But Ron couldn’t control his laughter, so we both sat there in silence, watching him. Occasionally, I would arrive at the visiting-room before the patients were brought in. Looking across the courtyard towards Henley Ward it was quite a sight to see two of Britain’s most infamous killers, the Yorkshire Ripper and Ronnie Kray, being escorted side by side to the visiting-room.
Ronnie said that he despised Sutcliffe. Ron had been sentenced to life imprisonment with a recommendation that he serve 30 years for the murders of George Cornell and Jack McVitie, whereas the Ripper had been given a life sentence with a 20-year recommendation for murdering 13 women and attempting to murder a further 7. In Ronnie’s mind, the authorities judged his crimes against other villains as being far worse than the Ripper’s crimes against innocent women. This troubled Ronnie and made his loathing of the Ripper even greater. What Ronnie failed to realise was that neither he nor the Ripper were likely to be released, regardless of recommendations made by the judges at their trials.
Sutcliffe and Ronnie had an ‘altercation’ in Broadmoor in the mid-1980s and in the struggle that ensued, Sutcliffe got the better of him. I wasn’t surprised; Sutcliffe was younger, fitter and certainly more agile. Ronnie, a man for whom reputation meant everything, was beside himself with rage, but he had to be careful he didn’t involve himself in violence inside Broadmoor because the penalties could be harsh. Ronnie told me that he had assaulted a hospital warder during his early days at the hospital. They had put him in the punishment block, which is in a wing of the hospital called Norfolk House.
‘It’s the most feared place in here,’ he said, ‘the intimidation and mental pressure in there cannot be explained. If you went in there sane, you would come out mad. Some people never come out of there again.’
I have no idea what went on in Norfolk House. Ronnie felt uncomfortable just mentioning the place and he certainly didn’t want to return. This was one of the reasons he never sought to resolve his differences with Sutcliffe.
Preparations for the boxing show continued in earnest. Reggie sent me a list of 150 people he said I should invite to the event. Amongst the broken-nosed and criminally recorded were celebrities such as Roger Daltrey, Jon Bon Jovi, Sam Fox, Glen Murphy, Ray Winstone, Bob Hoskins and Barbara Windsor.
James Campbell, always eager to assist where money and celebrities were involved, said that as I had enough to do he would contact the people on the list on my behalf. When I eventually saw the printed tickets, I was surprised to see that Campbell and another man, named David Brazier, whom I’d never heard of, had appointed themselves ‘promoters’ for the event. Alongside their names and self-appointed titles was a photograph of the Kray twins. I assumed they were putting their names on the tickets alongside a grand title and a picture of their heroes as an act of vanity.
‘Whatever turns you on,’ I thought. So long as the event went well and raised money for James Fallon, I couldn’t have cared less.
I telephoned Campbell and asked him who this ‘promoter’ named Brazier was. Campbell told me that he was his business partner – ‘a man with lots of contacts’, he assured me. I later learned neither James Campbell nor David Brazier were the entrepreneurs they professed to be. Brazier did have a lot of contacts, but you could only describe them loosely as business contacts. Campbell was, in fact, a mini-cab driver (who was later to lose his licence for drinking and driving) and David Brazier his boss at a mini-cab office in Chigwell. I assume the numerous business contacts Campbell boasted about were the people they ferried around all day in their taxis.
I was concerned about the way the ‘promoters’ were managing the event. The tickets, priced at £40 each, were being handed out without any money being collected or any record whatsoever being kept of who was getting them. Campbell assured me that everything was in order and nobody would ever think of pulling a fast one where the twins were concerned. Reluctantly, I agreed to let him deal with the guest list Reg had sent me and continue with the sale of the tickets. Having effectively lost control of the event, I was unaware what expenses were being incurred or what revenue ticket sales were generating. The only feedback I got was from Reg Kray and it was hardly encouraging. Reg was writing to me saying that if he and his brother were on the street, they would ‘fill the place three times over’.
‘You must sell more tickets,’ Reg ranted, ‘you must try harder.’
I did try to explain the situation to Reg, but a man who had spent his life surrounded by ‘yes men’ wasn’t used to listening.
I asked Campbell why Reg appeared to be so concerned and he assured me it would be ‘all right on the night’. In the weeks leading up to the event several newspapers published stories covering it. The Daily Star ran the following article:
KRAYS KO COSTA CROOK IN CHARITY BOXING BASH
The Kray twins have told Costa del Crime fugitive Ronnie Knight to stay away from a boxing match they’re organising . . . OR ELSE!
Ronnie, ex-husband of actress Barbara Windsor, thought his old sparring partners would welcome him copying ITV’s El CID series by cheekily jetting back to Britain for the charity tournament. But the terrible twins have sent word to his Spanish hide-out, saying, ‘No can do, Ron Ron, no can do!’
The Krays fear Knight – wanted by British police in connection with a security robbery – could cause a punch-up OUTSIDE the ring. The gangland killers have set up the star-studded bash a week on Friday from their cells. It’s Ronnie and Reggie’s way of raising cash for James Fallon, 10, a hit-and-run accident victim and son of a friend. Ronnie Biggs – holed up in Brazil – has sent a signed banknote from the Great Train Robbery to be auctioned. Tina Turner, Dire Straits, U2, The Rolling Stones and The Who have all donated autographed gifts. Knight and his wife Sue were eager to join in the £50-a-ticket night in Chigwell, Essex, but now he’s said to be fuming at his villa on the Costa del Sol. A spokesman for Ronnie Kray, in Broadmoor, and Reggie, in Lewes Prison, denied the twins were hitting their pal below the belt.
It was just too risky to let Knight turn up, he explained. ‘He could attract trouble and we don’t want the police getting wind of him being there and bursting in on such a good cause. It would be too embarrassing. Sorry, Ron.’
I knew the story was rubbish. Ronnie Kray had laughed out loud when he saw it and said he couldn’t believe how gullible the media were. The story had obviously been the result of a dubious tip-off from somebody connected to the Krays in order to generate publicity for the boxing show, but more importantly, to register Ron’s ‘good deeds’ in the media. Personally, I couldn’t have cared less what the Kray hangers-on had printed so long as it publicised the event and ensured it was a sell-out.
One of the people on the guest list Reg had sent me was a man named Keith Bonsor. Reg had told me that his friend was the manager of a nightclub in Basildon called Raquels. Reggie had suggested that as I lived near the club I should go and see Bonsor as he may have been able to sell some of the tickets to his customers.
Reg told me that Gillett had appeared at Raquels when he was launching his pop career. ‘Bonsor owes me a favour,’ Reg said, ‘for getting Pete to perform there.’
I rather hoped Bonsor had forgotten Gillett’s performance. From what I had heard of Gillett’s singing, it was Reg who owed Bonsor the favour and not vice versa.
Reg was aware that my attempts to raise funds for James had been taking up so much of my income and time that my own family was beginning to feel the pinch. I hardly ever saw my son Vinney. My daughter Karis had recently been born and this added to the financial strain that I was under. Reg suggested that whilst I was at Raquels, I should ask Bonsor if he had any door work for me to do at weekends. Additional income would greatly ease my problems at home and so I considered this a good idea. When I went to see Bonsor, he said he was unable to attend the boxing event himself, but said he would pass on my number to people he thought might be interested. I asked him if he had any door work available and he told me that he contracted it out to a lo
cal security company. He gave me their number and told me to speak to a guy named Dave Venables. Bonsor was quite certain, given the fact Reg Kray had recommended me, that Dave Venables would be able to sort something out.
The same evening, I had arranged to meet David Brazier and James Campbell at a pub in Epping where we were to double check everything was in order for the event. However hard I tried, I couldn’t get a proper answer out of them about how many people were going to attend. Questions concerning ticket sales and revenue were met with vague answers and assurances that ‘so-and-so would be paying on the night’. I hadn’t had any dealings with the Krays before so I assumed these men who banged on about loyalty, honour and respect did things on trust.
I had no choice other than to accept what I was being told.
When our meeting was over, I rang Debra to tell her that I was on my way home. My instinct told me something was wrong.
‘It’s James Fallon,’ she said, ‘he has lost his fight for life. He died earlier today.’
James had begun to shake violently after a blood clot had formed on his spine. He was rushed to hospital but doctors said he had suffered acute brain damage. For two-and-a-half long hours the Fallons watched their son die; eventually, when all hope was lost, they agreed to allow the machine keeping him alive to be switched off.
I was surprised at just how much James’s death affected me. I felt something of a hypocrite for feeling upset because I had never met the boy. I suppose it was because I could not help but admire such a brave child. Despair turned to anger. It didn’t seem right for such a young boy to die in such a horrific way. Why did money have to be such a major factor in his recovery? Why should any parents have to go cap in hand to save their child’s life?
Hundreds of Kray supporters had recently marched on the streets of London in protest at the length of time the twins had been imprisoned. They demanded their release in letters to their MPs and the Prime Minister. Everybody knew the Kray brothers were two convicted murderers who refused to show any remorse. That fact didn’t seem to concern their adoring ‘fans’ who would send in money for the ‘Free the Krays’ campaign.
I had been trying to get people to donate £5 to James Fallon, a boy who through no fault of his own had been imprisoned in a broken body. Few had responded until the Krays put their name to the cause. I didn’t blame the brothers and I appreciated their help, but it did make me wonder about people’s priorities. James had put up a tremendous fight and I felt deeply sorry for him and his family.
I couldn’t believe after all the suffering he had endured that his life had been so cruelly snatched away. I went back into the pub and told Brazier and Campbell the sad news about James. Their reaction sickened me; there was no talk of remorse or respect, all they wanted to know was what we were going to do with the proceeds from the boxing show now. I told them in no uncertain terms that James’s family had incurred huge debts in their fight for James as there was no National Health Service in South Africa. All money from the event, regardless of whether James was alive or not, would still go to the family who needed it.
On the night of the event, a telephone was connected to the public-address system. There were 200 diners there who had each paid £40 a ticket. They all fell silent as Reggie Kray, having been granted special permission to telephone the hotel from Lewes Prison, paid a moving tribute to James. It was a sight to see so many criminal heavyweights standing sombrely and paying tribute to a ten-year-old boy. Charlie Kray attended, as did Ronnie Kray’s new wife, Kate. Ex-Kray gang member Tony Lambrianou and his younger brother Nicky arrived with TV stars Glen Murphy and Ray Winstone. There wasn’t an empty seat in the entire hall.
Several of the people in attendance did not want to publicise their presence as they had risked entering the country from exile in Spain. They were there simply because Reg had asked them to attend. It was at this event that I met Geoff Allen, the man described in many books and newspaper articles as the ‘Godfather’ of the Krays. Geoff was 70, but he had the mind and attitude of a man half his age. He came across as a country gent but in reality he was a well-connected villain.
Geoff was jailed at Norwich Crown Court for 7 years in 1976 for masterminding a £300,000 insurance swindle after a historic building, Briggate Mill, was burned down. It was also believed in police circles that Geoff was the brains behind the Great Train Robbery. It was Geoff’s house in Suffolk where Ronnie and Reggie had gone to lay low after murdering Jack ‘the Hat’ McVitie. I liked Geoff a lot. With him, you got what you saw. There was no gangster chit chat about how well respected he was or the usual shit the vast majority of Kray hangers-on came out with. Geoff warned me that many of the people present were not what they made themselves out to be and I should be cautious about getting involved with them. ‘Steer clear of the Frayne brothers,’ he warned, ‘and that Tony Lambrianou.’
I had never heard of the Frayne brothers but I had heard of Tony Lambrianou. Tony had lured Jack McVitie to a house in East London where the Kray twins had lain in wait. Once McVitie entered the house, Ron had glassed him and Reg had stabbed him to death. Lambrianou had not given evidence in his defence at the trial and was sentenced to life imprisonment. I was surprised Geoff was telling me to give him a wide berth. Perhaps Lambrianou was an East End psycho and Geoff was telling me to avoid him for my own safety, I reasoned.
Geoff and I spent most of the evening laughing at the guests who had arrived dressed as Kray clones. It reminded me of some of the sad individuals I had seen on Elvis Presley lookalike TV competitions. Nobody but themselves could see the slightest resemblance. They looked absolutely ridiculous, dressed in starched white shirts, black ties, Brylcreemed hair, Crombie coats and a fixed scowl to match, they believed they looked the part. Two Kray clones that were particularly prominent appeared to be very friendly with ‘promoter’ James Campbell. I thought they looked more like the comedian duo Hale and Pace than the Krays.
When I asked Geoff who they were, he told me they were Lindsay and Leighton Frayne, the brothers he had advised me to avoid. Later in the evening, Campbell brought the Fraynes over to introduce them to me. They seemed polite enough, but I couldn’t help but notice the sense of theatre about them. Every phrase, every bit of body language was well thought out, mimicking their heroes Ron and Reg. I also spoke to Lambrianou, who thanked me for a great evening. Why he should be thanking me did puzzle me a little, as he had paid £40 to get in – or so I thought. Lambrianou didn’t strike me as a violent man or appear in any way intimidating; he seemed OK, was extremely polite and went out of his way to be pleasant to anybody who spoke to him.
What I did find rather bizarre was the amount of people who asked Charlie Kray, Kate Kray and Lambrianou for their autographs. Another man I met there was a Scot named Alan Smith. Alan had written to me before the boxing show and had organised a sponsored run in Edinburgh to raise money for the Fallons. Alan was in his early 30s, fit and approximately 6 foot tall. He told me he worked as a doorman and often visited London doing security at some of the large outdoor pop concerts. We agreed that when he was next in London we would meet up for a drink.
The evening went really well. A couple of local fools tried to gatecrash, but when Charlie Kray, Lambrianou and a few other infamous faces appeared at the door to see what the fuss was all about, their mouths dropped open and they fled into the night. Flannagan, the self-styled first page-three girl, and ‘close friend’ of the Kray family, took the bids during the auction.
Out of the various items for sale, including the signed Rolling Stones albums and boxer Charlie Magri’s shorts, pride of place went to two official passes for visits to Broadmoor Hospital and Lewes Prison to see Ronnie and Reggie in person. Flannagan, treading the boards of the boxing ring, shouted out: ‘If you really fancy an interesting chat and want to do some good at the same time, then let’s hear from you.’ Both passes were quickly snapped up for £500 each. The event raised a reported £15,000. I was overjoyed that so much money had been made. It a
lso eased the embarrassment I had endured following the non-event in Wolverhampton. With the proceeds from Reggie’s book, I thought I had generated about £100,000 for the Fallons. The fact that the police were still seeking Paul and me for the assault on Stuart Darley did not trouble me. All that mattered to me that night was the fact that I had finally achieved my aim and raised a considerable amount of money for James’s family.
At the end of the evening, I went to collect the money but I could not find Campbell or Brazier. The hotel and other expenses had been paid, but there was no sign of the promoters. It had been a long day and an even longer night, so I assumed they had gone home and would contact me the following day.
That weekend I contacted Dave Venables at Raquels nightclub and asked him if he had any door work for me. I was told that I could start work immediately. The wages, Dave said, were £40 per night, cash in hand. I stayed at the club for a short while, talking about things in general.
Dave Venables told me that things were not going too well for the local bouncers and I was entering the Basildon nightclub security scene at a time of change following a spate of retirements, deaths and public disorder. A bouncer named McCabe, who was once all-powerful, had recently died in a road accident and the infamous West Ham United football hooligans, known as the Inter City Firm, had taken on the hardcore of Basildon’s doormen at a rave held in the town.
Madness had reigned that night. The ICF had come prepared with coshes, hammers, ‘squirt’, tear gas and knives. The unwitting doormen had nothing to defend themselves with other than their muscle-bound bravado and reputations. They soon lost them both. The ICF rampaged through the hall, hacking, stabbing, slashing and stamping on the retreating bouncers whose crime it was to have had one of the ICF members ejected over a trivial remark. Being a good doorman isn’t about going to the gym and throwing your steroid-bloated frame about, it is about diplomacy and understanding the psyche of the psychos you encounter.
Wannabe in My Gang? Page 4
