As Me and My Brothers is an autobiography, one would expect Charlie to come out of it as a good guy; a very likeable, non-violent, law-abiding individual who paid a dreadful price for his brothers’ murderous ways. But that is the truth. And if this book does nothing else but convince people that Charlie was not a gangster, then I’m happy. And I know Charlie would have been, too.
I didn’t know him as well as some people – Wilf Pine and Albert Chapman and, of course, Diana, for example – but, as Charlie’s first publisher, then his ghostwriter, I spent hundreds of hours over many months getting close to him and unquestionably saw the man behind the myth, understood, as much as one could, the anger, bitterness and downright frustration he felt.
After his conviction in the McVitie case, it was open season for the media where Charlie was concerned. To newspapers and TV alike, he was an accessory to murder, was a willing party in all the madness and mayhem the twins brought to sixties London. And, on his release from prison, in 1975, journalists still believed he was the twins’ mouthpiece, was the brain behind their businesses that supposedly capitalized on their infamy.
I have personal experience of how that wrongful conviction earned Charlie his shameful reputation.
In 1987, when I was collaborating with Charlie for a rewrite of the first edition of Me and My Brothers, I was a sub-editor on the Daily Express, working in the late afternoon and night. One of my colleagues, Bill Montgomery, knew I was ghosting Charlie’s story, but knew nothing of how we were doing it. When I told him I’d spent the morning taping Charlie in my garden, he was horrified.
‘You allow that man in your house?’
‘Of course I do,’ I said. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Because he’s one of the Krays,’ Bill said. ‘They murdered people, for God’s sake.’
‘Charlie didn’t murder anyone,’ I told him quietly.
‘He may not have wielded the knife that killed McVitie, but he did his brothers’ dirty work. Got rid of a dead body.’
‘No he didn’t,’ I said. ‘Charlie had nothing to do with the murder. He was stitched up by the police.’
Bill scoffed. ‘How can you be sure he’s telling the truth?’
‘How can you be so sure he’s not,’ I said. ‘You’ve never even met the man.’
‘And I don’t want to.’
‘Because he’s a Kray?’
‘Yeah, if you want to put it that way. They’re all gangsters.’
‘Charlie wasn’t a gangster, Bill,’ I said. ‘The twins were the gangsters.’
‘They were all the same, Robbie,’ he said. ‘All the same.’
I didn’t want a row, so I forced a smile. ‘Let’s agree to disagree, Bill. Let’s leave it there.’
And we did. We never spoke about Charlie, or his book, again – even when it was published the following September and I took a copy into the office. But that conversation played on my mind and brought into sharp focus the enormity of the problem the Kray name gave Charlie. If a seasoned sub-editor, responsible for writing headlines and editing reporters’ copy in a national newspaper, believed it to be true, what price the millions of readers? If a journalist with forty years’ experience detested the Kray name so much what hope did that give Charlie?
I can understand why Charlie decided not to fight to clear his name. But, given the way his life panned out, I’m not sure that well-intentioned advice of Ronnie’s psychiatrist was right. On his release from prison, Charlie was so distressed and humiliated by people’s reaction to him that his happy-go-lucky personality changed and he had no self-confidence.
What he so needed was a platform to give his side of what, for him, was a desperately tragic story. The Press and TV weren’t going to give it to him, but the Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg might have. After all, in 1975 he had a very strong case to put before it, because, shortly after his conviction, the prosecution’s main witness, Ronald Hart, made a statement on oath stating he had lied about Charlie’s involvement in the McVitie case. Then, later, both Tony and Chris Lambrianou confessed that they, with Ronnie Bender, had taken McVitie’s body from Evering Road.
We’ll never know whether Charlie would have been allowed to win such an action; probably not, since it would have meant reopening the whole case and that would have brought into the open the reason Charlie had been convicted for a crime he didn’t commit. But, at the very least, the fact that the Kray twins’ elder brother was challenging his conviction, and had compelling new evidence to support him, would have made headlines and provided the platform Charlie needed; given him the chance to tell the world he did not do what he’d been imprisoned for.
And that would have given him a purpose in life.
As it was, he drifted rather aimlessly, wanting so much to get involved in some legitimate venture but not having the wherewithal to pull anything together. Much has been said – in the papers and on the internet – about Charlie being the brains behind the twins’ so-called empire, but that’s rubbish. Successful businessmen have vision – and Charlie had none. If you outlined a scheme that would earn him, say, £100,000 over two years and then gave him an alternative of five grand in his hand now, Charlie would take the second option, no question.
Whether it was because he’d been robbed of precious years of his life and wanted to make up for lost time, I don’t know, but Charlie always looked to today, not tomorrow. If ever anyone epitomized the old adage ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’, it was him.
That’s why I knew, sitting in Redbridge Magistrates’ Court two days after Charlie’s arrest, that all the headlines of him masterminding a £78 million two-year drugs deal were ludicrous. Such an elaborate operation would require careful planning and attention to detail – not Charlie’s strengths at all.
Like Charlie and all his friends, I’m at a loss to know why he was targeted. For, make no mistake, he was targeted. And, despite the prosecution arguing to the contrary, he was entrapped. Some people have said that Charlie was in the wrong place at the wrong time, unwittingly mingling with known drug dealers, who were under police surveillance. But this doesn’t add up; no one but Charlie and his two co-defendants were arrested. More likely is the theory of one of the leading barristers in the case: that Jack and his undercover team had run up enormous expenses in a drug operation which, after several months’ surveillance, had produced no results. Under pressure to make arrests, they met the likeable, but woefully naive, Patsy Manning, who boasted of his long friendship with Charlie. Now, who better than the last of the Krays to get the police off the hook? What a career boost that would be for Jack. But after the introductions were made, Charlie did not keep in touch with Jack; the undercover man kept ringing him. If Jack had not made contact, that would have been the end of it. But the Geordies were determined to lure Charlie into their carefully spun web and, sadly, he was so gullible, so trusting – and so broke – that he was a pathetically easy victim. Having said that, I was intrigued to learn at the trial that, although the police had dozens of hours of Charlie on tape, only a few were used in evidence. The majority of the recordings were either of such poor sound quality, or so banal, that they proved nothing – except, perhaps, that the police had to tape Charlie for many hours before they got him to say what they wanted. Knowing how much he giggled and ran off at the mouth when he was having ‘a good drink’, I’m sure he proved very frustrating.
Lest anyone doubts Charlie’s poor financial state at that time, I can vouch that he was broke. Penniless, in fact. As I told the court, I rang Charlie at Judy’s home shortly after we’d been to David Bailey’s studios for a photo shoot for a Sunday Telegraph magazine feature I’d set up. When I asked how he was, Charlie was typically chirpy, but then said: ‘To be truthful, Rob, I’m not too clever. I can’t even afford a packet of fags.’
I told him I could advance him his share of the Sunday Telegraph’s £150 fee and drove to Sanderstead with it. I remember Charlie being excited at having met ‘some lovely guys in Newcastle who had bundles of money’. At that time, I don’t believe Charlie had any idea what his newfound friends were going to put to him.
What I find nauseating, given the tragic outcome, is that those ‘lovely guys’ would have known within minutes of meeting Charlie that he was not – unquestionably not – a conniving drug baron, capable of all they later claimed he was. They would have seen the man as he genuinely was – amiable and likeable, but ineffectual and without two ha’pennies to rub together. Yet they pursued him, preyed on his vulnerability at a traumatic time in his life, to get themselves a result.
Like all Charlie’s friends, I found the charges outrageous – incredible – but that he’d been arrested for something was not really a surprise. I knew from experience that it didn’t take much for the police to show interest in Charlie Kray. Driving home after a party at my house, one of my wife’s distant relatives was involved in a drunken domestic row. Police were called and the young woman boasted that she’d been at a party with Charlie Kray. Three TV stars and a national newspaper editor were also there – among a hundred guests – but she mentioned only Charlie, and, shortly after 3 A.M., two officers arrived at the house wanting to know if he was there. I found it interesting that the young woman omitted to mention anyone else at the party, and wondered whether the police would have found it necessary to turn up if she had.
I don’t know what purpose those boys in blue thought their visit served, but it was a clear indication that, more than twenty years on, the name Kray still sparked police interest. And if further proof was needed, I got it in 1993, when a financier named Donald Urquhart was murdered by a motorcycle hitman outside his home in Marylebone. Charlie did not know Urquhart and certainly had no idea why he was gunned down. But he was arrested and questioned for several hours anyway. And, of course, KRAY BROTHER QUIZZED IN MURDER PROBE made striking – and legally safe – headlines.
It was grossly unfair, of course, and the next morning Charlie came to see Sue and I to ask if there was anything we could do about it. There was: we had to get some positive publicity. Fast. I rang the London Tonight TV programme, offering them an exclusive live interview that evening. They jumped at it and, shortly before 7 P.M., Charlie was interviewed by Alistair Stewart, who was clearly delighted at being handed a scoop on a story that had made all that day’s newspapers.
Charlie was excellent in that interview, very focused on making the point that, again, the Kray name was causing him problems. But, two days later, the soft, insecure side of his nature let him down after I set up an interview on the Richard & Judy morning TV chat show, which had a national audience.
We were flown to the Liverpool studios and all the way there – and in the hospitality room before he went on camera – I coached Charlie on how to handle the interview; urged him not to allow himself to be side-tracked, but to stick to the point – which was the curse of the Kray name. I could have saved my breath. The first question Richard Madeley asked was: ‘What was it like with the twins in the East End in the sixties?’ and Charlie was off, naively reliving all the oft-told nonsense again. I was furious and gave him a hard time afterwards for blowing a perfect opportunity to get his feelings across to millions of viewers. But that was Charlie. Whereas Alistair Stewart led him on the hard news angle, Richard and Judy wanted only the usual rubbish that had been in the papers on and off for thirty years, and Charlie did not have the hard-nosed confidence to steer the conversation his way.
It was this lack of arrogance and self-importance that made him so different from the twins. They were forceful personalities who always wanted things their own way, but Charlie was gentle-natured, easy-going, and never forced himself on anyone. While the twins would be quick to use violence if they felt wronged, Charlie would make his point with passion, not aggression. Like the twins, he was good with his fists, but never used them outside the boxing ring. His brothers wanted him to be part of the violence, but Charlie did not want to know and, much to their annoyance, tried to distance himself by moving away from Bethnal Green with his wife, Dolly. He preferred to stay at home with her, but, one evening – after much persuasion – Charlie agreed to go to a meeting with the twins and their Firm. After listening to their violent plans, Charlie went to walk out, prompting Ronnie to make fun of him ‘running back to his wife’. It was one of the few times Charlie lost his temper, as he told the twins what he really thought of their so-called friends. He tried to convince them to end the violence, but, of course, the twins never listened to him. What did their soft-hearted brother know?
If all the newspaper talk about Charlie being a feared gangster hadn’t been so serious, he would have found it funny. The twins had a reputation for ‘demanding with menaces’, but Charlie always had difficulty asking for money – even if it was rightfully due. When he was short of cash, he’d even get me to ring HarperCollins to ask about his royalty cheque, because he did not want anyone thinking he was pushy!
Charlie was well mannered and courteous, too, and, despite all that had happened to him, loved to laugh. It was this, as much as his effortless charm, that endeared him to women. Barbara Windsor, for one, thought the world of Charlie in the sixties – and still did when I arranged a reunion backstage at one of her theatre performances. She always talked about his ‘Steve McQueen good looks’ and, while I was collaborating with her for her autobiography, she confessed to being bitterly disappointed that he had not left Dolly to live with her. Naturally, I felt that readers of his own story would want details of his relationship with Barbara, but Charlie was so discreet and gentlemanly, in an old-fashioned way, that he declined to reveal anything that would embarrass her.
If you get the impression I liked Charlie Kray, you’re right. Indeed, I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like him. There was nothing to dislike; nothing at all. That’s why those Chelmsford Prison guards shook his hand so warmly, after delivering him to Albany Prison. That’s why Prison Officer Jenkins wrote such a glowing testimonial. And that’s why so many people from all walks of life, and from all over the country, were quick to go to court to speak up for him. He was a genuinely nice bloke, a decent, warm human being, who appreciated even the smallest kindness, rarely spoke badly of anyone and always showed respect, often to people who didn’t deserve it.
Sadly for Charlie, the positive side of his personality was not an image the media was prepared to portray. And, again, I have personal experience to prove the point. When the Sunday Telegraph sent a journalist, Justine Picardie, to interview Charlie two months after Gary’s death, I met her beforehand to ask what line she was proposing to take with the piece. She wanted to know the real man, she said, so I told her she was in for a pleasant surprise that would be good for her article: the person she was about to meet was nothing like the one she had read about, and she had the chance to get information he had never told any journalist before. Ms Picardie, all coy smiles and compliments, seemed most keen on writing something fresh and original on Charlie. On the basis of what she wrote it was clear she had her own agenda.
What appeared in the magazine was a sarcastic, shabby piece that, in my opinion, matched the writer and, more significantly, missed the point spectacularly. I’d explained that Charlie was broke and in deep grief over his son’s death, but Ms Picardie portrayed him, unjustly, as a cash-conscious opportunist, making a mint out of his brothers’ notoriety. She claimed he was marketing Kray twins’ T-shirts, using David Bailey’s iconic photo. He was not; he had never even seen one. She claimed he had a ‘practical involvement’ in the selling of the Kray name and was protecting it from ‘unwelcome outsiders, muscling in on the act’. He did not, and was not. In fact, at this time, Charlie was out of favour with Reg, over some imagined slight, and was not in contact with either him or Ronnie. Often, the first Charlie knew of what the twins were up to was when he read it in the papers.
The article bore little resemblance to what I’d seen and heard at the interview and I wrote to Ms Picardie pointing out her inaccuracies and the unfairness of her piece. Unsurprisingly, she did not reply.
I was angry and embarrassed at making a serious error of judgement on Charlie’s behalf, but he was typically philosophical: after all, he’d been living with a negative press since his release from prison. And with such cynical journalists continuing to put the knife in, he was stuck with it for ever.
How sadly ironic that the name Charlie bore with pride for so long should cause him such misery and shame.
How tragic that a name synonymous with violence should cut short the life of someone so gentle.
To everyone who knew him, he was Champagne Charlie – a true gentleman who would throw a party, but never a punch.
And that’s how I’ll remember him.