The phone-box in North London stank of stale sweat and fag-ash mixed with the smell of my own fear as I dialled and asked to talk to Superintendent Tommy Butler at Scotland Yard.
Bobby Teale with his brothers, Alfie and David. The three brothers found the courage to tell the truth about the Krays. Then 24, I had spent the last six months fawning over both Ronnie and Reggie, flattered that the twins seemed to think well of me.
But all their charisma, if they ever had any, meant nothing now. Hiding behind children was bad enough. I first met the Krays through my older brother Alfie. There were seven of us kids β our oldest sister Eileen, Alfie, me, then David.
Then George, Paul and Jane. Street trading was more our style and by the summer of I was working with some friends on the Isle of Wight, renting out deck chairs, canoes and boats on the beach. They said that a friend in London might be coming to the island to see to some business. The friend was Ronnie Kray. Converted from a disused shop, it was dead smart. All red flock wallpaper and chandeliers, exquisitely dressed-up men and women with waiters in bow ties mincing around the tables. My brother, a good-looking man in his twenties who fancied himself as a pop star, wanted to be one of those dapper customers.
Reggie was then in prison but Ronnie could not have been nicer to Alfie, especially when he told the gangster that our parents ran a club in Islington. Big mistake. Dad was too old to fight it and Mum was heartbroken but nobody dared to cross Ronnie. Alfie and his wife Wendy would be in the big double bed in one room with their two sons beside them. Wendy absolutely hated it, but Alfie was too scared to refuse. Ronnie went first, stomping up the narrow staircase, me following. There was no way out.
