Inside the Firm - The Untold Story of The Krays' Reign of Terror by Tony Lambrianou
Authors: Tony Lambrianou
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them. They saw it as a liberty, and became very touchy about who used their name and in what way. But they gave Chris and me their official blessing. Reggie said, ‘Put us up, but put us in.’ By this, of course, he meant that we could use the Kray name for a price.
So with these words ringing in our ears, we exploited it to the full. That name was worth money on its own. It opened doors for us wherever we went, and did us vast favours. From then on, the twins got a cut of most of the stuff we were doing. Not all of it – they had enough coming in as it was – but we never did anything behind their backs. We always went to them with news of what was going on. Sometimes they’d say, ‘We’re not really interested, but go ahead, do it.’ At other times, they’d want to know the ins and outs of it and want some cash, or ask us to carry out some justice if they had the hump with someone. It was called Kray justice, and it was more feared than the lawful variety.
Things began to move very quickly for us. But my own involvement came to an abrupt halt when I was sent back to prison in the New Year of 1965.
It all began in a Wimpy bar in my old stamping-ground of Dalston Junction. I was on one of my visits back to London from Blackpool and I was sitting at a table by the window, keeping observation on a bank for future reference. Another man was with me who shall remain nameless because he wasn’t caught. We had our eye on this Wimpy bar, too, because the takings in there must have been coming up to £1,000 a day, and we decided to do it there and then.
So we went downstairs into the office. I got the manager by the scruff of the neck, put a knife up to his throat and asked him to open the safe, which he did. I then pulled a gun on him, and when he gave us the money we disappeared. But the paper seller on the corner recognised me. I was well known in the area through my dealings with the amusement arcades, Lou’s Café and Chez Don, and this man decided to point the finger. Even more to my surprise, he couldn’t be straightened out.
I went to see him and I asked: ‘Are you going to give evidence against me?’
He went, ‘No.’
I said, ‘Good-day.’
The next thing I knew, I was being warned about approaching witnesses by the police, who came to pick me up at my parents’ house. Despite the fact that I was married and living with my wife and daughter at Blythe Street, when I wasn’t away earning money in Blackpool, I always considered Betford House to be my home; and, like all of my brothers, I spent a lot of time there. Detective Sergeant Robeson, who later claimed he nicked the Great Train Robber Bruce Reynolds, and Detective Sergeant Terence Day took me to Dalston Lane police station, where I was charged.
The trial went on for five days at the Old Bailey. I expected to be acquitted, because the case against me was very weak. The witnesses – the Wimpy bar manager, his assistant and the paper seller – were contradicting each other all the way through, and the policeofficers’ notebooks didn’t match. One claimed that he had made his notes at the same time as the other, but his colleague said something completely different. But unfortunately I wasn’t very well represented in court: my QC wasn’t putting the case over as I would have wanted.
I was in front of Judge Maud, who was known as the Lagging Judge – he was always giving out three-year sentences, as if that was all he knew. I suppose I should have counted myself lucky: on 29 January 1965 I was sentenced to thirty months’ imprisonment for assault with intent to rob and for being armed with an offensive weapon with intent to rob. I was acquitted of having an armament in my possession.
While my case was going on I was sharing an Old Bailey cell with Frankie Shea, Reggie Kray’s brother-in-law. He was being tried for robbery with John McVicar and Roy Nash in one of the other courtrooms in the building. On the day of my sentence, I spent
So with these words ringing in our ears, we exploited it to the full. That name was worth money on its own. It opened doors for us wherever we went, and did us vast favours. From then on, the twins got a cut of most of the stuff we were doing. Not all of it – they had enough coming in as it was – but we never did anything behind their backs. We always went to them with news of what was going on. Sometimes they’d say, ‘We’re not really interested, but go ahead, do it.’ At other times, they’d want to know the ins and outs of it and want some cash, or ask us to carry out some justice if they had the hump with someone. It was called Kray justice, and it was more feared than the lawful variety.
Things began to move very quickly for us. But my own involvement came to an abrupt halt when I was sent back to prison in the New Year of 1965.
It all began in a Wimpy bar in my old stamping-ground of Dalston Junction. I was on one of my visits back to London from Blackpool and I was sitting at a table by the window, keeping observation on a bank for future reference. Another man was with me who shall remain nameless because he wasn’t caught. We had our eye on this Wimpy bar, too, because the takings in there must have been coming up to £1,000 a day, and we decided to do it there and then.
So we went downstairs into the office. I got the manager by the scruff of the neck, put a knife up to his throat and asked him to open the safe, which he did. I then pulled a gun on him, and when he gave us the money we disappeared. But the paper seller on the corner recognised me. I was well known in the area through my dealings with the amusement arcades, Lou’s Café and Chez Don, and this man decided to point the finger. Even more to my surprise, he couldn’t be straightened out.
I went to see him and I asked: ‘Are you going to give evidence against me?’
He went, ‘No.’
I said, ‘Good-day.’
The next thing I knew, I was being warned about approaching witnesses by the police, who came to pick me up at my parents’ house. Despite the fact that I was married and living with my wife and daughter at Blythe Street, when I wasn’t away earning money in Blackpool, I always considered Betford House to be my home; and, like all of my brothers, I spent a lot of time there. Detective Sergeant Robeson, who later claimed he nicked the Great Train Robber Bruce Reynolds, and Detective Sergeant Terence Day took me to Dalston Lane police station, where I was charged.
The trial went on for five days at the Old Bailey. I expected to be acquitted, because the case against me was very weak. The witnesses – the Wimpy bar manager, his assistant and the paper seller – were contradicting each other all the way through, and the policeofficers’ notebooks didn’t match. One claimed that he had made his notes at the same time as the other, but his colleague said something completely different. But unfortunately I wasn’t very well represented in court: my QC wasn’t putting the case over as I would have wanted.
I was in front of Judge Maud, who was known as the Lagging Judge – he was always giving out three-year sentences, as if that was all he knew. I suppose I should have counted myself lucky: on 29 January 1965 I was sentenced to thirty months’ imprisonment for assault with intent to rob and for being armed with an offensive weapon with intent to rob. I was acquitted of having an armament in my possession.
While my case was going on I was sharing an Old Bailey cell with Frankie Shea, Reggie Kray’s brother-in-law. He was being tried for robbery with John McVicar and Roy Nash in one of the other courtrooms in the building. On the day of my sentence, I spent
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