Читать книгу Me and My Brothers - Robin Mcgibbon - Страница 10

What they could have done was box for a living. They were both above average, particularly Reggie, and I’m sure they could have earned a few bob. I’d seen what boxing in the Forces had done for me and I’d urged them to give it a go in the Army. But, as usual, the twins felt they knew best. When they found themselves back in civvy street, Ronnie had lost interest in fighting and Reggie used the excuse that he would not get a licence because of his Army record. He did train with me, though, and the fitter he became, the more he felt he would like to box professionally.

Finally he did apply for his licence. However, the Christmas incident with PC Fisher was on his record and would have gone against him but for a lovely gesture by the policeman. He wrote to the boxing board explaining that Reggie’s punch that night was thrown under provocation. ‘Reggie told me to walk away, but I didn’t accept his advice,’ PC Fisher wrote. ‘I tried to grab him, thereby provoking him to hit me to evade arrest.’

That letter swayed the decision in Reggie’s favour and he was granted his licence. But within a few months he had lost all interest in the sport: he felt that all the managers and agents were too ruthless and only wanted to know those fighters who were going to become champions. The irony was that Reggie was good enough to become a champion; I didn’t doubt that for one moment. But he didn’t like the atmosphere and that was the end of that. Reggie never went in the ring again, although I believe he knew in his heart that he was good enough.

It quickly became clear that the twins were not cut out for a life on the knocker. I lent them some money and they did spend several weeks trying to generate some business, but they were always looking for something else. It came in the form of a filthy, neglected billiard hall in what had once been a small cinema in Eric Street, off the Mile End Road. The takings were low, mainly because the manager preferred playing snooker himself rather than encouraging business. But the twins saw the potential and put a proposition to the owner: they would take over the place, smarten it up and make it pay; in return, they would give him a weekly cut of the takings. Since the owner was receiving next to nothing; he accepted the deal. The manager was fired, the former ‘flea pit’ spruced up and, at just twenty-one, the twins were in the entertainment business.

They had the Midas touch. Word spread that the twins had taken over the billiard hall and business boomed. One aspect, however, I found disturbing: the clientele. No one expects an East End billiard hall to look like a church fête in Cheltenham, but I was shocked at the number of young tearaways and villains who gathered there, simply idling their time away. Some, who had been with the twins in Shepton Mallet glasshouse, should have been given a cool reception. But that wasn’t in the twins’ nature: it is a family characteristic that we accept people for what they are, not what they have done. Others who came to regard the billiard hall as a regular meeting place were hard people, who were not fussy how they earned a few bob.

I had no idea Ronnie was homosexual until he told me himself a few months after the billiard hall opened. As well as all the tough nuts, a lot of younger, very good-looking guys used to congregate there and I noticed they always stopped laughing and joking whenever I walked in.

After a while I got a bit paranoid. ‘Why have you suddenly gone quiet?’ I’d ask.

Someone would snigger. And I’d say, ‘I don’t find it funny.’

They would say they meant nothing by it. But it would happen again and I’d get really annoyed.

Finally, Ronnie said to me one day, ‘You don’t know, do you?’

‘Don’t know what?’

‘That I’m AC/DC,’ Ronnie said.

‘Leave me alone,’ I scoffed.

‘It’s true. That’s what I am, whether you like it or not.’

I didn’t know what to say. I just stared at him, shocked. I knew he had not had many relationships with women, but I certainly hadn’t given a thought to him being the other way.

‘That’s what we’d be talking about when you walked in,’ Ronnie said. ‘They all knew and would be laughing about it. Then I’d say, “Sssh, here’s Charlie.” And they’d all shut up.’

All I could think to say was: ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Well, it’s true,’ Ronnie said. ‘That’s how I am and you’re not going to change it.’ He went on to say he’d always been that way and could not care less who knew. He could not understand why so many people took a pop at homosexuals. ‘They can’t help what they are,’ he would say.

In the main, though, the billiard hall was a place for hard, tough men. One such man was Bobby Ramsey, and he, more than anyone at that time, was to influence the course the twins’ lives would take.

Ramsey was an ex-boxer who could have made a good living from the sport. But he fell into bad company and had settled for being ‘minder’ for the notorious Jack ‘Spot’ Comer, one of London’s underworld kings of the fifties. Ramsey, several years older than the twins, had been around and the twins admired him; they listened in some sort of awe as he described the high life the likes of Comer enjoyed through controlling clubs and spielers.

I didn’t like Ramsey. I had a feeling he would cause the twins problems and I told him, ‘If you’ve got trouble, don’t take the twins with you.’ He promised he wouldn’t. I warned the twins about him, too, but they scoffed. They were quite capable of handling Ramsey, and half a dozen like him, they said. It hit home to me then that they were probably right. They were not my little kid brothers any more: they were men in a man’s world, and formidable men at that. They were identical twins, with identical thoughts and opinions – a language of their own. They had proved their strength, power and tenacity, both in the ring and against heavy odds outside it. They had taken on the police and the Army and had not been intimidated. They had survived a short spell in prison and a longer spell on the run. And now, at just twenty-one, they were running their own business – not an empire by any means, but it was their own and it was profitable. They ate, drank, and dressed well. And there always seemed to be enough money around to give to others who were not so well off. The East End may have been a small pool, but the twins were very big fish in it. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps they could handle the problems I feared Ramsey might create.

Over the next eighteen months the Regal billiard hall became more and more popular. The twins ensured there were no fights or disorders of any kind that might bother the police, and the business still made money. Inevitably, though, it became a meeting place for thieves where robberies were planned. The twins were never involved, I know; but if any of the pals they helped out had a good tickle, I’m sure the twins made sure their debts were repaid with interest.

All was going well. The twins – particularly Reggie – were becoming more ambitious and thinking of opening a more respectable club where decent East End families could go.

And then Bobby Ramsey turned up. He hadn’t been at the billiard hall for several weeks and when he arrived one hot August night in 1956, I learned why: he had been hit on the head with an iron bar during a fight with a gang from the Watney Street area, the other side of Commercial Road. Now that he had recovered, he wanted revenge. He’d come into the billiard hall with a pal, Billie Jones, and asked Ronnie to go with them to a local pub called the Britannia. A villain called Charlie Martin, who had wielded the iron bar, was drinking there with Jimmy Fullerton, a local tearaway who’d helped in the attack. Ramsey was in a dangerous mood: he said he had several weapons in his car, including a bayonet. He asked Ronnie to go with him. Before they left, Ronnie went behind the bar. He opened a drawer and took out a loaded revolver.

Martin and Fullerton were not at the Britannia, but Martin’s younger brother, Terry, was. On the principle that one of the Watney Street mob was better than none, he was dragged outside. Ramsey, his bayonet tucked in his trousers, laid into him, then pulled out the bayonet and stuck it up the young man’s backside.

At that time, East End gang feuds were commonplace. Normally, a victim was carted off to hospital, mouths were kept shut and the police never got involved. But that night Ramsey was a reckless fool: as he drove away from the Britannia, he got stopped for speeding. The officers in the patrol car couldn’t believe their luck when they found a blood-stained bayonet, a crowbar and an axe in the car. Ramsey, Jones and Ronnie were arrested.

At the station, the gun was found in Ronnie’s pocket. It had not been fired, but that made little difference.

While the three of them were being questioned, a report came in that a man had been taken to the London Hospital with serious stab wounds. The police put two and two together and spoke to Terry Martin, who confirmed he had been attacked. The case against Ramsey, Jones and Ronnie was cast-iron and on 5 November 1956 they appeared at the Old Bailey charged with causing grievous bodily harm. Reggie, too, was charged, even though he wasn’t aware of the attack until afterwards.

Ramsey was jailed for seven years; Jones and Ronnie got three each.

Reggie, thankfully, was justly acquitted. But the immediate future would be difficult for him, too. As identical twins, he and Ronnie had lived virtually in each other’s pockets all their lives. Now, for the first time, they were going to have to exist separately.

Dolly and I were still living at Vallance Road but were desperate to find a place of our own. Mum was kind and understanding, as usual, and treated Dolly like a daughter, and the old man, bless him, was a diamond. But a house – no matter how warm and friendly – is not the same unless it’s your own, and I was always on the lookout for a place where Dolly and I could live a proper and private family life.

In those early days Dolly was a good wife. She didn’t make friends easily and was extremely possessive and money-mad; but she seemed to care for me and Gary and was very neat and clean about the house. She was a highly strung woman with a vivid imagination, though, and when Gary needed surgery to correct a squint, she convinced herself he would be blind for the rest of his life.

I’d had a couple of insights into her strange behaviour when we were courting. Often Dolly would stay overnight at Vallance Road, sleeping with Mum upstairs while I shared the twins’ room downstairs. Once, at about three in the morning, there was an almighty crash and I found Dolly staggering around in the hall, covered in blood. She’d had a nightmare and thrown herself through a closed window on to the scullery roof. Amazingly, she escaped with just a badly cut face.

The other occasion was when I was boxing in a competition in Watford. Dolly was at the ringside, having seen me qualify for the semi-final. But when she saw the man I was to meet knock out his opponent in the first round, she fled. She came back after I’d won the competition, but I don’t know to this day whether it was the prospect of seeing me hammered that made her run – or the thought that I wouldn’t win the £15 prize money.

Life on the knocker did have its moments, and I’d get a terrific buzz coming home with a load of gear that would fetch ten times as much as I’d paid, but I was eager to better our standard of living. The chance came when Reggie and I became closer in Ronnie’s absence.

Reggie was a real go-getter and when he came across a dilapidated old house near Poplar Town Hall, only two hundred yards from Bow police station, he saw the potential immediately. He asked me to help him renovate it and, with the help of a few mates, we transformed that house into a sparkling club with a stage and dancing area – the East End had never seen anything like it before. We called it The Double R, after the twins.

The only clubs around at that time were ‘dives’: dark and dingy ‘Men only’ drinking places where pints were pulled but punches were not. We wanted The Double R to be different. We didn’t want the billiard-hall clientele – layabouts and villains who liked a bit of trouble. We wanted the club to have a family atmosphere, a club where respectable working men could enjoy a quiet drink and listen to a band with their wives and families.

It took us six months to make our point.

The local tearaways had never seen anything like The Double R and assumed it was a ‘dive’ like all the other places in the area. And they treated it as such.

Few unwanted visitors got by our twenty-two-stone doorman, ‘Big’ Pat Connolly, but one quiet afternoon when security was relaxed three burly coalmen barged in. They were covered in coal dust and leaned against the newly decorated wall, demanding drinks. Reggie quietly asked them to leave. They started to argue and one of them aimed a punch at Reggie. I was serving behind the bar and raced round to give Reggie a hand. It wasn’t necessary. By the time I arrived all three were laid out.

Reggie was extremely swift to nip problems in the bud. He hit first and did not bother to ask questions afterwards. One night an over-enthusiastic customer made the mistake of trying to take the microphone from a woman singing on stage. Reggie took the mike away and handed it back to her. The customer’s second mistake was trying drunkenly to pull our mum up from her table to dance when she was happy minding her own business. Reggie felled him with a right hook then ordered him to be carried out. Two days later the customer came back and, rather sheepishly, apologized.

I’d always settled disputes with words, not fists. And up to the day we opened The Double R. I’d never had a fight outside the ring. I had had arguments with the twins over this when they resorted to violence. I told them they should not get involved in fights, but they would sneer and say I had no idea what was going on, what it was like when someone was spoiling your business.

I found myself taking a different view when the troublemakers started getting busy at The Double R. After all the hard work that had gone into transforming that Bow Road house I was damned if I was going to stand by and watch some mindless Jack the Lads ruin the venture before it had properly started. So: when there was no other way out I met violence with violence. I spoke to the idiots in the language they understood and, since I was fit and technically well equipped, I was able to handle myself more than adequately.

Reggie was amused and quietly pleased by my attitude. The afternoons were worst; if there was going to be trouble, that was the time. I had asked Dolly to stay away during the day but one afternoon she came in for something. Three blokes were drinking at the bar and one said, ‘Hello, darling.’ I let that pass because I was all for being friendly, but then they all started making stupid, unsubtle remarks, generally being lairy and showing a lack of respect to a woman. I was serving behind the bar and politely asked them to be quiet because Dolly was my wife.

Unfortunately, they took no notice and finally I went round the other side of the bar to show them the door. One of them threw a punch and before I knew it I was having a row with all three.

Bill Donovan, who had been badly hurt in the Coach and Horses battle several years before, was on the door, and helped me out. We finally sent the troublemakers on their way with a message not to come back.

When Reggie heard about it he said, ‘Now you know. Sometimes you’ve got to fight.’

I could not argue. But all the aggro got on my nerves and made me sick. I found it hard to understand the mentality of people who took a delight in smashing up something that was nice.

We turned the room above the club into a gymnasium and, although I left it very late to ask him, Britain’s favourite boxing champ, Henry Cooper, came along with his manager, Jim Wicks, to open it. This helped publicize The Double R and more and more people came along to see what it was like. The message finally got home to the sort that took pleasure in trouble, and gradually the club became the sort of establishment we had wanted in the beginning. The twins attracted all sorts – good, bad and indifferent – but everyone knew the rules and respected them. Some hard gangland men from South London crossed the water to drink there. They may have been enemies with some of the East End clientele but after those first six months there was hardly any hint of bother. The Double R, it seemed, was welcome neutral ground, a ‘Little Switzerland’ in the middle of Mile End.

Reggie, who had a natural flair for mixing with all types, was the perfect host, and I ran the bar with Barry Clare, an engaging homosexual, who also doubled up as compere, calling up amateur talent from the customers.

One night a lady asked Barry if she could sing a number. It was a beautiful blues song and she was so good I asked her if she would come along and sing a couple of times a week. She was thrilled and said, ‘I’d be delighted.’

‘How much do you want?’ I asked.

The lady laughed. ‘I don’t want any money for singing.’

But I insisted and she finally gave in to shut me up. I forget how much we agreed; it was probably a fiver.

After her first performance I went up to her and tried to give her the money. She refused, but I forced her to take it: she had been excellent value and had earned it. She immediately went to the bar and put the money on the counter.

‘What are you doing?’ I said.

‘You’ve paid me, Charlie,’ she replied. ‘I can do what I like with my own money. And what I’d like to do is buy everyone a drink.’

And she did. Not just then, but every time she came in. She was a lovely woman who just loved to sing, and her name was Queenie Watts.

For the rich and famous, the West End had always been the place for a night out. But in the middle fifties the other side of the river became fashionable, and wealthy, titled gentlemen and showbusiness stars – including Danny La Rue and Joan Collins’s sister Jackie – started coming to The Double R.

For me, the work was tiring. But it was our own business and the financial rewards were worthwhile. Most of the time, too, I was meeting very nice, genuine people. It certainly beat life on the knocker.

With business booming, Reggie and I decided to expand into gambling. At that time it was illegal: bookmakers were not Turf Accountants with shops in the High Street; they operated on street corners and anyone who wanted to put a couple of bob on a horse risked being nicked. Card games, too, were against the law. Anybody who wanted to play for money had to go to a spieler – a club, normally in a basement, where chemin de fer and poker were played away from the prying eyes of the police.

Reggie and I saw the financial possibilities in spielers and we acquired one across the road from The Double R. Within a couple of months, we opened two more. Money, suddenly, was coming out of our ears.

To make life even sweeter, a member of The Double R tipped me off about an empty flat in Narrow Street, Wapping. It was a two-bedroomed flat on the second floor of a shabby block called Brightlingsea Buildings, built for dockers and their families nearly a hundred years before. A palace it wasn’t. But it was a place Dolly, Gary and I could call ours at last and I snapped it up the same day. I had the money to move to a posher pad away from the manor, but the thought didn’t occur to me. The East End was in my blood, and anyway, that was where we were making a very good living.

Dolly adored the new lifestyle. She had always dreamed of being rich, and now that there was a few bob around, she made the most of it with lots of new clothes and regular hair-dos. We went to West End clubs with upper-crust patrons of The Double R who accepted us as friends, cockney accents and all, or we enjoyed ourselves with old friends in the East End. Wherever we went, Dolly always looked lovely and attracted a lot of attention. I was proud of her.

One bloke at The Double R seemed to be taking more than a passing interest in Dolly but I felt secure in our marriage and didn’t think much of it. She was a stunning looker and it was hardly surprising that other men found her attractive. My life was full to the brim with money and excitement and plans for the future, and I didn’t give George Ince another thought.

In Wandsworth Prison Ronnie was delighted that business was going well on the outside; he knew he would have a share in it when he was released, and because he’d earned full remission through good behaviour in his first year it seemed he would be home in time for Christmas 1958.

In one day, however, the whole situation changed. From being more or less a model prisoner without one black mark on his record, Ronnie found himself in a tiny, concrete cell in a strait-jacket. Dreams of freedom vanished. The nightmare from which Ronnie never escaped had begun.

During the year he’d been in jail, Ronnie had been a loner. He had had his place in the prison hierarchy and made sure everyone understood it, but he had made it plain that he wouldn’t cause trouble if he wasn’t bothered. Ronnie has an overpowering manner, bordering on hypnotic, and often sounds as though he’s demanding when in fact he’s merely asking. Whether this led to the problems in Wandsworth I don’t know, but a prison officer reacted badly to something he said and Ronnie snapped. The officer went down but within seconds other officers were on Ronnie who, strong as a bull, chinned a couple and they went over. An almighty fight broke out with fists flying, boots kicking. More officers, some armed with truncheons, joined in. Ronnie laid into them until they grabbed his arms and pushed them behind his back. Then they forced Ronnie’s head down and rushed him along the cell corridor into a post. Someone came running with a strait-jacket. Somehow they got Ronnie into it. Then they dragged him along to a concrete cell they call the ‘chokey’ block. They held him down while an officer injected him with a drug, then slammed the door. Ronnie was left in that cell for a week.

Then they transferred him to the psychiatric wing at Winchester Prison in Hampshire.

And a doctor certified him insane.

The family all reacted differently. I was very worried and disturbed because I realized the implications: Ronnie could be kept in jail indefinitely. Mum couldn’t believe it, but she tried to keep cool about it and was as optimistic as usual, saying everything would be bound to sort itself out in the end. The old man wouldn’t believe it. Ronnie was being clever, he said; he was getting the authorities at it, working his ticket. No way was Ronnie mad.

And Reggie? Reggie was beside himself with fury and worry. If his identical twin, the man who shared his innermost thoughts, had been officially declared a nut-case, what on earth did that make him?

The news from Winchester that spring of 1958 shattered us all and for weeks we tried to change the prison rules that did not allow us to have a second opinion. Mean-while, Ronnie was given massive doses of a tranquillizing drug called Stemetil. We were told this was to stabilize him and curb his violent tendencies. But it dulled his mind and affected his memory, and we were powerless to do anything about it. We watched him deteriorate before us to a point where sometimes he didn’t even recognize us.

Out of my mind with worry, I decided to find out just what Stemetil was. When I did, I was horrified. A Harley Street specialist confirmed that Ronnie was being treated for schizophrenia with a drug normally used for treating vertigo and vomiting! To make matters even worse he said, ‘The precise mechanisms of the action of this drug are not yet fully understood.’

It was too much to take. Reggie and I decided that Ronnie was coming out of Winchester even if we had to blow a hole in the prison wall to get him. Happily, this wasn’t necessary. A week or so later, in May 1958, Ronnie was transferred to a mental hospital just fourteen miles from London. It was Long Grove near Epsom, Surrey. And springing him from there was going to be a doddle.

The Strange Case of the Vanished Twin hit the headlines later the same month. Millions probably thought it was just another piece of Kray skulduggery, another cheeky swipe at authority, but we removed Ronnie from that hospital because we were far from convinced of his unbalanced mind. Also, we were very concerned at the bad effect the drugs were having on him.

One thing the drugs hadn’t done was change Ronnie’s appearance; he still looked like Reggie. When Reggie put on a blue suit, white shirt and blue tie, similar to those Ronnie wore in hospital, only those who knew them well could spot the difference. When Reggie had his hair cut as short as Ronnie’s and put on a pair of glasses, even I had trouble telling them apart.

The switch was a simple operation. Leaving some friends in a couple of cars outside the hospital grounds, Reggie went in to see Ronnie as though it was just another routine visit. They sat chatting at a table in the small visiting hall and waited until a patrolling male nurse’s back was turned. Ronnie whipped off his glasses; Reggie slipped his on. Then they quickly but discreetly changed places.

When they were sure no one had noticed the change-over, Ronnie got up and sauntered over to a door which visitors were allowed to go through to fetch tea and biscuits. The nurse, assuming he was Reggie, opened the door and Ronnie walked out. But he didn’t go for tea; he walked straight out of the hospital into the grounds. One of the hospital staff came towards him on a bike and Ronnie tensed. But the man merely nodded a greeting and rode past. Ronnie walked on and on until he reached the gate, and then he spotted the cars Reggie had told him about and he was gone.

Reggie waited for about half an hour, then he went up to the nurse on the door and said, ‘Excuse me, Ron’s been a long time getting the tea. I didn’t think they were allowed to get the tea.’

The nurse looked puzzled. ‘You’re Ronnie,’ he said.

Reggie shook his head. ‘I’m Reggie. Ronnie went to get the tea. I’m getting worried.’

The nurse stared at Reggie closely. He must have believed him, because he ran off, a worried look on his face. Then all hell broke loose. An alarm bell went off. Hospital staff started running around. And then the police arrived.

Someone said to Reggie, ‘This is all down to you.’

But Reggie pleaded innocence. ‘I just came to see him. He went to get the tea, then everyone got excited.’

To confirm Reggie’s story, the police took his finger-prints and checked them with the Criminal Records Office at Scotland Yard.

‘You are Reg Kray,’ someone commented.

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last hour,’ said Reg. Then he added, straight-faced, ‘I’m worried. What’s happened to him?’

‘Do us a favour,’ one copper said impatiently. ‘You know what’s happened.’

But Reggie kept saying he didn’t. And they kept him there for a couple of hours before letting him go.

By then, Ronnie was in a beautiful, expensive flat in St John’s Wood. Not for long, though. When he arrived, he took one look round and said, ‘I don’t like this. You can get me out of here.’ And we did – the next morning. Ronnie was like that. It wouldn’t have occurred to him that we’d gone to a lot of trouble and expense to get him a ‘safe’ house. He just didn’t like the place and that was that.

That day, the Superintendent of Long Grove got in touch with us and asked us to see him at the hospital. He said we’d made a serious mistake: Ronnie wasn’t well and should have stayed there for treatment. We played dumb, but the Superintendent laughed. He said he admired how it had been done: there had been no trouble, no one had been hurt. But, nevertheless, we had made a mistake. And he warned us that we would find out he was right.

For the next few months Reggie and I had our work cut out running our businesses while keeping Ronnie ahead of the law. The escape was big news and stories of his whereabouts flooded the East End: he was reliably reported to be in the Bahamas, New York, Malta, the Cote d’Azur, Southern Spain and goodness knows where else. In fact, he never strayed further north than Finchley or further west than Fulham. He took a few chances to visit Mum in Vallance Road, and the first visit proved very traumatic for him. While he was there, he wanted to see Aunt Rose. But she had died while he was in Winchester and Mum had decided not to tell him until he was better. When she did break the news, Ronnie got up and went into the yard. He stood there, looking up at the railway arch. The death of his Aunt Rose was the biggest blow of his life then. He stood out there, looking up, trying to take it in.

Ronnie didn’t want to be on the trot for the rest of his life. But he didn’t want to go back to a mental hospital either. While he had been in Wandsworth, he had heard about people who had been in and out of mental institutions for years and was terrified of ending up like them. One had actually been certified insane and was being detained without a firm date for release. Ronnie dreaded the same thing happening to him.

To solve the problem, we had to prove that Ronnie was, in fact, sane. So we booked an appointment with a Harley Street psychiatrist under an assumed name and asked him to give an opinion on Ronnie’s mental state. Ronnie made it sound plausible with a cock-and-bull story about getting married and being worried about insanity way back in the family. The psychiatrist was highly amused and, after asking a few questions, sent Ronnie on his way with a document stating that he was, indeed, in possession of all his marbles.

The effect on Ronnie was startling, and very worrying. Relieved that the dark shadow of madness was lifted, he started taking even more risks. He would have a few drinks here, a few drinks there, and once he strolled all the way along Bethnal Green Road, cheerfully returning the greetings of people who thought he was Reggie.

But after five months the strain of being on the trot began to take its toll. He’d put on a lot of weight through heavy drinking, his face was drawn and haggard, and he’d become morose and anti-social, preferring to stay in and read or sleep. None of us knew what to do for the best. I was told Ronnie was suffering from the after-effects of the drugs pumped into him. He needed medical treatment very quickly, but to get it would mean revealing his identity and recent history.

In the end, the problem was solved for us. Ronnie took one risk too many and was recaptured. He suspected police would be waiting for him to turn up at Vallance Road to celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday, so he waited until the day after and arrived after dark. But the police were still waiting and let themselves in quietly at three in the morning as one of the party guests left.

A few days before, Ronnie had been acting very strangely; sometimes he didn’t even recognize Reggie or myself. But when those two uniformed policemen and two male nurses walked into the house that night Ronnie was perfectly normal. He said he knew they had to take him back, and went to get his coat. I think he was relieved it was all over.

The police said they would take Ronnie to Long Grove for a formal discharge, then return him to Wandsworth where he would finish his sentence. But first he would stay overnight in Bethnal Green nick. Alarm bells rang loudly in my mind and Reggie’s: we had not forgotten the PC Baynton affair. And although it was now nearly four in the morning, we rang our solicitor, a doctor and a national newspaper reporter.

Two hours later, Reggie and I walked into the police station with the lawyer and the doctor. We were not welcome. A high-ranking officer refused to let us see Ronnie and, in spite of the lawyer’s protests, ordered us out of the building.

If someone had talked to us civilly, assuring us that Ronnie was all right and would get the proper treatment, I’m sure that would have been the end of it. But when Ronnie eventually came out, the police laid on a security pantomime that got everyone’s back up. He was in a taxi – with a police escort – and they roared past us as though Scotland Yard was on fire. Angry now, as well as concerned, Reggie and I gave chase in our car, with the doctor and lawyer behind in theirs and the reporter behind them. It was like something out of those pre-war Keystone Kops silent movies. And it got even crazier near the Oval cricket ground in Kennington, South London, when a second police car, probably called on the radio, cut in front of Reggie, forcing him to swerve on to the pavement. It was all so stupid and irresponsible.

The security farce continued even when we reached Long Grove. The police escort let the taxi into the hospital grounds, then parked across the drive, blocking the entrance. We simply got out and walked. But then the second police car was allowed through and it crawled behind us as we walked to Reception. What on earth did they think we were going to do? Hurl hand grenades and rush Ronnie to freedom under cover of machine-gun fire?

At Reception, we asked to see Ronnie. The request was turned down. Instead we were shown into the Superintendent’s office. He was as charming as before, but repeated that we’d done Ronnie no favours by helping him escape: he was very sick. We agreed, but argued very strongly that he wasn’t insane. The Superintendent listened politely, promised to consider Ronnie’s case carefully, then arranged for us to see him there and then.

That Superintendent didn’t have long to consider the case. Within a couple of days Ronnie was taken back to Wandsworth. He was not re-certified, but he was put on tranquillizers. He hated this, but he finished his sentence without further trouble and walked out a free man about seven months later, in May 1959.

The release date surprised us. Ronnie, sentenced to three years, had belted a prison officer, caused a certain amount of damage to others, then escaped from captivity for five months. Yet he still earned full remission and served just two years.

Did someone blunder, I wonder? Was Ronnie diagnosed wrongly? Did a doctor or psychiatrist prescribe the wrong treatment? Was Ronnie allowed out earlier than he should have been just to keep him happy?

And to keep us quiet?