running with a pack. I was on the prowl again. I came back to wicked old London, to be part of the big Kray party.
Alfie had already warned me about getting in too deep. But the one thing you couldn’t do was say ‘no’ to the twins. If they asked you to do something, you did it. Alfie said it was starting to get dangerous. I thought it was overwhelmingly exciting. And so in that early spring of 1966 I became the coolest gangster in London. Or so I thought.
I had to learn the proper talk, learn to get a read on Ronnie’s moods – when to flatter, when to duck out of view. Reggie was emerging as my friend but it was Ronnie giving the orders. Iwas sent down to the West End at one time with Ronnie Hart (the twins’ cousin) to ‘kill’ someone. We were both tooled up. But I can’t even remember who we were meant to murder. Ronnie Hart had no more intention of killing this person than flying to the moon, and neither did I.
I’d never killed anyone and never would. But you had to go along with it, pretend you were going to. When we came back that time we just said we couldn’t find him and Ronnie had already forgotten about it. If you’d asked him the next day why he wanted us to kill whoever it was, he wouldn’t even remember.
I bounced around, staying with Alfie in Holborn or with David and Christine in their ground-floor flat in Upper Clapton near Stoke Newington, not too far from Mum and Dad. It was at number 51 Moresby Road, an anonymous suburban street of Edwardian terraced houses. I felt safe there. Nothing bad could happen at David’s place. Not with his kids there. That’s what I believed, anyway.
CHAPTER 9
DEAD MEN CAN’T SPEAK
IT WAS A normal spring evening the night it happened. I was round at David’s gaff. His wife Christine was preparing supper in the little kitchen and Alfie was with us in the front room watching TV. I think it was that US show The Fugitive , about an innocent man who escapes from prison. It was a big deal at the time.
Early in the evening the phone rang in the hall. David went out to answer it.
‘Who is it, Dave?’
I already knew the answer. We all did. Almost every night Reggie or Ron would phone up to ask us to come out drinking. If we said no, they’d just send someone round to get us anyway. It was 9 March 1966, a Wednesday, the day after David’s birthday, so we all still had a bit of a hangover and didn’t want to go out. We just wanted to watch telly. Have a few drinks.
‘So, is it the usual?’ I asked him. ‘Of course it is,’ David said. It had been Reggie on the phone saying that we should come over for a drink at the Widow’s. No special reason. Just get over.
We all looked at each other. Better do as he says. David’s car was outside the flat – a grey, two-door Ford Popular. Not flash.The three of us got in and headed for Bethnal Green. David did the driving, with Alfie and me in the back.
We got to the Widow’s. Reggie was outside in the street with the rest of the Firm, all of them milling around under the railway bridge beneath the street lamps. There was something funny going on, we could sense it. We all got out. There’s Reggie walking towards us, saying to David quite matter-of-factly: ‘Where’s your motor?’
David nodded towards it.
Then Nobby Clark – an old safe-cracker and founder member of the Firm – said to Reg: ‘What motor are you going in?’
Reggie replied, ‘I’ll go with these.’ He indicated us.
We got back in the car. Reggie jumped in the front. He said to David, ‘Come on, kid, we’ve got to get off the manor.’ Reggie was excited, but spoke as if he was just arranging any other piece of business. David stepped on the accelerator hard and we screeched away.
At first no one spoke, but eventually Alfie asked Reg, ‘So, what’s the matter?’
Reggie said, calm as anything: ‘Ronnie has just shot Cornell.’
‘Who the fuck’s Cornell?’ It was David who asked. He didn’t know and I certainly
Alfie had already warned me about getting in too deep. But the one thing you couldn’t do was say ‘no’ to the twins. If they asked you to do something, you did it. Alfie said it was starting to get dangerous. I thought it was overwhelmingly exciting. And so in that early spring of 1966 I became the coolest gangster in London. Or so I thought.
I had to learn the proper talk, learn to get a read on Ronnie’s moods – when to flatter, when to duck out of view. Reggie was emerging as my friend but it was Ronnie giving the orders. Iwas sent down to the West End at one time with Ronnie Hart (the twins’ cousin) to ‘kill’ someone. We were both tooled up. But I can’t even remember who we were meant to murder. Ronnie Hart had no more intention of killing this person than flying to the moon, and neither did I.
I’d never killed anyone and never would. But you had to go along with it, pretend you were going to. When we came back that time we just said we couldn’t find him and Ronnie had already forgotten about it. If you’d asked him the next day why he wanted us to kill whoever it was, he wouldn’t even remember.
I bounced around, staying with Alfie in Holborn or with David and Christine in their ground-floor flat in Upper Clapton near Stoke Newington, not too far from Mum and Dad. It was at number 51 Moresby Road, an anonymous suburban street of Edwardian terraced houses. I felt safe there. Nothing bad could happen at David’s place. Not with his kids there. That’s what I believed, anyway.
CHAPTER 9
DEAD MEN CAN’T SPEAK
IT WAS A normal spring evening the night it happened. I was round at David’s gaff. His wife Christine was preparing supper in the little kitchen and Alfie was with us in the front room watching TV. I think it was that US show The Fugitive , about an innocent man who escapes from prison. It was a big deal at the time.
Early in the evening the phone rang in the hall. David went out to answer it.
‘Who is it, Dave?’
I already knew the answer. We all did. Almost every night Reggie or Ron would phone up to ask us to come out drinking. If we said no, they’d just send someone round to get us anyway. It was 9 March 1966, a Wednesday, the day after David’s birthday, so we all still had a bit of a hangover and didn’t want to go out. We just wanted to watch telly. Have a few drinks.
‘So, is it the usual?’ I asked him. ‘Of course it is,’ David said. It had been Reggie on the phone saying that we should come over for a drink at the Widow’s. No special reason. Just get over.
We all looked at each other. Better do as he says. David’s car was outside the flat – a grey, two-door Ford Popular. Not flash.The three of us got in and headed for Bethnal Green. David did the driving, with Alfie and me in the back.
We got to the Widow’s. Reggie was outside in the street with the rest of the Firm, all of them milling around under the railway bridge beneath the street lamps. There was something funny going on, we could sense it. We all got out. There’s Reggie walking towards us, saying to David quite matter-of-factly: ‘Where’s your motor?’
David nodded towards it.
Then Nobby Clark – an old safe-cracker and founder member of the Firm – said to Reg: ‘What motor are you going in?’
Reggie replied, ‘I’ll go with these.’ He indicated us.
We got back in the car. Reggie jumped in the front. He said to David, ‘Come on, kid, we’ve got to get off the manor.’ Reggie was excited, but spoke as if he was just arranging any other piece of business. David stepped on the accelerator hard and we screeched away.
At first no one spoke, but eventually Alfie asked Reg, ‘So, what’s the matter?’
Reggie said, calm as anything: ‘Ronnie has just shot Cornell.’
‘Who the fuck’s Cornell?’ It was David who asked. He didn’t know and I certainly
Similar Books
