Doing the Business - The Final Confession of the Senior Kray Brother. Charles Kray
to Ron and was never able to reach the intimacy of affections that existed between the twins. He remained and was often treated as an outsider, and this spilled over into their business deals. Charlie often went it alone.
In the summer of 1954, Charlie Kray was involved in his own business. He had set up a travel company that specialized in all-in holidays to the south of France. With two good friends, Stan Davies and Lenny Bearfield, he’d tour-drive a minibus to the Villa Roches Roses in St Raphael.
In the villa, which he’d leased for the summer, he put up his guests. The villa had been occupied by troops during the Second World War, first by the German occupying forces and then by the Allies. It was now a solid source of income for its owners, with whom Charlie became friends, as he did with many of his clients. One of whom he never forgot.
Vic Streeter was a big man, six foot three in his bare feet, with a face threaded with scars and a prominent broken nose. He’d obviously seen tough times, but he was a real gentleman — and, as it turned out, a policeman. Vic was a talented rugby player, a skill that was put to the test against the French Navy who were billeted nearby, looking for a one-off friendly. Charlie was enlisted into Vic’s team along with Stan and Lennie, and they beat the French at a game one Saturday afternoon in the main football stadium in St Raphael.
Years later Charlie and Vic were to meet in very different circumstances, at the West End Central Police Station. It was 1968, the year when the three Kray brothers were arrested by Detective Chief Inspector Leonard ‘Nipper’ Read, who’d been leading an inquiry into their activities for some time. The officer in charge at the station that day was none other than Vic Streeter. He booked them without saying a word to Charlie.
Once locked up, Vic Streeter came down to the cells to talk to Charlie. He hadn’t wanted to speak upstairs, it wasn’t appropriate and might have proved embarrassing for any of them. But he’d never hidden his friendship with Charlie from his fellow officers. It was common knowledge that he and Charlie knew each other, and it was an acquaintance that did neither of the men any disfavour. Vic was an honest policeman and a good man, and his association with Charlie reflected well on him.
Honesty and goodness were qualities that Charlie understood, but with which he hadn’t had much truck by the late sixties, embroiled as he was with the increasing corruption of the firm. The ties of East End family were binding, they were strong and unbreakable. At that point, they had broken Charlie.
Business at the Regal was profitable, and, apart from a little assistance given to the local criminal fraternity, it was on the level. It had to change.
By the end of 1954, the Kray twins had built up a considerable reputation around the Regal in Eric Street, which had spread to include Mile End. In particular, this had got up the noses of three local dockworkers who unofficially ruled Poplar and the Mile End Road. But dockers had an unbeaten reputation for toughness themselves. To be a docker you were at the top of the heap. A real man’s man, a tough-gut who took no shit from anyone. The time had come for a showdown.
The challenge to the Krays came in the form of an invitation to join the dockers for a drink at one of their locals, a pub in the Mile End Road. This was language that the Kray twins understood. They often invited men for a drink, only to beat the living daylights out of them when they turned up. Fight dirty, fight tough, keep on top. Don’t let the bastards grind you down. The buzz was that the dockers wanted protection money from the twins; they could have done worse than to have heard the story of the Maltese efforts in that direction.
Ron and Reg were both extremely strong. Their early boxing training and their tough military service had seen to that. Although neither man was what you’d call big — Ron stood five feet ten and weighed in at twelve stone, Reg was slightly smaller at just over five feet nine and eleven stone -they made up for in grit and iron determination what they may have lacked in size. They never, ever held back in a fight and always gave it their best, 100 per cent. They had rules of their own and had never been defeated in any conflict.
Even though most of their adversaries were often much heftier than them, they had never lost a battle. Well, they were looking forward to winning the war in Poplar, anticipating it with a grim pleasure and unshakable confidence. Much like their first bout in the ring at the funfair, all those years earlier. Only this time it was really for real.
The meet was to take place early on a Sunday morning. On the evening before, they went out on the town with some of the firm. The others were anxious for them. They were about to take on three ex-heavyweight boxers with reputations to match. The twins didn’t seem that bothered, anyone would think it was just another night out, getting ratted and laid, followed by a regular Sunday down the Regal.
Sunday did find the twins at the Regal, clearing away glasses and empty bottles, brushing down the green baize of the billiard tables — everything as normal. They were early risers anyway. Work done, the place was filling fast. Though crowded, it was unnaturally quiet with anticipation. But the twins behaved no differently from any other Sunday morning. As the appointed time approached, they calmly put on their jackets and walked slowly but resolutely along to the Mile End Road.
The three dockers were drinking light ale in the private bar of the pub, and apart from them the place was empty. Only a barman to take their order. As their drinks stood on the counter, one of the dockers reached over to pass them along the counter to Ronnie.
‘Here you are, sonny. You’re just about old enough for a shandy,’ he said.
This was provocation enough. All hell broke loose. The barman retreated to the safety of the public bar. He heard the fight rage for a matter of minutes. When everything had gone quiet, he walked back into the private bar. So confident was he that the dockers would win outright, he uncapped three bottles of light ale and carried them through on a tray.
The scene that faced him is now legendary. Two of the dockers were sprawled unconscious on the floor, and the third man was just about conscious but obviously in a terrible state. There was blood and glass everywhere. He watched as Reg had to drag his brother off the third docker.
Ron never knew when to stop and without Reg’s intervention would almost certainly have killed the man. They pushed by the barman, frozen in shock and fear for himself, brushed down their suits, straightened their ties and walked casually out of the pub as if they’d just been in for a swift half.
The story soon became a part of gangland folklore in the East End. Don’t mess with the Krays was the message. They’re different. They had reached a turning-point in their status in the east London fraternity — there was never to be any going back.
If what the dockers offered were protection, you could keep it. Ron and Reg knew the time had come for them to move in, to exploit the situation. The brawl with the dockers was the second time they had been asked to pay protection money, and it was the second time they had come out on top. Enough was enough. It was glaringly obvious that they should come up with their own plans to muscle their way into the lucrative protection rackets. They were rife in the East End, and Mile End and Poplar were theirs for the taking. They’d fought for them and won.
From now on the Regal would no longer function simply as a legitimate business venture. It would be the operational base for Ron and Reg and other members of the firm. From there they would arrange the collection of their pension, as they called the protection money. From there they would, as Reg says to this day, supply a real and necessary service to their customers.
Reg believed that the firm should protect their clients from rival gangs, who didn’t operate in such a fair-minded way as they did. They would be peacekeepers — at a price — and customers had to pay that price, regardless. It was a good investment.
Protection was rife in the 1950s and still remains big business in any major city. The idea is simple enough: an organized gang or firm offers to protect businesses such as clubs, pubs, restaurants and amusement arcades for a fee. Some of these premises attract violence, especially at the weekends, when people would go out and get blitzed on booze or drugs and want to rampage through the place, tearing it apart. Heavies were needed to stop this happening. Other places were threatened by rival gangs,