Читать книгу The Twins - Men of Violence - Kate Kray - Страница 12

THE MANAGING DIRECTORS OF BRITISH CRIME

Just because the twins were inside, it didn’t mean they couldn’t go on with business. Ron and Reg were the best money-getters I’ve ever met. That’s all they thought of while they were inside. They were like hamsters on a tread wheel chasing money — getting a pile, giving it away, then back on the wheel.

Even after they were convicted, they continued to run their empire like the businessmen that they were. Whilst they were still alive, I had to keep quiet about their activities, but I know that they would each be earning at least £100,000 a year for the last thirty years.

I did many things for Ron. I didn’t mind, that was all part of being married. Late one evening, I got a phonecall asking me to visit him urgently. I drove to Broadmoor at the crack of dawn trying to avoid the rush-hour traffic. Ron was on good form.

‘You look happy,’ I said.

He was in no mood for idle chat.

‘Never mind all that,’ he said. ‘I want you to go to Waterlooville in Hampshire.’

He was happy, so I knew it was to do with money. Nothing made Ron happier than when he had a nice few quid coming.

‘I want you to pick up £85,000.’ He laughed.

My jaw dropped open. I could have tucked my chin in my knickers.

‘Eighty-five grand!’ I couldn’t believe it.

‘Yeah, in notes,’ he purred.

I was used to picking up large amounts of cash for Ron, but this was an unusually large amount, even for him. I didn’t know what it was for, or where it came from. I didn’t ask. Ron didn’t explain; he just gave me a long list of names where he wanted the cash to go.

On this occasion, he decided that he would send someone with me to ride shotgun. I can’t remember who he was, all I can remember is he was big and mean.

Ron insisted that I follow his instructions to the letter. I travelled to Hampshire, wondering if it was going to be a wasted journey. Eighty-five grand was a lot of money. I couldn’t help thinking to myself that it must have been some blag for Ron’s cut to be that big.

I did hope nothing would go wrong. There had been the odd occasion when I’d been to collect money for him, and when I’d got there something had gone wrong or someone had been nicked. Whatever the reason, the money wasn’t there and, oh boy, did Ron get the needle.

It was a long journey to Waterlooville, and I just hoped this was not going to be a wasted trip although Ron seemed very confident.

I parked my car in the small car park at the rear of the bank. As I walked into the bank shadowed by my minder, I was humming the song ‘Me and My Shadow’ under my breath. We must have looked a right pair! The bank was full. We queued. I gave the cashier all the relevant paperwork. The young girl behind the counter looked at me and then at my shadow.

‘Wait here, Mrs Kray,’ she said gingerly.

She went to the Manager’s office. I dread to think what she said. His door opened — he stuck his head out. He looked at me, then at my shadow, and shut the door again. The door opened for a second time. The cashier and the Manager came out of the office together.

They mumbled to each other, looked at me, then mumbled again. I looked around the bank trying to appear inconspicuous. The more I tried to look innocent, the more guilty I felt. At that point, it did cross my mind to wonder exactly where the money was coming from. But then I thought, if the money isn’t kosher, Ron would never allow me to go and get it. The Manager broke my thoughts.

‘Mrs Kray.’

My heart leapt into my mouth.

‘How would you like the money?’ he said.

I stuttered. ‘Er … Er … Large notes, please.’

It took the cashier and the Manager ages to count the money in front of me. I couldn’t wait to get out of that bank. I got back into my car and drove out of Waterlooville.

A few miles up the small country lane, I pulled the car over into a lay-by. I opened a can of coke and took a large gulp. It should have been something stronger — sometimes it’s a pity I don’t drink alcohol. I offered the can to my minder. He shook his head, turning his nose up.

‘Let’s have a sort out,’ he urged.

I pulled the money bag out from the glove compartment and banged it down on the dashboard. It was a huge bag. I peered inside. It stunk. Slowly, I started to count the money into small piles. One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. When the piles were complete, I stuck a coloured ‘post-it’ note on the top with the name of each person who was going to receive the cash.

It took ages to sort out £85,000. But who’s complaining? I kept looking at my watch. I knew Ron would be wondering if things had gone smoothly.

My instructions were that once I had got the cash and counted it out into bundles, I had to visit Ron. I didn’t want to be late, as I knew he would be wondering if things were all right. That was probably my own doing because I had teased him previously saying that once I had got the cash I was going to run off and send him a postcard from a sunny desert island.

I laughed. So did he. Thank God.

I dashed up the M3 to reach Ron for the afternoon visit. I just made the visiting hall by 2.30pm. Eagerly, Ron was waiting. I walked into the hall. He stood up and looked at me trying to gauge my expression. I raised my eyes to the heavens, shook my head and threw my hands in the air in defeat. He looked angry and pissed off. I realised it was not the best time to have a joke with him.

I smiled, winked and rubbed my hands together.

‘You little minx,’ he laughed. ‘You got it, ain’t ya?’

‘Of course I got it,’ I replied. He hugged me tight.

‘Where the fuck is it?’

‘In the glove compartment of my car, that’s where.’

‘But … but … you can’t …’ he spluttered.

With my hand held high, I stopped him in his tracks, like a policeman holding up the traffic. ‘It’s all right. Calm down. It’s being baby-sat by the fucking shadow.’

‘That’s all right then.’ That seemed to pacify him.

We spent the whole visit sorting out the money. I spent the entire next day being Father Christmas distributing it. Ron eventually got round to telling me where the £85,000 came from.

It was legit. It was paid to Ron from the Fugitive film company as proceeds from the hit film The Krays, starring the Kemp brothers from the pop group Spandau Ballet. £85,000 was the first payment — more was due but, unfortunately for Reg and Ron, the company went bust.

I was astonished at the amount of money that flowed into the Kray coffers, even though the two key players were locked away for 30 years. For five years I was drawn into the network doing cash drops and making pay-outs to friends for services rendered. I had one mission in life at that time — to help make Ronnie’s life inside as comfortable as possible.

I was amazed that the authorities did not seem to realise Ronnie was operating his rackets inside Broadmoor. It was done under their noses. I suppose they didn’t realise what was going on. I’m glad, because that was what kept Ron going. He would try any business venture, no matter how far-fetched, in order to make money. He was the best money-getter I have ever met or am ever likely to meet. He was a tough businessman, but fair. There weren’t any villains whom Ron didn’t know. His black address book was the Who’s Who of the underworld. I automatically assumed that all the gangsters knew each other. Not true. They all knew Ron, but not each other.

All the gangsters looked up to Ronnie while he was in Broadmoor, and treated him with the utmost respect.

I saw tens of thousands pour in to Ron’s coffers week after week … and pour out again. Of course, none of it went directly to him in Broadmoor, but everything he wanted was paid for out of his cut and was brought in for him.

The bulk of Ron’s money never passed through Broadmoor and, for years, I became Ron’s trusted confidante. I dealt with his money. I had his account books. He trusted me to get cash out for him to take it here, take it there, pay so and so, pick something up for someone. I never really knew what all the transactions were about.

Some of the names Ronnie used were coded, and it was obvious they weren’t straight dealings. I didn’t want to know. If I didn’t know anything then I couldn’t say anything. I knew I was becoming drawn into dangerous territory, but I suppose that was one of his attractions. Ron was a very exciting man.

Once I had completed a drop, I normally didn’t see Ron until the next day but I always rung him at 8.00pm every single evening.

We used a code to communicate because Ron was not allowed to use the telephone then, so I spoke to the nurses. I used to ring up and ask if Ron was OK. Ron would always stand outside the small office on the ward waiting for my call.

I was never late ringing him. It didn’t matter where I was in the world, I would make sure Ron got his call at 8.00pm. I didn’t say much. I would just ask if he was all right. The voice on the end of the line would say, ‘Yes, he’s OK. Just fine.’

Ron would know it was me. He would put his head round the door and ask if I had picked his suit up from the cleaners. The screw would relay the message and by the tone of the voice I realised they considered it trivial. If only they realised the importance of the message. If I replied yes, I had picked up his suit, I would hear them call out to Ron.

‘Yes, Ron, she has picked up your suit.’

He would call back, ‘Oh good. Tell her I said goodnight and God bless.’ He would walk away with a smile on his face, confident of the fact that everything had gone smoothly.

On the other hand, if I said that I hadn’t picked up his suit from the cleaners, he would still say ‘goodnight and God bless’, but walk away cursing.

Reg was just the same. Like Ron he was a like a little hamster on a wheel, scurrying away, chasing money all the time. People would come to him with most weird ideas you’ve ever heard: ‘Reg, I’ve got this bloke says he can turn water into petrol.’ Great idea, give him ten grand. Sometimes it came off, sometimes it didn’t. Whatever happened, they could always get their hands on money when they needed it.

But as soon as they had money, they spent it. I had to send £5,000 once to an address. Later I discovered that it was to find someone who’d been sprung from Broadmoor. At the time, I didn’t know what the money was for: ‘Don’t ask questions,’ said Ron, ‘just do it.’ Other times they would spend it on more worthy causes. Ron would see something in the paper, some kid who need help or something, and say to me, ‘Send four grand to that.’

‘But Ron, you’ve only got four grand left.’

‘Don’t matter, just send it. I’ll get some more.’

And they always did …