The Profession of Violence

by John Pearson

  Had he done as they asked and ‘educated’ them, things could have been different, but they both lacked the knowledge and support to fight for the succession on their own. Control of West End crime was passing to a loose federation of existing gangs, the most important being the Italians. They were anxious to warn any of Spot’s old allies against ideas of a comeback. A list was prepared. Various people on it were cut in various painful places. News reached the twins that it was their turn next.

  For several days Fort Vallance was more fortress-like than usual. Nobody saw the twins and rumours started. They had been killed together and their bodies were laid out in Vallance Road, embalmed according to a secret clause in the Colonel’s will. They had both fled the country, and were living it up in the Bahamas on the great fortune Billy Hill had paid to buy them off. They were in prison.

  Finally they emerged. At around 10.00 at night their old van, filled once again with armed men from the billiard hall, collected them from the house and set off west along the Clerkenwell Road. It drew up opposite the social club the Italians used as their headquarters. Ronnie stepped out. As Colonel he possessed a medieval concept of the rules of war. The leader went in first. Reggie and the others watched through spy-holes cut in the side of the van. It was a dramatic entry. Several of the men who had put Ronnie on the list were standing at the bar.

  ‘Some of you want to settle some business with me and my brother. We’re here. Let’s get it over with.’

  No one replied.

  ‘Can’t yer speak English?’

  Someone threw a bottle at his head; the Colonel drew his heavy Mauser automatic and fired three shots in return. Perhaps he aimed to hit the wall. Perhaps his marksmanship was bad. Nobody tried to stop him as he walked back to the van.

  Ronnie Kray was never to forget this moment. It was an answer of a sort to the fiasco of the night at Islington. This was how life should be lived and victories won. This proved what he had always said – that the rich gangs of the west were soft and would collapse if anyone stood up to them. If someone like Jack Spot could govern the West End for ten years with a gang like his, think what the twins could do.

  What they forgot was that Spot’s power had come not out of violence but from its opposite – his skill in avoiding it. Like an old condottiere, his greatest battles had been those he never had to fight. His gang, his big cigars, the drink and the occasional brawls were his façade: behind it was a skilful fixer, an underworld diplomat who could negotiate between the clubs, the racketeers, the other gangs, and always fix a deal. Hill was the same, and ultimately a smarter man than Spot. But both took a lot of trouble not to offend the police. There was an unspoken understanding between them and the Law. Hill and Spot could keep their position provided there was no trouble to the general public and they kept their men in order. Behind this understanding lay a realistic old-time policeman’s philosophy. Cities will always have a certain level of crime and there is something to be said for tolerating one gang that knows the rules rather than face a horde of unknown criminals.

  This was anathema to the twins. In their way they were very honest. They both loved violence: they loathed the Law. By their lights Spot was a phoney: they would become the real thing. Spot’s men had been the washouts of the West End: they would fight their battles with the toughest tearaways of the East End. And they would have none of the Spot-Hill understandings with the Law. ‘Coppers is dirt.’

  If it were necessary to fight, they’d go to the limit. If Ronnie had to kill, he’d kill. ‘We weren’t just playing kids’ games any more.’

  Now, as the twins aspired to greater power, many things changed, their gang included. It was still based on the billiard hall, but Ronnie was right. The kids’ games were over. There were still jokes of course. Ronnie put on various acts, and there were as many guests and drunken evenings as ever. The twins remained good hosts and continued to have good parties. But they no longer seemed to have the old-style gang fights for the hell of it. Everything began to have a purpose. Even the hall seemed less of a club now, more of a business. Many old faces started to stay away.

  This was inevitable. The twins’ contemporaries were moving into their middle twenties. Many were thinking of marriage. Marriage meant settling to a steady job, keeping away from trouble, staying at home at night, saving and not spending. One of those who dropped out said, ‘It’s very sad, but if you’re serious about a bird you just can’t help yourself. You have to go straight – least for a while. One thing was certain – once I was courting I just had to choose. Either the twins or the girl I wanted to marry. And when I’d married her there was the flat to pay for and the hire purchase. Then the two kids arrived. I’d see the twins. Ronnie’d say, “When’re you comin’ out with us again?” I’d say I’d be around next week, but never went. Somehow there wasn’t time.’

  ‘Always it’s bloody women,’ Ronnie muttered. ‘Women’s our worstest enemy. Why can’t they keep their places any more? They don’t want men these days. What they want’s lap-dogs.’

  Lap-dogs or not, old friends were leaving as they were absorbed into the straight, female dominated world of the new East End. There had never been a style of life like this in Bethnal Green before – LCC maisonettes, new schools, television, supermarkets, car, and a wife determined to keep her looks and her husband. There was a demolition order on the billiard hall: new flats would soon go up in Eric Street. But the new middle-class East End was no life for the twins, even had they wanted it. Ronnie was openly homosexual by now; Reggie had no time for women. The new pattern of East End gang life fitted a younger age-group. Hooliganism ended by the early twenties. Now that the twins were planning a new war they needed other outcasts like themselves.

  In the East End anyone serving a prison sentence is simply referred to as an ‘away’. Any close friend of the twins who was ‘away’ had always been looked after. The twins had a keen sense of responsibility over such things. They wrote, they visited and did what they could to stop the man worrying about life outside. If there was trouble with the rent they’d see to it. If he had heard his woman was playing around, they made certain she was warned to be faithful or at least discreet. At Christmas time they sent a box of groceries to the family, and when release day came the twins would usually be outside the prison gates to offer a pound or two and a lift home in their car. They were genuinely kind to those they liked and had a knack of making kindness work.

  But at the same time this concern for the ‘aways’ was a real source of loyalty. Now that their following was changing, it did as much as anything to place their organization on a professional footing. News travels nowhere faster than in prison, and it soon got round that the Kray twins were ‘genuine guv’nors who looked after their own’. This gave them status, and their reputation spread through different gaols and into the wide world of working criminals outside.

  This sort of reputation coupled with their ‘name’ offered the twins a useful reservoir of talent for the future. Once it was known that any villain on release had only to call in at the billiard hall to be sure of a fiver and some quick excitement, the twins could be sure of finding just the men they needed.

  Discipline at the billiard hall was tighter now; the battles waged were more determined. Ronnie began thinking of what he called the ‘politics of crime’ and genuine criminals started to take the place of the happy tearaways of the year before. This new following became known as ‘the Firm’. By 1956 its power had spread through Hackney and Mile End along to Walthamstow. South lay the river; to the north, Islington was being run by their old friends, the Nashes. Within the area they controlled, the twins were supreme. Each thief, each gambling club, most of the pubs and many businesses paid something to the Firm for the right to prosper. For the first time in their lives the twins looked like becoming rich. Reggie had his first big American car and a succession of good-looking chauffeurs. The big-time was beginning.

  But although the fame of the twins was spreading and criminal
s talked about them as ‘the most dangerous mob in London, the boys with the real future’, one thing was lacking: the power to expand. Ronnie was planning his battles and hoped for alliances to carry the Firm into the West End. None of them quite worked. The Firm was just a little too dangerous for other gangs to want to know. Despite all Ronnie’s challenges, not even Frankie Fraser wanted a real gunfight. The West End closed itself against the twins.

  This was frustrating, especially to Ronnie. Though he had money now, a car, a thick gold wristwatch, these were not what counted. His best possessions were his guns. When he went out he had a sword-stick and a .32 Beretta that scarcely showed beneath his well-cut suit. This was his personal weapon, although he had other guns as well. With the Beretta he took trouble filing the ends of the slugs and cutting them to make dum-dum bullets just like those with which Capone’s men once blasted large holes in their enemies.

  It was not only gang war that he wanted; he talked of ‘doing’ people all the time. Traitors were round him, and he began to make a list of ‘those who’d have to go’. People would talk about the Colonel’s list. Many would worry about it since he proclaimed that he was psychic and could read people’s motives from their aura. He consulted a lady clairvoyant from Walthamstow. She told him he was under the protection of a powerful spirit guide, who guarded him and would tell him what to do through his inner voice. All the Colonel had to do was listen.

  Even Reggie, who disapproved of ‘all this spiritualist stuff and meddling with things you can’t understand’, was impressed.

  That autumn a car-site owner in the Bethnal Green Road sold a young docker a second-hand Austin Eight for £120. It was a straight deal for cash, but the next day the man returned with the car saying it burned oil and that he wanted his money back. The dealer refused; shouting started.

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow with my friends from over the water.’

  ‘And I’ll be ready for ’em.’

  A few minutes later the dealer was on the telephone to Vallance Road; Ronnie’s hour had come. For some while now the twins had made a tidy income out of the local car dealers, partly from ordinary protection (they went to work with paint-stripper and seven-pound hammers on the stock of one dealer who thought he didn’t need them) and partly by helping out if a customer occasionally turned nasty. This rarely happened. When it did, the mention of the twins’ name was usually enough to smooth things over or ensure prompt payment. The twins had no desire for trouble with the ordinary public. This case was different. The threat of a rival gang from south of the Thames was a direct challenge. Ronnie Kray’s spirit voices told him he must act.

  Early next morning one of the Firm was posted on the look-out by the car-site. When the docker arrived with all his friends he was to telephone the billiard hall. Whatever happened then, Ronnie would deal with personally. He had a long wait, and sat there in his chair in the empty hall steadily working himself into a rage. This was no time for weakness – this was war. Once an outside gang came on his territory he would show everyone the power of the Krays. He chose a Luger. He put on his big Capone-style overcoat. Then the call came. The docker had arrived.

  In fact he’d come alone and wanted to apologize. So did the dealer. Both had calmed down since the day before and were discussing things when the door was kicked open and in stormed the Colonel and his driver. The driver had a knife. The docker tried to hit him, but before he could, the Luger fired twice and he was on the floor clutching his leg. No one spoke. The Colonel looked for the South Londoners; seeing they weren’t there he left, slamming the door behind him. The only sign of his presence was the reek of cordite and the growing pool of blood on the floor. As someone said afterwards, ‘it wasn’t like real life. It was all straight out of a gangster film.’

  Everyone realized the shooting was a big mistake – everyone but Ronnie, who had been thrilled to pull the trigger. Provided he was daring enough, he could get away with it. Provided he listened to his voices, he would never fail. Action was what counted. And everyone involved now rallied round to save him from trouble with the Law.

  The dealer had to. Unless he hushed things up at once he knew he would rapidly end up in the dock with Ronnie Kray on a charge of attempted murder. And so before the wounded man bled to death or the police arrived, he had him bundled into a car, and one of the men on the site rushed him to Bancroft Road Hospital. He dumped him in the outpatients’, then drove off before anyone asked any questions. Half an hour later the docker was under surgery. Then the real game started, as the police arrived and tried to get someone talking.

  Ronnie did nothing. Such was his privilege. After a long tirade, Reggie was taking care of him: within an hour of the shooting he was safely hidden in an anonymous flat in Walthamstow. He spent his time quite happily listening to operatic records, drinking bottled beer and trying to remember every detail of what it had been like to shoot a man. Soon he was working on his list and choosing who to deal with next.

  All the real work fell on Reggie. He was the one who had to tie up every possible loose end if Ronnie were to be saved from joining the ‘aways’ for the next ten years. The dealer was no problem. Scared of the law and frightened of the Krays, he would do anything to avoid incriminating himself. So would his employees. The real problem was the wounded man, who was just coming round from the anaesthetic with a policeman by his bed. Once he really talked, Ronnie was in trouble. Reggie would have to see he didn’t.

  In any other part of London not even Reggie could have done this; but in the East End, if you knew the right man and had sufficient power, it was surprising what could still be done. Reggie knew many people, and the most useful was a portly man from Stepney with a stall in Brick Lane. His name was ‘Red-face’ Tommy Plumley, and he was the East End’s fixer. He was an unlovable man. ‘Slimy old devil, Tommy. Just like an old fat snake.’ The one thing he knew was everybody’s price. Reggie Kray telephoned. Red-face took over.

  It was too late to stop the docker talking to the police. Dazed though he was from the anaesthetic, he had given an account of what had happened. But later that afternoon several friends visited him in hospital, all of them suddenly concerned with his safety. If he knew what was good for him he would do nothing rash. Despite the police guard by his bed, the docker was soon distinctly worried.

  Next day the police swooped and arrested a man on suspicion of the shooting. An identity parade was held that afternoon inside the hospital; the docker identified the suspect as the man who shot him, and the police went to charge him under the name of Ronald Kray. Now for the first time the arrested man objected. He wasn’t Ronald Kray. His name was Reginald. His driving licence proved it; he could also prove conclusively that on the morning of the shooting he was nowhere near the car-site.

  Prove it he did. Reggie’s alibis were so unshakeable that the police at Arbour Square could do nothing but apologize and send him home next morning. After a blunder like this by the police, Ronnie was safe; the only people to be taken care of now were the site-owner and Ronnie’s driver. Here Red-face fixed things personally, paying a visit to the hospital in Bancroft Road. During his short chat with the docker he stressed that the Krays were valuable friends and hard enemies and that if he knew what was good for him he would no longer be quite so positive about the morning he was shot. When the police pressed charges against the site-owner, their chief witness’s memory suddenly turned vague – so vague that he could no longer state for sure where he’d been shot or who was present or what really happened. Finally the case had to be dismissed for lack of evidence.

  Red-face was a tidy-minded man who liked to keep his promises. A policeman was discreetly rewarded – so were the docker’s friends who warned him and the car-site man who drove him to hospital. Finally there was the docker to be taken care of, or rather, the ex-docker. With his left leg now an inch shorter than his right, it was clear that he would dock no more. Red-face discussed it with him very amicably. The man’s wife had always dreamed of opening a swe
et-shop and tobacconist’s of their own, but they had never had the capital. Red-face understood.

  Thanks to him, Ronnie’s first shooting ended happily for everyone involved. The docker lost an inch of leg but gained a sweet-shop; Red-face drew a good commission on the settlements, and the twins became more feared than ever, particularly Ronnie. The only man to lose was the car-site owner, who paid well over £3,000 before he was through. As usual Reggie was swift to point the moral. ‘If you’re a straight man and start playing with fire you must expect to burn your fingers once in a while,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘After the shooting, Ronnie seemed a bit like Superman,’ says a member of the Firm. ‘We were in awe of him. It seemed that there was nothing that he couldn’t do and get away with. Reggie was different. Never knew where you were with him. Most of the time as good as gold. Talk anything over with you; understanding as you like. Then he’d turn vicious. Hard to know exactly why he did. Just get these moods, he would – he could be wickeder than Ronnie.’

  Tension between the twins increased; their rows worsened. Ronnie was proud of what he had done, and took delight in telling friends exactly how the shooting felt. It was obvious that he could hardly wait to repeat it. But Reggie’s attitude was contradictory. Sometimes he seemed appalled by Ronnie’s action. ‘You must be raving mad,’ he would shout. ‘You shoot a man, and then you leave it all to me to clear up. One day you’ll get us hanged.’

  But Reggie could appreciate his twin’s excitement better than anyone and he was vulnerable to Ronnie’s taunts about his cowardice. ‘All you’re fit for’s clearing up,’ Ronnie would mutter at him. ‘You couldn’t shoot a man if you tried. You haven’t got the guts of a flea.’

  Reggie was torn as usual. Part of him wanted to steer clear of trouble, but another part longed for the chance to prove himself his brother’s equal. When trouble started with a gang from Watney Street, Reggie did nothing to prevent it.