The Twins - Men of Violence. Kate Kray
went bust.
I was astonished at the amount of money that flowed into the Kray coffers, even though the two key players were locked away for 30 years. For five years I was drawn into the network doing cash drops and making pay-outs to friends for services rendered. I had one mission in life at that time — to help make Ronnie’s life inside as comfortable as possible.
I was amazed that the authorities did not seem to realise Ronnie was operating his rackets inside Broadmoor. It was done under their noses. I suppose they didn’t realise what was going on. I’m glad, because that was what kept Ron going. He would try any business venture, no matter how far-fetched, in order to make money. He was the best money-getter I have ever met or am ever likely to meet. He was a tough businessman, but fair. There weren’t any villains whom Ron didn’t know. His black address book was the Who’s Who of the underworld. I automatically assumed that all the gangsters knew each other. Not true. They all knew Ron, but not each other.
All the gangsters looked up to Ronnie while he was in Broadmoor, and treated him with the utmost respect.
I saw tens of thousands pour in to Ron’s coffers week after week … and pour out again. Of course, none of it went directly to him in Broadmoor, but everything he wanted was paid for out of his cut and was brought in for him.
The bulk of Ron’s money never passed through Broadmoor and, for years, I became Ron’s trusted confidante. I dealt with his money. I had his account books. He trusted me to get cash out for him to take it here, take it there, pay so and so, pick something up for someone. I never really knew what all the transactions were about.
Some of the names Ronnie used were coded, and it was obvious they weren’t straight dealings. I didn’t want to know. If I didn’t know anything then I couldn’t say anything. I knew I was becoming drawn into dangerous territory, but I suppose that was one of his attractions. Ron was a very exciting man.
Once I had completed a drop, I normally didn’t see Ron until the next day but I always rung him at 8.00pm every single evening.
We used a code to communicate because Ron was not allowed to use the telephone then, so I spoke to the nurses. I used to ring up and ask if Ron was OK. Ron would always stand outside the small office on the ward waiting for my call.
I was never late ringing him. It didn’t matter where I was in the world, I would make sure Ron got his call at 8.00pm. I didn’t say much. I would just ask if he was all right. The voice on the end of the line would say, ‘Yes, he’s OK. Just fine.’
Ron would know it was me. He would put his head round the door and ask if I had picked his suit up from the cleaners. The screw would relay the message and by the tone of the voice I realised they considered it trivial. If only they realised the importance of the message. If I replied yes, I had picked up his suit, I would hear them call out to Ron.
‘Yes, Ron, she has picked up your suit.’
He would call back, ‘Oh good. Tell her I said goodnight and God bless.’ He would walk away with a smile on his face, confident of the fact that everything had gone smoothly.
On the other hand, if I said that I hadn’t picked up his suit from the cleaners, he would still say ‘goodnight and God bless’, but walk away cursing.
Reg was just the same. Like Ron he was a like a little hamster on a wheel, scurrying away, chasing money all the time. People would come to him with most weird ideas you’ve ever heard: ‘Reg, I’ve got this bloke says he can turn water into petrol.’ Great idea, give him ten grand. Sometimes it came off, sometimes it didn’t. Whatever happened, they could always get their hands on money when they needed it.
But as soon as they had money, they spent it. I had to send £5,000 once to an address. Later I discovered that it was to find someone who’d been sprung from Broadmoor. At the time, I didn’t know what the money was for: ‘Don’t ask questions,’ said Ron, ‘just do it.’ Other times they would spend it on more worthy causes. Ron would see something in the paper, some kid who need help or something, and say to me, ‘Send four grand to that.’
‘But Ron, you’ve only got four grand left.’
‘Don’t matter, just send it. I’ll get some more.’
And they always did …
I’m a chronic paranoid schizophrenic. Even the experts are not sure what causes it — or what cures it, if anything. But I know when I’m not feeling well. And I know what medication I need: I take Largactil and Stemetil to calm my nerves. On top of that I take Dispipal to counteract the side effects of the Stemetil — often people suffer from loss of muscle control which means they make involuntary movements. I also have a Modecate injection once a fortnight.
In layman’s terms I can only describe it as a ‘radio’ on in my head. I strain to listen to what the radio is telling me. Normally it’s telling me to hurt or kill someone. My medication helps but it turns down the ‘radio’ and I have to strain to hear it.
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