Meeting Ronnie Kray

With friends from within show business and politics, such as Sinatra, Garland and Lord Boothby, and pictures of them taken by David Bailey and society photographers, the Kray Twins, Ronnie and Reggie, were the supreme rulers of East and West London’s underworld in the 60s. Their name became a byword for proletarian power, and they dressed in the stark, dark uniform of the working-class male, which owed more to the sartorial soberness of the 50s than anything that could be considered “swinging” in that hip age. Dark suits, white shirts and sombre ties with small, vicious knots pushed up to strangling point. They threatened; they hurt; they killed, and they evaded the police for 15 years. Eventually, the conspiracy of silence crumbled, and in 1969 they were imprisoned for life for the murders of George Cornell and Jack ‘The Hat’ McVitie. I was here to find something in Ronnie that would help me portray him in a movie of his life: a voice, a speed, a weight. Written by Philip Ridley, The Krays played out the story as a working-class tragedy of egos; directed by Peter Medak, it was a heightened, grand guignol telling of the twins’ lives; a stylised East End opera.

Ronnie was wearing a sky-blue seersucker suit when we met. In Broadmoor, they are not prisoners but patients, allowed to wear their own clothes and meet visitors in the large canteen that acts as a social hub. He held his arm high to shake my hand and welcomed me to a little table that he’d chosen for our meeting. I felt his grip and noticed a large gold cufflink containing a diamond encrusted ‘R’. He looked thin within his shirt-collar, gaunt, surprisingly an old man; no longer the large bulldog powerhouse once known as ‘The Colonel’. Legend has him sitting alone in his East End apartment, playing with his boa constrictor and listening to recordings of Winston Churchill’s speeches, firing himself up for murder. Now he was politely ordering non-alcoholic lager from a nervous looking inmate and offering me a seat.

He noticed my earring. He must have known that for the last ten years I’d played in a pop band, and was worried that I wouldn’t cut the mustard.

“You won’t wear that when you play me, will you?” His voice was surprisingly high, even a little camp in an old fashioned way, like an affectionate auntie. Ronnie was openly homosexual at a time when it added to his list of misdemeanours. It was a contradictory twist to his macho status that would have unsettled his enemies even more.

“No Ronnie, I’ll take it out.” I wasn’t nervous, but Ronnie had a socially graceless manner of looking directly into your eyes without ever glancing away. I felt that I had to look back, hold his stare, gain his blessing. I wanted to understand him. I needed to empathise.

After some small talk and a few sips of the watery beer, I asked him if he ever felt in competition with his twin during their heyday.

He looked shocked. “Never, never. We were a team.”

Maybe I’d gone too far too soon, but I didn’t believe him. I knew too much about him. He tasted his beer and I noticed his cufflinks again and commented on them.

“Look.” He opened his jacket and proudly showed me a monogram on his shirt breast: a blue ‘RK’ with a small crown on top.

“How is it for you in here, Ronnie?”

“It’s okay. Lots of nice people. We all get on. It’s important to me that my mum doesn’t swear.” He meant in the film.

Ronnie was famously devoted to his mother. When she died, the twins were allowed out to her funeral, and stood handcuffed to freakishly tall prison officers in an effort to literally belittle them in front of a media frenzy.

“I never heard her swear in my life,” he said gently.

When the film was released and Billie Whitelaw, playing the mother, Violet, at one point said “Bastard”, Ronnie sent a message of disgust. It was out of my control, and anyway, right now I was here to ask a more pertinent question.

“Can I ask, how did you feel when you killed George Cornell?”

Ronnie had walked into a packed pub, The Blind Beggar, unloaded a Lugar into Cornell’s forehead and casually walked out. It took more than a year for anyone to admit seeing it happen.

“I didn’t feel anything. I’d fucking do it again if I could.” He was staring straight into my eyes, leaning across the small square table.

“I walked in and he was sitting on a stool by the bar. I went up to him and he said, ‘Hello Ron.’ I pulled out my gun and shot him through the head. I remember he fell forwards - that surprised me - and blood was coming out. I went home and told my brothers what had happened and gave Reggie my clothes to burn. We sat and listened to the news on the radio and it came on that he’d been killed and I thought, thank fuck for that.”

I thought he meant that if he were still alive he’d tell the police who’d tried to kill him, but he continued. “Because if he wasn’t, I’d have to go back and do him again.”

There was a moment of silence and we sipped some beer.

“Do you regret it, Ronnie?”

“No,” he fired back. “I’d do it again today if I could.” He meant everything, really. Not just the one murder he was charged with.

A look of softness crossed his etched face. “I do regret hurting me mum though.”

I shifted my gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “I get dehydrated. It’s the medicine. I’ve gotta go now. Nice to meet you.” Behind his glasses, his eyes looked rheumy. He stood to leave and I thanked him. The canteen was full with visitors and in the far corner sat a man. I was sure it was him.



“What about the Yorkshire Ripper, Ronnie? How’s he treated?” Peter Sutcliffe had murdered 13 women.

“He’s alright. We have to get on in here.”

I watched him leave. Straight-backed and proud. He’d obviously dressed for our meeting. It was impressive.

The obsequious inmate who’d served us arrived and put the bill on the table. It came to £100.

“We only had two beers,” I said.

“Hope you don’t mind, but Ronnie put a few cigarettes on there.” I paid the money. I was desperate to get out into the air.

Copyright Gary Kemp 2008