Doing the Business - The Final Confession of the Senior Kray Brother. Charles Kray
that if he didn’t pay up, he’d be cut to pieces. At this critical moment, the police appeared from the back of the premises, arresting and handcuffing both men on the spot. Ron, himself out of prison now, was powerless to help get Reg off his conviction.
Through his friends and acquaintances at the Regal, Ron had established a network of his spies all over the Bethnal Green and Mile End areas of East London. The system worked well, and nothing escaped the attention of the Krays. Ron lived up to his name of the Colonel and ran the firm in a very strict fashion. Those who did well were rewarded; those who didn’t were dealt with most severely.
The information gathered by Ron’s spy network helped to form the basis of rackets that ran and ran — for the next fourteen years, until the twins’ arrest and imprisonment on 9 May 1968 — and were only slightly interrupted by their spells in prison. Most of these schemes still operate somewhere in Britain, only the names of the protectors have changed. The game goes on and probably will for decades to come. Some things just can’t change.
BOW ROAD WAS DESERTED on a miserable winter’s night. Bone cold with a drizzle that fell like a fine mist, cutting visibility by half. It was impossible to see across the road, the houses on either side were quite invisible to each other. On a street corner, two men had been hanging about for a while, only the occasional flare from their lighted cigarettes breaking the gloom from time to time. In that part of town, at that time of night, under those conditions, you jump to conclusions. Filthy weather for dirty business.
The truth couldn’t have been more different. That piss awful night, when only fools and villains might be out, Charlie and Reg were on a mission, but with no trouble in mind. The Kray empire was expanding. They wanted more outlets. A suitable building to house their new club. This is what had brought them out on a night that would have been better spent shooting pool and chewing the fat. A few drinks and jokes with the lads.
It was a huge and impressive-looking building with a large, adjacent car park. Ideal for a club, somewhere the punters could drive to in their cars. No problems with on-street parking. The house stood several stories high, and although in need of considerable refurbishment, it seemed pretty much right. Charlie and Reg mentally mapped out how it would be as they reccied in the dark, flashlights picking out the best and the worst bits. The only snag, as Reg saw it, was the large building on the opposite side of the car park that faced directly on to the main road: Bow Street Police Station.
Clubs opened and closed regularly in the West End. But a club on Bow Road, in the heart of the East End, would it really take off? Is this what people, staunch East End family people, wanted? Charlie and Reg had discussed it on and on. In the end it had come down to Charlie’s faith in Reg’s business sense.
Charlie had been chuffed when Reg asked him to join him in his latest business venture. Of course, with Ron banged up in prison for three years, it was only natural that he’d keep things in the family and ask his big brother. But Charlie was still encouraged. Blood was thicker than water, but so much of it had been spilt one way or another that you could never be sure.
Charlie only got involved in the business end of things. He liked to enjoy himself and keep a low profile. This was the way he did things. Ron’s enforced absence meant that Reg was more accessible to him. Separate from his twin, Charlie knew he had a million times better chance of getting on with Reg. Running the club would be much easier with just the two of them; threesomes could be difficult, especially as the twins made such a dauntless pair. Stuck like glue and more than the sum of their parts.
Charlie was on to a good thing, and he knew it. Ron’s being away for the next two years would give him and Reg a good crack at getting the club off the ground. Not necessarily megabucks, but good clean money, maybe with a bit of an edge on the side. A touch of the criminal fraternity but mostly straight up.
Spring 1957 saw the opening of the new club. Reg was still in his early twenties, but he found himself at the hub of the thriving Kray empire. And alone, with Ron inside. Charlie would help him. Of course he would. Plans had to be made quickly to secure the lease of the building, and Reg set the ball rolling in the only way he knew how — with raw, determined energy. There was never any time to waste for Reg. He was always well fuelled and became, with a good sense of direction, unstoppable.
Reg had got money to fund the new club from various sources. He’d done his sums carefully. With the money in hand, Charlie didn’t want to know where it’d come from. He just wanted to get in gear and get going, get the show on the road.
He had been back to the house with Reg to inspect it by daylight. Yes, Reg had done his homework and come up with a good investment opportunity. Why should Charlie worry? There was even a bonus. They had taken on the lease with sitting tenants in the upper storey.
‘I thought they could act as caretakers,’ Reg said. ‘It’s good to have people living in,’ he continued, and added without a hint of irony, ‘There’s a lot of thieves around.’
Neither of them was interested in the day-to-day details of the refurbishment, but one thing that grabbed Reg’s instant attention was any fine tuning on the fitting out of the gymnasium he’d insisted on installing. They had ordered a punchbag, a maizeball, weights and assorted weightbuilding apparatus, a sweatbox and a speed ball. Complete with a full size boxing ring, it would be a knockout in every way. All that was left to do was to decide what to call it.
The solution was simple. It was Charlie’s idea. Everyone around town called this area of London the Wild West. The East End was a lawless land, just like the early days of the Wild West in America. Yet it had its own laws and code of ethics. They were rigid and inviolable. Don’t shit on your own doorstep came high on the list. Never steal off your own, be it cars, cash or wives. Don’t accept the lawless — the craziness of drug dealers and ponces.
Inspired by all of this, Charlie came up with the name: the Double R Club. A cowboy, lone plains’ drifter tribute that was equally applicable to his brothers: Reg and Ron.
On a Wednesday evening in 1957, the Double R opened its doors for the first time. It proved an overnight success. Big Pat Connolly and Tommy the Bear Brown were taken on as doormen.
Hiring them all fitted in with how the Krays operated, playing largely on fear. Tommy the Bear was a pussy cat in a bear suit, a huge, gentle giant, whose bark was worse than his bite. In fact Tommy rarely, if ever, even spat or snarled. He didn’t have to. He was a scarecrow frightener, part of the Kray twins’ furniture. But if he didn’t work, then Charlie and Reg knew how to look after themselves. They were always there to defend themselves when push came to shove.
Connolly and Brown were on the front line. And they looked the part. Both big and ex-boxers, no one got past the door without their approval. Those who were allowed in were warned not to cause trouble. It was a house rule: no trouble. If there were any disputes, they would be settled well away from the Double R.
Punters tended at least to follow the letter of the law. After all, the Krays were supplying a service, a nice place where a bloke could take his wife or girlfriend for a good night out without the risk of fights or shootings or bother of any other kind. In-house entertainment was good, too, with Fred Merry, a famous fifties pianist. He and his drummer played every night of the week. The audience were encouraged to participate. On stage there was a full-height microphone for anyone who cared to sing, though, later, Queenie Watts was taken on as the house voice.
Reg knew all the tricks in the book when it came to giving people a good time. He was always open to anything that would make the club more professional and up to date -and capitalize in every way. He wanted to attract people in, give them a good time and show the West End establishments a thing or two. There are some things money can’t buy. Personal credibility thrived in the East End, even though the West End could boast flash cash flows.
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