was a joy to treat. Once, we were strolling around the West End when Judy spotted a beautiful jacket in a leather shop. I knew she had always wanted one, so I took her inside. The jacket looked fantastic on her and there was a skirt to go with it. Judy looked at me, a little embarrassed, unsure what to do, but I told her not to worry – to try the skirt on, too. It was a perfect fit and looked terrific. I handed over £250 without batting the proverbial eyelid and gave Judy a big smile. It gave me a thrill to buy her something she liked so much.
If I had not needed the money so desperately, I would not have signed the film contract. And I would have advised Ronnie and Reg not to, either. One look at the script told me it was the total opposite of the fascinating movie Roger Daltrey had had in mind. There were so many inaccuracies and omissions, it was as if the writer was talking about different people, not Me and My Brothers. I did tell the producers that certain incidents they were planning to film never happened, but my protests fell on deaf ears. It was a case of he who pays the piper calls the tune: the people putting up the money – Parkfield – wanted the film made a certain way and that was that. I was given the title ‘technical adviser’ which sounds grandly significant, but, in reality, it meant very little: all I was asked to advise on for the sum of £4,000 was the look of Vallance Road and the clubs we had owned, and the scenes of violence.
Watching the film being shot, mainly around the Rotherhithe area of South London, I could not help feeling that the producer had missed a great chance. There were so many highly dramatic incidents in the twins’ lives which did happen that there was no need to embellish anything: that legendary Wild West-style fight at the Coach and Horses; the time Reg posed as his twin so that Ronnie could escape from a mental home; and the terrible night Ronnie was driven to the edge of madness and did not recognize Reg or me as his brothers. By sticking to the facts, the producers could have made a spectacular, compelling – and, more importantly, realistic – movie. As it was, they toddled off into fantasy land and made a ludicrous one.
So many things were wrong, but the worst, by far, was the way our dear mum, Violet, was portrayed. Very early in the film, she is shown in an East End hospital, where Ronnie, as a child, is in bed with rheumatic fever. Our ‘mum’ feels Ronnie is pining for Reg and she wants to take him home. A doctor does not think it is a good idea, and ‘Mum’ has a row with him, during which she bellows, ‘Bollocks!’ If Mum, or the old man, come to that, had lived to see that stupid scene they would have been furious. For a start Mum never swore – not even ‘bloody’ – but, even if she did, she would never in a million years have had the impertinence to swear at a doctor; she held them in too high a regard for that.
Violet was played by the lovely actress, Billie Whitelaw, and she knew the scriptwriter had got the character wrong. One day, early on, we were introduced and she asked if she could have a quiet word with me in her caravan. We chatted about this and that and, all the time, she was holding my hand. After a while, she said: ‘I’m psychic, you know, Charlie. I can feel your mother through you. You were very close to her, weren’t you?’
‘Very,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know this isn’t Violet in the film. But, unfortunately, I’ve no choice. I have to say what is in the script and play the part to suit the director.’
I said I understood that, and it was enough for me to know that she was aware that my mum was nothing like the person the public was going to see.
It wasn’t only Mum who was portrayed badly; the old man was, too. The film made him out to be an idiotic drunk, a nobody, but he wasn’t; he was a good, straight man, who worked all his life for an honest living. Those who saw the film can be forgiven for thinking he was so frightened of going to war that he went on the trot from the Army, but that’s not true, either. He was very smart and very clean and would have made a great soldier if he had put his mind to it. Unfortunately, he hated authority; he could not stand being told what to do. That’s why he spent the war years on the run from the police – not because he was a coward.
From a personal point of view, I was acutely embarrassed at one scene in which I am seen running away from a boxing booth where the twins are in the ring trying to punch lumps out of each other.
The twins did volunteer to fight each other, but they were only ten – not young men as the film portrays them – and had no intention of hurting each other. That was not what embarrassed me, however: it was the sight of me running away from the booth crying out for my mum to come and tear the twins apart. What a joke! I was not even there at the time and, if I had been, being seven years older, I would not have needed any help to split them – I would have done it myself.
All this had been in the script, of course, so I should not have been surprised. But somehow it came over so much worse watching the scenes being acted out.
Ronnie was divorced from Elaine in June 1989. On a visit shortly, afterwards, he told me he was getting married again – to Kate. No alarm bells rang in my head, but I have to admit, deep down, I did wonder what her motive was.
There was something that was not quite right about Kate: she seemed a nice enough girl, but there was something about her, and her brash, cocky approach to life, that made me feel a touch uneasy. It would take me a few years to find out what it was.
The wedding, on Monday 6 November, 1989, was a more relaxed affair than the first one. I was surprised just how well it went: more guests were allowed in, the food was superb and Ronnie was even allowed a glass of champagne for a toast. Kate had laid on a reception for a hundred or so guests at a nearby hotel, which, obviously, Ronnie was not allowed to attend. He wasn’t bothered in the slightest. As the wedding guests left the hospital for the reception, Ronnie took me to one side and said: ‘Enjoy yourselves. Have a good night and give my regards to everyone. I can go back now and sit and think about what a nice time you’re having. I can be there in my mind.’
He asked me to go with Kate in her Rolls-Royce to protect her from newspaper photographers he knew would be waiting outside, which I did. On this occasion, thankfully, the gentlemen of the press behaved impeccably. They took the photos, asked a few questions, then left Kate alone to enjoy the rest of her wedding day.
The Krays was released the following spring. The weeks leading up to it should have been an exciting time, but I had nothing but problems – between me and Judy and me and the producers.
The premiere, at the Leicester Square Odeon, on 26 April, promised to be a glittering occasion, guaranteed to attract a number of showbiz celebrities and, naturally, Judy wanted to go. I could not risk it, however. The press photographers and TV cameras would be out in force and, as the only Kray brother able to be there, I could expect a lot of attention, particularly with an attractive young woman on my arm.
When I told Judy I wasn’t taking her, she was put out.
‘Would you prefer it if I didn’t go?’ I asked.
‘Would it make any difference?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If you don’t want me to go, I won’t.’ I didn’t mean it. I desperately wanted to go; I love first nights and dressing up in black tie and dinner jacket.
But Judy called my bluff. ‘Okay, I don’t want you to go,’ she said.
In the end, the film producers made a difficult decision easy for me. They wanted me to pay for tickets for myself, Gary and a couple of close friends, and I took the huff. I felt it was a right liberty. If Ronnie and Reggie had been free and able to go, can you imagine them being asked to send off a cheque for tickets to attend a film about themselves? I’m an easy-going bloke who, normally, is easily pleased, but I was incensed and decided to boycott the premiere altogether on a point of principle.
I also snubbed the party after the premiere. Instead, I had my own party at Browns, a fashionable nightclub in May-fair. The guv’nor there laid on an invitation-only ‘do’ after hearing I was giving the official one the elbow. I’m grateful he did: loads of friends turned up and we had a great time. The official party could not have been much cop, because, shortly after midnight, several of the film’s stars – including Martin and Gary Kemp, the former pop stars, who played Ronnie and Reggie – joined us at Brown’s.
The party was terrific. Shame about the film!
The twins did not get around to seeing it until after it was released on video the following November. When they did, the ‘technical adviser’ was in the firing line. It’s a long-standing problem that whenever I do anything right for Ronnie and Reg, I never get the credit, but if anything goes wrong, I always get the blame. The film was no exception.
I saw Ronnie after he had seen it, and he had the right hump, particularly at how our parents came across, but also at how he was supposed to have cut someone’s face with a sword, stabbed another geezer on a snooker table and run around the East End with Reg, armed with a machine gun.
‘I’m not an angel, but I wasn’t the idiot that film’s made me out to be,’ Ronnie ranted. ‘I was capable of a lot of violence, but the sort of things in the film were over the top.’
Reg was so disgusted with the inaccuracies he did not want to talk about the film at all; to him, it was negative rubbish that was best forgotten. But he did give me an ear-bashing for letting the film portray Mum so badly. He seemed to think I should have insisted on changing things because I was on the outside, representing them. We had a scream-up and I pointed out that there was no point going on and on at me, when he and Ronnie had signed away their rights to any control in the film long before I added my own signature. Even if they had been free, they would not have been able to do anything because they had signed on the dotted line and taken the money. I think Reg thought the ridiculous script was down to me; but I had nothing whatsoever to do with it. I wish I had.
I could not begin to count the number of people who have come up to me and said how much they enjoyed the film: nearly all believed it was a true account of the twins’ lives. But, believe me, it was a load of rubbish – one that certainly would not have been made the way it was, had we not needed the money so desperately. We put our signatures to a contract that allowed the film-makers to do what they liked. The result, I’m sorry and rather ashamed to say, was embarrassing and did none of us any good at all, least of all Reg, whose chances of early parole must have been damaged by what appeared on screen.
The three of us were left thinking what a pity Roger Daltrey had become so disenchanted and abandoned the project. It was dear to his heart and he had so much faith in it. At least he would have kept to the facts and ensured that his film reflected the true Kray twins, not farcical figments of a young scriptwriter’s vivid imagination.