The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) (46 page)

The day started just like any other. It was 17 March 1995. I had opened the post office (in Gateshead, northeast England) as usual and went through my daily routine of serving the first few
customers
and then, when it was quiet again, retiring to the back-shop for a cuppa and a read of the paper. I always had the radio turned up high on Radio One or Virgin … as I sat down to glance at the
headlines
the top news story was announced across the airways: “Former East End gangster Ron Kray has died. He had previously suffered from chest pains and has died of a suspected heart attack. He was sixty-two years old.”

The news knocked me out of my routine. I was numb. I turned the dial from station to station to confirm what I had just heard. I couldn’t believe it but it began to sink in. Ron had passed away at seven minutes past nine at Heatherwood Hospital, Ascot. Only a couple of days earlier I had sent him a get well card. Everyone knew of his illness. Death may be inevitable, but it is often unexpected.

It did not take long for the phone to start ringing, but for a change I was lost for words. I asked the journalists to give me a couple of hours to absorb the news before I answered their
questions
and made comments. I needed to make some phone calls of my own first. I phoned Reg, then Charlie and then Frank and Noelle Kurylo, Janet Alsop, Gary the Gofer, Brad and Kim.

It was still sinking in the next day, when predictably the papers were full of stories about the twins. I had declined to comment to any of the major tabloids in case I was misquoted. I did talk to the locals … the
Journal
, the
Chronicle
and the
Gateshead Post
whose journalists I knew I could trust. During all this, my mate Ray Cann, the tattoo artist, contacted me to see if I intended to go to the funeral and that he would be willing to give me a lift there and back. I had not even thought about the funeral at this point, but agreed and thanked Ray for the offer. I had already got to know Ray well from our early involvement putting charity events together and now we were good friends. Over the next few days the newspapers carried a different headline, or a different slant, on the Kray story. It was a feeding frenzy. They ranged from Ron’s alleged last words, to a statement he had made before his death that he was the evil twin and that Reg should be exonerated of all blame. For many it will have made for an exciting read; for me it simply hyped up the Kray Legend, and could only be detrimental to any plans of imminent release that Reg may have had.

Four days later Reg called me with the details for the funeral. The conversation was as follows: “Hello, Steve, Reg here, have you got a pen? [I had] Good. The funeral is Wednesday, March 29th. Make your way to English’s Funeral Parlour. I want you to make sure you get there. If you can’t for whatever reason, be at St Matthew’s Church for eleven. I will make sure you are on the list there as well. I’m organizing the service, so you will get in.”

I told him that Ron would be proud of him for all he was doing and for being strong. He agreed, saying he was now at peace. He had others to call, so after his usual “God Bless” he was gone.

I noticed he was a lot calmer than he had been on the day that Ron died. Reg seemed to have come to terms with his brother’s death and was at peace with himself for a change. He seemed to be coping well with it. I phoned Ray and let him know that Reg had asked me to attend the service. He would start making the relevant arrangements … time off work and use of a car for us to travel down. I then phoned Michael Russen, the taxi company owner who I knew in East London, and asked if it would be okay for us to stay at his flat overnight. No problem. He too seemed excited. Okay, I see the attention of a Kray funeral and all that goes with it … but to be excited about a funeral? Never mind. My next call was to a local florist. My mate Fitzy’s wife, Colleen, worked for Sarah Gaskins, a florist’s store in Newcastle, and said they would custom make me a wreath, whatever I wanted, for a discount price. I appreciated the gesture. I had given the wreath a lot of thought and had decided that a cruise liner was appropriate, as Ron had told me on my first visit that it was his dream to go on a round the world trip. I only wish that his dream had become a reality. But he was free now – free from the torment that had imprisoned him.

The day before the funeral Gary phoned me to organize a meeting on the day. Nine-thirty at the funeral parlour were Reg’s
instructions
so I arranged to meet Gary fifteen minutes earlier. He did not seem too clear on the arrangements – if he was so close to Reg why did it seem that I was telling him things for the first time? I had suspicions about Gary and his relationship with the Kray family. I decided not to dwell on it for the time being. Mid afternoon, Ray picked me up in a borrowed car, and after a quick photo-shoot with the wreath for the
Evening Chronicle
, we set off on our long journey to London. We met up with Mickey Russen at Scratchwood Service Station at the end of the motorway and he drove us the rest of the way into the heart of London.

There was a lot on my mind that night. Funerals are always horrible things to have to go through, but gangland funerals will always lack that certain emotion you are used to. Gangland funerals are foremost a sign of respect by major figures from all over the country. It is a form of etiquette. All cultures have rules, the funeral marks the fact that the person had influence and people want to travel to show their support. There are different levels of intimacy … I knew Ron well and knew that I was there for my own reasons.

My first job the next day was to write out the card that would accompany the wreath. I wrote, “You always wanted a round the world cruise. Now you are free to enjoy it. Steve Wraith, Ray Cann, Michael Russen.” Radio Newcastle had asked me to speak to them that morning on their weekly phone-in programme with presenter Mike Parr. I had done a lot of shows with Mike so was prepared for his line of questioning. His stance was, “Why mourn the death of a psychotic gangster?” I told him and the listeners back in the
northeast
that Ron had been a friend and that his past did not concern me. I knew him now, not as he was in the 1960s. Due to the medication, and because he had been institutionalized for so long, he was a different man to the one the public had read about. My comments apparently caused uproar with the listeners and phone lines were jammed all day with people wishing to voice their concern about that “naive, misled youngster”. Radio Newcastle had never had it so good! The Krays were never going to get good publicity about anything. They are icons of underworld Britain … as I was mourning Ron instead of saying “good riddance”, the moral majority of
listeners
were saying I didn’t know what I was talking about. I knew more about it than most of them, so I did not let it bother me.

We left the flat at 8.45 that morning. Ray drove while Michael gave directions. I sat at the back with the wreath. As we drove through the streets of East London, I thought about the day ahead and felt honoured to be part of it. I was surprised at how quiet the roads seemed to be as it was rush hour in London … then we hit gridlock a quarter of a mile from Bethnal Green Road, where English’s Funeral Parlour was situated. The roads that had been so good to us looked as if they were going to let us down. Somehow we managed to push our way through the traffic, and with Mick’s local taxi knowledge we reached the funeral parlour with a few minutes to spare. We pulled up outside behind a police cordon and got out to lay our wreath. The first thing that struck me was the number of people gathering to witness another chapter in the Krays’ storybook unfold. It was an amazing sight – like a state funeral. People pushing to get a glimpse of anything … reporters and camera crews … police all over the place. It was at this moment I realized that I had finally walked into the books that I had read all those years ago, if that makes sense. I had read every book about the Kray twins and their associates, and now I was part of one. I was not just a bystander … I was a family guest. The security was impressive, they were massive – all with as much jewellery as Mr T, all immaculately dressed and very mean-looking. Leading the operation was Reg’s close friend Mr Dave Courtney. As we mingled amongst the who’s who of the underworld, we could hear the cameras clicking across the world. Photographers were perched, balanced and clinging on for dear life from different vantage points, all trying to get the best picture for tomorrow’s papers.

I laid the wreath next to Reg’s floral tribute, which read, “To the other half of me”. As I stood up, I shook hands and embraced Dave. There was no sign of Gary, so as Ray parked the car Mickey and me nipped to the nearest cafe for a cuppa. Once Ray had parked the car, I cleared it with Dave to allow Ray and Mick into the parlour. It was impossible to walk anywhere at a normal pace. We just had to stand in line and shuffle in as best we could. I could still not take in the numbers of people congregating. The flashguns and the clicking of shutters rattled through the air again as a prison van pulled up outside. It turned into the alley adjacent to the parlour … all eyes were on it, but no one emerged. God knows how many rolls of film were wasted in those few seconds. There was confusion until a dark Peugeot pulled up with Reg handcuffed to a well-dressed screw in the back. He was led quickly and quietly into English’s as the crowd cheered. The authorities obviously wanted to get him in unnoticed, which was an impossible job. Reg Kray was back in the East of London once more.

We managed to get into the funeral parlour after around fifteen minutes of uncertainty and were shown to the room set aside for friends and relatives. A few familiar faces had already arrived in the shape of Frankie Fraser, Tony Lambrianou, Charlie Richardson and, of course, Charlie Kray. I also saw Alan and Janet Alsop – we were now good friends after sharing visits to Reg. I introduced them to Ray and Mickey, before I beckoned one of the funeral directors over. I asked him to tell Reg that I had arrived and within a few minutes the director reappeared and took me to see him. I was led down a small corridor to an old oak-panelled door on the left-hand side. He pushed the door open and said, “You can take as long as you like, sir.”

My jaw dropped. Instead of seeing Reg, I was now alone in the room with Ron’s body in the coffin. I looked back and the door closed behind me. It was no mistake. He was in a large oak coffin, his hair was swept back and immaculate, as usual. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and silk tie. Even in death, I thought to myself, he looked dignified and dapper – every inch the well-dressed gangster. I know undertakers are experts at making the dead look good, but all the strain and mental torture which had been etched on Ron’s face in his latter days had disappeared without a trace. It was like he had been wearing a mask and now it had been removed. He was free at last; he was completely at peace. I did not feel sad at seeing him in the funeral parlour. I felt sad for the fact he had died in prison. I felt sad for Reg and for Charlie, but in a way happy for Ron. I put my hand on the coffin, said my own goodbye and left for the last time. The funeral director had been waiting for me outside and led me back to another door on the opposite side of the corridor. As he opened the door Charlie Kray spun round, “Steve, good to see you mate, thanks for coming down, it’s a long journey.” I shook his hand, and he pulled me towards him and embraced me. Standing next to him was Reg, still handcuffed to a middle-aged prison officer.

He stepped forward, bringing the officer with him, and put his arms around me as best he could, “Steve, thanks for coming. How are you?” He seemed calm, just as he had on the phone the last time we spoke, a lot calmer than I thought he would be. English’s had put on a lavish buffet for Reg but food was the last thing on anyone’s mind. Reg then patted me on the head (he was always amused at my lack of hair), and asked, “Who have you come with?” I explained that I had driven down with Ray and met up with Michael and that we were staying at his place. Quick as a flash he asked, “What about Bulla Ward? Is Bulla here? Is he coming?”

Bulla and Reg had fallen out in the 1960s. Bulla was a tough bloke and laughed off one of Reg’s punches one night in the Regency. There were not many men who could withstand one of his punches, so to save face Reg took out a knife and carved Bulla’s face up. He regretted the fall out and had asked me to get him there to make the peace. To be truthful, with all that was going on I had forgotten to ask Mickey whether he had managed to get in touch with Reg’s old mate, and whether he would be attending the funeral to pay his last respects. Mickey had claimed to know him, and had tried in vain to contact him before the funeral. I had tried as well but to no avail.

Thinking quickly I replied, “He’ll be here Reg, paying his respects. Reg, I know he will.” Reg smiled and then asked, “Has he forgiven me?” I didn’t quite know what to say. “Yes, Reg, he’s forgiven you.” What else could I say on the day of his brother’s funeral? “Good, good. Well thanks for coming Steve, I’d like you to go and see Ron now. I’ll be in touch. In fact, you ring me later tonight, I’ll let the staff know you are going to call, take care and God bless. Thanks again for coming.”

He kissed me on both cheeks and embraced me. It was quite a moment, something I will never forget. Charlie repeated the farewell, saying, “I’ll see you for a drink later on, Steve.” The same funeral director was waiting for me outside the door, and began to lead me down to see Ron’s body. “No, it’s okay mate, I’ve already seen him,” I said. He apologized before taking me back to rejoin Ray and Michael in the friends and relatives room. I think they had felt a bit out of place standing alone. I told them that I had been with Reg and Charlie and had been taken to see Ron. It was then that the whole emotion of the day hit me. I had always wanted to see the Kray brothers together, but not like this. I wiped a tear from my eye as we waited for others to pay their final respects to “The Colonel”, and express their sympathies to his brothers.