Reginald Kray - A Way of Life

WAY OF

Over 30 years of blood, sweat and tears

REG KRAY

PAN BOOKS

To the young of the world... the Bradleys, Pauls,

Kevins, Billys, Joes, and all the rest in the hope I have

taken you through this journey to save you the trip.

Take it easy... because I care.

God Bless,

Reg Kray

If you travel the same route as everybody else, all you will see is what they have already seen.

Iain Banks

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

This book is a recollection of all my prison years. Included are memories of love, loyalty, friendship, intrigue, betrayal, treachery, violence, laughter and tears not necessarily in that order. This story is of a journey, a journey that takes place over a period of more than thirty years... and which still remains unfinished.

My brother Ron and I were arrested on 8 May 1968 at my mothers flat in Braithwaite House, Bunhill Row, Old Street, London. We were later charged with murder, extortion, fraud, bonds charges and grievous bodily harm. Those charges led to us sitting in a cell in Brixton where we remained on remand until we were sentenced...

CHAPTER ONE

On remand with us in Brixton prison were our brother Charlie Kray, Freddie Foreman, Joe Kaufman (a New York American) and one traitor... namely Richard Moggy Morgan from Mile End. We were in a special unit which had been specially built for us a year prior. Ron and I had heard of this special wing during the time the police were going around accumulating statements in the hope that they would finally be able to arrest us.

The unit was on the second floor of the building and was very secure. It consisted of about twelve cells. We had our own television, which reminded me of the feast before the slaughter. Even after just a few days the toll of captivity was starting to tell on Dickie Morgan and Joe Kaufman. I wondered how they would have reacted had they been in the hands of the Gestapo during the Second World War. As it was all they faced was some time in prison. If it had been the days of war they might have faced having their teeth removed with pliers. They seemed bad enough now... what would they have been like then? But thats getting away from the story, so Ill go back to the beginning.

In between trips to court I settled down reasonably well. Dressed in a pair of shorts, I would, for an hour each day, kick a football around the compound. This area was surrounded by wire mesh and barbed wire. My aim, which helped me to keep fit and made me sweat considerably, was to kick the ball against the wire mesh and catch it with either foot on the rebound. I would play this game and then go back to the wing for a shower.

Frankie Fraser was on the ground floor in one of the cells and sometimes I would stop for a chat. He was doing fifteen years for his alleged part in the case known as the Richardson Torture Trials. He was later to get another five years for participating in the Parkhurst mutiny and riots. I can remember it like yesterday. Frank said to me out of the window, Look at that pigeon on top of the wire, Reg. Hes doing stoppo! Which in prison slang meant he was having it on his toes! I could see the funny side; it was typical of Franks sense of humour. Some time later at the Old Bailey, on the same day that Frank had an appearance (for a separate case), we were all waiting in the corridor to go up before the judge to be remanded. Frank was sitting at the bottom of some steps, pretending to play a trumpet. It brought another smile to my face.

Also in Brixton, in the special unit above ours, was Dennis Stafford, known as the Playboy. He had just been sentenced to life imprisonment for the killing of a fruit-machine rival in Newcastle. He was convicted along with one other man called Luvaglo. They had shot and killed a rival in what became known as the One Armed Bandit Killing. Luvaglo was also sentenced to life.

Staffords real name was Dennis Seigenburg. Both Ron and I, for personal reasons, knew this. At the age of sixteen wed been on a charge of causing grievous bodily harm during a rival teenage gang fight. We were charged, along with Pat Aucott and Thomas Organ, of causing GBH to two adversaries, namely Ronald Harvey and Dennis Seigenburg. They were both also sixteen.

Even at such a young age there was a code of honour among the criminal element one didnt make statements against another. Both Harvey and Seigenburg broke the code. They claimed we had committed GBH on them during a gang war fight outside Barrys Dance Hall, the Narrow Way, Mare Street, Hackney, London.

So we found ourselves before Judge McClure in the No.1 court at the Old Bailey at the age of sixteen. The case had considerable national and local newspaper coverage, and we were eventually acquitted.

But all these years later Ron and I had not forgotten this slight by Dennis Stafford. I immediately marked Frankie Frasers card that Stafford was not to be trusted. Thats how it is in criminal circles. We give each other references and this is called giving the strength or the SP on someone.

There was also someone else we knew in the Brixton security block. His name was Allan Gold and he was on a 4,000 robbery charge. It was a small world Allan used to be one of our best customers in our billiard hall at the back of Mile End tube station. He was a pretty good snooker player too!

In one of the other wings was Billy Howard, a South London villain, whom I always had a lot of respect and admiration for. Billy was one of the old school and could really have a fight... he was afraid of no one. He was also a smart dresser. He always wore a blue serge suit and looked immaculate. He was on a charge of demanding money with menaces and was in his latter years. As Ron and I passed him one day he greeted us with a hello. It was comforting to find there were people we knew, people who shared our adversity; it made for a kind of camaraderie. In better times we had shared a drink or two.

Both Ron and I, like Billy Howard, accepted that time in custody was all part and parcel of our precarious and hazardous occupation. Im sad to say that Billy passed away some years ago. He will remain in my thoughts. He was a good man.

When I think of the year of 1968 an accolade should go to my mother for outstanding loyalty and devotion. For a solid thirteen months during our remand, our mother (God bless her) did not miss a single days visit. She made sure that Ron and I were supplied with food and drink and clean washing. She also organized the visits for anyone else we needed to see.

Already, as Ive mentioned, the toll had begun to tell on the traitor Morgan. I didnt detect this at first. He pestered Ron and me to get him bail sureties, and told us what wonderful feats hed perform to get us free if we got him bail. So I in turn pestered my old man to try to get this organized. Morgan was on a charge of conspiracy to murder along with ourselves. In fact this is one of the charges I forgot to mention earlier there were so many charges slung at us it was hard to remember them all. They threw the book at us!

Anyway, the devoted Morgan finally got his bail and was also very quickly acquitted of the charge. It wasnt difficult to see why; he was on the list of police informers. We never saw him again. My old man hadnt ever liked him he always was a good judge of character.

It was one of the best tennis years at Wimbledon. We watched it on the small TV. There was an epic match between Charlie Pasarell and Pancho Gonzales; they were both brilliant. While we were watching play, one of the screws in the unit by the name of Jock Hughes came to tell us of the suicide of one of those charged with us in connection with the bonds. I cannot recall his name all these years later. I hardly knew him. One of our defence lawyers then showed Ron and me a statement written by the American, Joe Kaufman. He was really cracking up and putting all the blame on us for his involvement in the bonds charges. A couple of days later I noticed Kaufman sitting on the edge of a table-tennis table reading one of the daily newspapers. I took a couple of steps towards him and smashed a left hook through the newspaper and on to the point of his chin. He seemed to fly through the air before landing in a heap on the floor. He was out cold with blood pouring from his mouth and nose. I knew I had broken his jaw, which was my intention. I figure he would have ended up with a broken jaw regardless of whether hed been reading the newspaper or not... the newspaper just added a little more surprise.