Me and My Brothers
An updated edition of the bestselling autobiography of Charlie Kray, elder brother of the Kray twins, Ronnie and Reggie, who are brought to the screen this autumn in a major motion picture.Charlie Kray was the only person who knew the truth behind the terrifying violence of his notorious twin brothers, Ronnie and Reggie.In his dying days, reflecting on how the Kray name destroyed his life, Charlie reveals what he really thought about the twins – and why they treated him so badly.Today, 40 years after the arrests that ended their so-called reign of terror, the power the Krays wielded is part of criminal folklore – and the fascination with them lives on.Charlie knew them better than anyone – from the extortion racket that provided riches beyond their dreams and the sexual liaison that took them into the corridors of power to the murderous mayhem the twins embarked on as they came to see themselves as beyond the law.In this fully updated edition of his best-selling autobiography, Charlie Kray reveals a side of Ronnie and Reggie that not even their closest henchmen ever saw.
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Me and My Brothers
Charlie Kray
with
Robin Mcgibbon
Charlie dedicated this book to his parents, who were forever in his thoughts
Table of Contents
The first edition of Me and My Brothers, which my company Everest Books published in 1975, made little impact. Charlie knew he had an interesting story to tell but was broke, and more eager to cash in on the notoriety of the Kray name than to write a no-holds-barred blockbuster.
Ronnie and Reggie hated the book. So did Charlie. Like many things done for the wrong reasons, it lacked emotion, conviction – and honesty. The murder of Jack ‘The Hat’ McVitie had destroyed Charlie’s life, but, in 1975, neither twin had admitted their roles in the killing, so family loyalty prevented him disclosing how or why.
In 1988, HarperCollins gave Charlie a second bite at the cherry – a chance to reveal what he didn’t, or couldn’t, say before. Then, when he was convicted on a drugs charge nine years later, Charlie was given an opportunity to further update his story.
For the 1997 edition, I would like to thank Melvyn Howe, courts’ correspondent of The Press Association, for offering help with the trial copy, and his then boss, Mike Parry, for supplying it.
For their help in ensuring that this final edition of Charlie’s life story is accurate, I must thank Charlie’s best friend Wilf Pine and his wife, Ros, Maureen Flanagan, Les Martin, Steve Wraith, Albert Chapman, Trish Ellis, of the Sunday Telegraph, Jonathan Goldberg QC, David Martin-Sperry and Ronnie Field.
I would also like to thank my dear friend Mike Harris for all the fact-checking research at the British Library – and, of course, my wife, Sue, for all the donkey work that goes into writing a book.
But special thanks must go to Dave Courtney, who was always there when I needed him. Thanks, Poppet.
Robin McGibbon
Bickley, Kent
March 2008
My name is Kray. But I’m not a gangster; never was, never wanted to be.
And I don’t want a gangster’s funeral.
I don’t want to be remembered as a gangster, just because I had twin brothers, Ronnie and Reggie, who got a kick out of violence and a thrill out of murder.
I was never like the twins. And I don’t want people thinking I was. Even when I’m dead.
I could throw a punch, too, and have boxing trophies to prove it.
But I’d rather throw a party. That’s why people called me Champagne Charlie. And that’s how I’d like to be remembered.
I spent my life trying to distance myself from the twins’ way of life, and a gangster’s funeral would associate me with all they stood for. And that wouldn’t be right.
When my time comes, I want to be carried to the flat I shared with the woman I adored, then be buried the next day, with the minimum of fuss – and certainly no TV cameras – next to my lovely son who died tragically young.
Reggie will want to stage a showy spectacular, like the one he laid on for Ronnie that brought the East End to a standstill.
But I don’t want that and I’m sure that, despite the differences we’ve had all our lives, Reggie will respect my wishes.
The ringing of the phone brought me out of a deep sleep. Through half-closed eyes I squinted at my watch on the bedside table: 5.15 A.M. I took the phone from its cradle. ‘Hello,’ I muttered, husky from tiredness. An unfamiliar woman’s voice apologized for waking me, then spoke quietly in an abrupt, businesslike manner. I heard what she said, but I couldn’t take it in. Didn’t want to. I thought I must be still asleep. Numb with shock, I passed the phone to Diana, lying next to me. She listened for a few moments, thanked the caller, then stretched past me to put the phone down. She looked at me and shook her head, sadly. ‘I’m afraid it’s true, Charlie.’
In a daze, I got out of bed and shuffled, zombie-like, downstairs into the lounge. I took a bottle of Remy Martin from the cocktail cabinet and filled a long tumbler, then I gulped the brandy fast, again and again, until it was gone. Diana came into the room in her dressing gown. We stared at each other in shock. I went to say something but no words came out. And then she moved towards me and put her arms round me and I started to sob.
That morning at my home in South-East London was the worst moment of my life. Worse than the day I was jailed for ten years for a crime I didn’t commit. Worse than being charged with a murder I knew nothing about. But my tears that morning of 5 August 1982 were not only for myself; they were for my twin brothers, Ronnie and Reggie, too. And for our old man.
