The Profession of Violence

by John Pearson

  For Reggie Kray the fantasy was over: he had to face the truth about his brother. The game they’d played was finished, Ronnie was no colonel but his mentally deranged twin brother. Now for the first time he was truly scared: ‘For a while I really thought that I was going off my head myself.’

  There was one person who might help – their mother. Once they were back at Vallance Road, Violet Kray managed to calm Ronnie for a while. But not for long. How did he know that this was Vallance Road? It looked like it, but that proved nothing. Similarly with this woman: she looked just like his mother, but possibly that went to prove just what a cunning lot they were.

  ‘You’re all a lot of dirty filthy murderers,’ he sobbed.

  That night the family called in a doctor they could trust and who had known the twins for many years. ‘I knew that technically Ronnie was insane and did my best to get him into hospital. He was in a dreadful state. All I could do that night was give him sedatives and warn the family what would happen if he didn’t get the treatment that he needed.’

  Most of the family agreed with the doctor but Reggie was adamant: ‘Just give him time and peace and quiet. He’ll be all right.’

  To give him this he moved with Ronnie into a third-floor luxury flat off the Bayswater Road. He never left his brother’s side now and tried everything to cure him – fresh doctors, new drugs from America, trips to the country. But each day Ronnie seemed worse, and ultimately drink was all that kept him quiet. Sometimes he drank two bottles of gin a day.

  According to the doctor, ‘it was chiefly alcohol that produced the physical change that was so marked in him about this time. Alcohol in any quantity mixed with a drug affecting the central nervous system can have the most appalling oblique effect. I know that there were times when even he was scared. It must have been like DTs ten times over.’ And by this time Reggie was drinking too. Soon he appeared as scared and anxious as his brother.

  Then Ronnie got the idea that he would be all right if he could see an old friend who was now in Maidstone Gaol. Reggie would agree to anything by now and a few days later fixed a visit at the prison. One of the Firm took Ronnie, who entered the prison under an assumed name. For an hour this half-mad escapee sat in the visiting-room at Maidstone Gaol begging his friend to make a break from prison just to come and help him. The man refused. Ronnie wept, promised anything he wanted, but the man insisted that it was not possible.

  This was the end for Ronnie. Back at the flat that night he tried to kill himself. Reggie prevented him, and then rang Charlie Kray. At last he agreed the family was right. Ronnie’s one hope now was to get to hospital.

  Next morning the Kray family called at Scotland Yard. This was against everything they believed in, but they were giving Ronnie up. By an ironic twist the duty sergeant could not find the name on the wanted list and there was a long wait before the police agreed to act at all. Finally it was arranged for them to call at Vallance Road at 2 A.M. the following morning. The brothers gave their word that there would be no trouble.

  That evening the twins had supper with the family at Vallance Road. It was a tense meal and although Ronnie drank a lot, for once he seemed unable to get drunk. Somebody offered him two powerful sleeping tablets saying they would be good for his headache. He took them, but they had no effect. Sensing that something was not right, he started shouting and then weeping. His mother calmed him and he went on drinking until long past midnight. The police arrived as two o’clock was striking. Ronnie looked up as if expecting them and walked out to the car without a word or glance back at his family.

  Strangely the original plan behind the whole escape now worked. By staying free from capture for so long, Ronnie was no longer certified insane. For a few weeks he returned to Long Grove. Here, with the treatment he received combined with Stematol, he calmed down. By September 1958 the doctors pronounced him fit to finish his prison sentence.

  So he returned to Wandsworth Gaol, where he was treated like a normal prisoner. He was still suffering from delusions and at times became so violent that he was placed in a straitjacket for his own safety. Despite this, he was permitted to conclude his sentence. Ronnie complains that Stematol was now denied him. And in the spring of 1959 this sick young homicidal psychopath was released into the world outside. Dickie Morgan, Reg and Charlie were at the gates to meet him. He scurried to their car convinced that the Russians and the Mafia had combined to kill him. All the way back to Vallance Road he kept his head down in case someone shot at him. Once in the house, he felt he had to decide whom to kill first to save his own skin. Finally his old doctor was able to get him into St Clement’s Hospital, where he spent the next three weeks under deep sedation.

  Slowly he seemed to recover. First he became an outpatient. Violet Kray looked after him at Vallance Road. Stematol kept away the worst of his nightmares and permitted him to coast along the borderlines of normality. Those who had known him before his breakdown recognized that the Colonel had changed and changed for good. He was far moodier, more erratic now and more suspicious. He was more frightening too. Physically he seemed more dangerous than before.

  The change in his appearance which he had first noticed in the mirror in his cell at Camp Hill had grown worse. No longer was he identical with Reggie. It may have been the combination of drink and drugs that did it; it may have been the physical change that sometimes goes with acute cases of schizophrenia. Whatever the cause, his features coarsened, neck and jaw-line thickened, flesh round the eyes closed in. Reggie would keep his looks; Ronnie would be a monster.

  As for his mind, this had recovered from the breakdown. Soon he would cope again with life after a fashion. But all the dangerous tendencies of this time remained behind the thin veneer of drugs. Provided he kept calm he would survive. Faced with excitement or with stress he would lapse back to the paranoiac state of the previous summer. He would become abnormally suspicious. He would feel few of the emotional restraints of normal people. He would know little of fear or apprehension or regret. Given his previous history, he would almost certainly end up killing someone.

  EIGHT

  Comeback for the Colonel

  Until their brother’s breakdown, Reggie and Charlie Kray had been extremely smart. With Ronnie out of things they were quite free to use more subtlety than in the past. They had avoided trouble and had been quietly tying up their corner of the East End. Boom-time was just round the corner. They had made peace with everyone – even the twins’ old enemies, the Italian gangs of Clerkenwell. The night the Colonel once shot up their social club was not referred to when his brothers drank with them at The Double R.

  More important still was their new friendship with Billy Hill. This strange entente with their old enemy was partly due to sentiment. Criminals are often sentimental men and it pleased this rich but childless old gangster to find two respectful protégés. He could relive his life through theirs and they were always more than grateful for his sage advice. There was a practical reason, too, for Billy Hill’s concern with the Krays. Although retired, he still had interests in London, mainly in gambling, and he needed people like the Krays to watch them for him. Quietly he began to back the Krays, showing them an opening here, fixing an introduction there, leading them to a new, rich world which promised to become an Eldorado of discreetly organized criminal activity.

  Illicit gambling had always been the bedrock of the capitalism of London crime. When Spot and Hill ‘ruled’ London, their steadiest profits had come from the illegal gambling clubs they controlled, and the Krays too made their modest livings from East End ‘spielers’. By the mid fifties, gaming fever had hit London: illicit gambling was turning into a major industry, which was still effectively controlled by the underworld. Even the chemmy parties organized by well-publicized figures flitting from address to fashionable address around Belgravia were paying their nightly cut to someone in the background by whose permission play continued undisturbed. And through the influence of Billy Hill, Charlie and Reggie had been
introduced to several of these parties as unofficial ‘minders’. They showed promise, particularly Charlie. He looked well in a dinner-jacket. He was interested in gambling and had the right amount of toughness and deference to reassure the customers. More important still, the Krays were getting their first foothold in West End gambling; this, said Billy Hill, was where the fortunes of the future lay. As usual, Billy Hill was right.

  Parliament was on the verge of legalizing gambling. The politicians claimed that this would hit the criminals, but Hill could see that it would really give the underworld the chance of a lifetime. With gambling legalized, the underworld would virtually be legalized as well. London could become the Las Vegas of Europe; and legalized casinos would have to be run by someone. Who better than the men who knew the work already, men like the Krays? Provided they were sensible, they could not go wrong.

  Reggie and Charlie both agreed; already they were modelling themselves on Billy Hill and saw a golden future very near. They would polish up their image and concentrate on their clubs, leaving behind the rough and tumble of the East End dirty work. The understanding with the Italians would be consolidated, their entry into West End gambling exploited for all it was worth, and then with Billy Hill as adviser they would be set to take over a club or two in the West End once gaming was legalized. From then on life would be simple. No need for villainy. A good lawyer and accountant would handle their affairs and advise them where to invest their surplus earnings. They would be businessmen with a country house and a flat in town. They could move into property and betting shops and restaurants. Within a year or two they’d have their Rollses and live part of every year abroad like Billy Hill.

  Ronnie could be taken care of properly. This was important. He could have everything he needed – the finest treatment, travel, boys, a discreet place in the country where he could be nursed during his attacks. Clearly he would need all this, for he was in a dreadful way. Most of his time was spent huddled by the fire at Vallance Road. The night Reggie brought him to The Double R he had blacked out. Everyone felt sorry for him. Charlie suggested they should treat him to a foreign cruise.

  When he said this one night at Vallance Road, Ronnie was furious. He’d heard about these cruise ships: they could do anything they liked once you were aboard. Some people never came back at all. Charlie tried reasoning with him. He could go first-class to the Mediterranean or the West Indies. It would be good for him and get him well again. Charlie appealed to Reg, but Reg was suddenly unsure and looked away.

  ‘If Ron doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t have to. Leave him alone. I’ll look after him,’ he muttered. Reggie kept his word and spent more time with Ronnie, drinking with him, driving him to the country and bringing friends to Vallance Road to meet him. The more he did, the more demanding Ronnie seemed. By weekends Reggie had usually had enough. He had his own life now. There was a girl he liked taking out; this was impossible with Ronnie around. So most weekends Reggie would send his twin to the country with their boyhood friend, Checker Berry. Ronnie still trusted him, and Checker was quite big enough to look after himself. Checker had a farmer friend in Wiltshire. He would book rooms in the village pub, and he and Ronnie stayed from Friday night to Monday morning.

  Ronnie enjoyed the farm and got on perfectly with all the locals. He seemed a trifle slow, but otherwise quite normal; he didn’t talk much, but was back on brown ale. He started riding; he was no stylish horseman, but enjoyed mastering his hefty mount. He took riding seriously, learning to canter, sitting the horse massively with ramrod back as if the whole point of riding were a continual battle of will between man and beast which he was determined to win.

  One morning as he rode his weary nag back to the stable he reined in to talk to Checker.

  ‘He’s turned them all against me, hasn’t he, Check?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My Reggie, while I’ve been away. He thinks I’m barmy, and that I can’t see what he an’ Charlie are up to. But I’m not barmy any more. They’d better both look out, those two.’

  Violet was happy, Ronnie seemed better, and her twins reunited, just like the old days; Ronnie in the big back bedroom, Reggie in the smaller room off the landing. Nothing had really changed since they were boys. She was so grateful that she had them still to make a fuss of, and she was touched to notice that they had picked up their old habits, like taking off their watches and cuff-links every night and leaving them on the kitchen mantelpiece before they went to bed – Reggie’s on the left, Ronnie’s on the right. And Ronnie was soon starting all his old tricks, telephoning his barber in the morning and ordering his shirts just as he used to. He even bought himself another dog – a great brown Dobermann, which he kept in the yard and fed himself. When asked his occupation now, he would write ‘dog breeder’. He even wrote this in his passport. It was good to see his sense of humour had not suffered with his troubles.

  The rows had started up again between the twins, but this didn’t worry Violet. Rather the reverse. They proved that Ronnie was back to normal. Years ago she had taught herself never to listen to what they said. They didn’t mean it; it only upset her. But if Violet had listened to the arguments between the twins, she would have noticed something: Ronnie was more aggressive, Reggie continually on the defensive. Ronnie said he was going soft with all his smart new friends, that he was wasting all his time on women. It was degrading.

  Reggie would try explaining all their plans for the future, but the arguments fell flat. Caution, economy, business prospects suddenly had no appeal. It was surprising how much Ronnie knew of what had gone on while he was away. There had been nothing disloyal about what Reggie and Charlie had done – but Ronnie made it sound disloyal: making allies with the Italians, listening to their old enemy, Billy Hill, straightening the Law, avoiding trouble.

  ‘You’re turning into just a little cry-baby. It must be all these dirty women you’ve been having.’ Although Reggie shouted back, and knew that what Ronnie said was unfair, he had his first real doubts about the good life now.

  Reggie felt guilty and gave Ronnie all the money he could squander, a wardrobe of expensive suits, a new blue Fairlane automatic to match Reggie’s yellow one. He also paid for Ronnie’s weekend trips to Jersey. Ronnie had two new boyfriends, brothers, and since he dreaded being caught for homosexuality in England he felt safer taking them to Jersey. Reggie imagined that these trips away were keeping Ronnie out of trouble in the East End, but Ronnie was emerging from his breakdown fast.

  Reggie’s first warning came when he heard that Ronnie had been into a gambling club in Vallance Road threatening to break it up and asking for a pension of £10 a week. This was absurd, since Reggie was part-owner of the club himself, but instead of facing Ronnie, he told the manager to pay him.

  Then came more serious trouble. Ronnie persuaded Reggie to take him to a meeting with the Italians. There was a matter of some delicacy to be discussed, a compromise over their gambling interests. Diplomacy was needed. Ronnie lumbered to his feet and started shouting that the Krays had no need of a bunch of cheap Italians.

  When he stormed out, Charlie attempted to apologize – their friends were sympathetic. Of course they understood about the poor boy and what he had been through in prison. But they all knew that nothing could be quite the same again: Ronnie had destroyed two years of carefully nurtured understanding. This was the first time Reggie showed he knew exactly what was happening. He drove to Vallance Road with an old friend and asked him wearily, ‘What can I do about Ron? He’s ruining us. I know we ought to drop him. But how can I? He’s my brother and he’s mad. Without me God knows what he’ll do.’

  A fortnight later there was a rally at the billiard hall. It was like old times with all the lights on and the smoke and crates of beer and the Colonel back in his favourite chair opposite the door. There were a few old faces but many more had come from other parts of London. The Colonel had been busier than anyone suspected. He looked delighted with himself. He wore a new blue suit, new
spectacles and held a gleaming cutlass. A huge dog slobbered at his feet and growled when anybody came close. Ronnie’s two boys were there; he’d never been with them on show like this before. Reggie glared at them when he entered. They grinned back at him. Ronnie smiled.

  ‘All of the enemy will be at The Hospital Tavern tomorrow night,’ said a white-faced boy with spots.

  ‘All of them?’ asked Ronnie.

  The whole of Watney Street. They’ll be expecting you.’

  ‘We’ll be expecting them. It’s time we got our own back for what happened when I went away. Some people think they can forget a thing like that. Some people have been getting soft. I think it’s time we had a little war.’

  Reggie said nothing.

  Next night there was a full-scale bar fight at The Hospital Tavern. Both gangs were armed with knives and chains and knuckle-dusters. But the twins proved invincible as ever: Reggie discovered something he had nearly forgotten – the strength that surged up in him as he and Ronnie lost themselves in a fight. He had no sense of danger – only of power and a driving impulse to destroy. Nobody could resist them, and when the bar was empty and the last of the Watney Streeters were scrapping in the street, Reggie was standing amid broken chairs and a carpet of smashed glass not realizing the fight was over. He took the microphone the singer used on Saturday nights, turned it full on and bawled through the loudspeakers that if Watney Street wanted any more, the Krays were ready for them. No one answered. He shouted again. But the police cars were screeching up outside and everybody was running. Then Ronnie was beside him, saying they must get away. As they slipped past the crowd, the ambulances had arrived, their blue lights flashing.

  At Vallance Road they both went through the old routine of cleaning up at their Aunt May’s house next door before saying good night to Violet. Next day the headlines said the East End had had its worst gang fight for years. Neither police nor crime writers seemed to know why.