I was the Krays’ lawyer

The grateful twins gave their helpful lawyer Nemone Lethbridge tea, cake – and a bribe

My cuppa with the Krays

In 1958, I had recently obtained my first tenancy at 3 Hare Court, a modest set of prosecution chambers at the top of Middle Temple Lane.

The Crown Prosecution Service was still a twinkle in the eye of the legislature, and all London prosecutions were in the gift of the Scotland Yard solicitor. And he didn’t like women.

This put me in a difficult position. Chambers relied heavily on prosecution work. I was barred from it – even from humble traffic offences. The only work open to me was the lowly ‘dock brief’.

Here unemployed barristers would present themselves at the sessions to be inspected by the unrepresented prisoners who would select someone to represent them, purely on the basis of their looks.

One Friday evening, my luck changed. Jean, who doubled up as a junior clerk and secretary, typed up my instructions. The case, in the Arbour Square Magistrates Court, east London, was against the defendants Mr R Kray and Mr R Kray.

‘But what are the clients charged with?’ I asked Jean.

‘Oh, don’t you worry about that,’ replied Charles, the senior clerk. ‘You’ll find out as soon as you arrive at court what it is they haven’t done.’

Saturday morning, half-past nine. Although the court would not sit for another hour, the court’s entrance hall was already heaving with activity.

A little woman approached me. She was wearing a floral pinafore, headscarf and curlers and pulling a basket on wheels full of dirty laundry. ‘I’m their mum,’ said Violet Kray. ‘They’re innocent.’

‘I’m brother Charles,’ said the young man escorting her. ‘Yeah. They’re definitely innocent.’

The jailer handed us the charge sheet as he ushered us into a cell. Paddy Pakenham, the solicitors’ managing clerk, shook his grizzled head as he read the document. ‘Sad, really – a bit unworthy. Being suspected persons loitering with intent. Some copper must be a bit desperate. Or ambitious.’

The jailer said, ‘Let me introduce your clients, Sir and Madam. You will treat them with the utmost respect – Mr Ronald and Mr Reggie Kray.’

The brothers sat, side by side, on the low, concrete shelf that served as a bed at the end of the cell. Identical twins, silent and solemn as owls. They did not look like men who had spent the night in custody. Their long, pale faces were freshly shaved, their thick black hair Brylcreemed to glossy perfection. Their dark suits were without a crease, their freshly laundered shirts white and dazzling. The cell was filled with the musky aroma of expensive aftershave.

Paddy said, ‘Gentlemen, I’m sorry to see you in this situation.’

‘It’s a fix-up,’ answered Ronnie.

‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’ answered Paddy. ‘Mr Lincoln [the senior lawyer] sends his salutations but, as you know, he can’t come to court on a Saturday. Has to do his religious duty [he was Jewish]. But he’s sent you this lovely young lady in whom he has the utmost confidence. [In fact, I’d never met Mr Lincoln.] She’ll get you some bail today and then Mr Lincoln will come in person and do the trial for you on a day that suits.’

The brothers stood up, bowing stiffly. I sat down between them and took their instructions. It was alleged that, between the hours of 10 and 11 on Friday evening, they had been seen in Whitechapel High Street, trying the handles of parked cars with the intention of stealing.

The twins were outraged. Such petty crime was way below them. ‘We happen to be very successful businessmen,’ said Ronnie. ‘We happen to own three clubs which make a fortune. We’re starring in a film of our life story directed by Joan Littlewood and co-starring Barbara Windsor.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ I said. ‘I shall certainly go and see the film. But I still have to explain to the court what you were doing in Whitechapel High Street last night.’

‘We were putting out flyers for our new enterprise, a nightclub,’ said one of them. ‘As businessmen, we can’t never have too much publicity.’

We went into court. The twins bowed stiffly to the stipendiary magistrate and wished him a good morning. ‘Good morning, boys,’ he replied with a smile.

I made my application for bail, stressing the Krays’ community ties and charitable activities.

Brother Charles, who had brought a bundle of flyers advertising the new nightclub, slapped it down on the railings that separated the public from the rest of the court with a thump which the magistrate could not have failed to hear.

‘Nice one,’ Charles said in chorus with his mum and the driver. Bail was granted.

This was the first of many Saturday mornings spent at Arbour Square. After a time, I graduated to weekday trials and to Crown Court appearances. I won a good percentage of the cases I did for the twins and their associates.

I thought that, as an advocate, I must be the cat’s whiskers. It never occurred to me that my success had anything to do with the menacing presence of large, scar-faced men at the back of the court.

On one occasion, after I’d successfully defended the twins on a charge of demanding money with menaces, Ronnie said to me, ‘Mother would be honoured if you would come and have tea with us.’

We accepted a lift to ‘Fort Vallance’, as the Kray home was known in the local community. Their house was in a little Victorian terrace, Vallance Road, off Bethnal Green Road.

Outside, it was immaculately maintained. Inside, it was decorated in the style of a Romany caravan: walls covered with embossed red velvet, windows adorned with lace curtains secured by satin bows. The twins led us upstairs to a room with a long table like a boardroom. Ronnie took his place at one end, Reggie at the other. Charles, Paddy and I were shown to appropriate places.

The acolytes stood behind our chairs. Mother Violet brought in tea on a tray. There was a bone-china tea set, biscuits in a barrel and cake on a three-tier stand. Charlie poured the tea: milk in first. We made stilted conversation about the traffic on Cambridge Heath Road.

Ronnie rose to his feet.

‘Miss Lethbridge,’ he said, ‘We sincerely appreciate all you have done for one and all of our family. On behalf of one and all of our family, I would like to give you this small token of our appreciation.’

He handed me a thick wad of fivepound notes.

I was embarrassed. I said, ‘I’m awfully grateful – it’s really sweet of you. But I get paid by legal aid.’

Reggie was gesturing to his brother.

‘Use your loaf, Ron,’ he said. ‘You know the rules.’ ‘Gotcha,’ answered Ronnie. ‘All out.’

The acolytes left the room. Someone closed the door.

‘Sorry, Miss Lethbridge, I shouldn’t have done that in front of witnesses. Here we go,’ Ronnie said, handing the money to me again.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m simply not allowed to take gifts. But I do appreciate the kind thought.’

Ronnie shook his head in puzzlement. He arranged for the driver to take us back to the Temple.

On the ride back, I said, ‘Oh God, I hope I haven’t blown it with the twins. We’ll probably never see them ever again.’

‘On the contrary,’ replied Paddy, ‘I’ve arranged for them to get you a nice crocodile handbag. I’ll work it down to you.’

‘I don’t want a crocodile handbag. I don’t want anything. Except their work, of course. And I suppose that’s gone for a Burton.’

The twins didn’t seem to have been offended by my odd behaviour. Shortly after this, they instructed me, via the solicitors, to look after their protégé Frank Mitchell, known as the Mad Axeman (later killed by gangsters). Work continued to flow to 3 Hare Court until 1962, when I left to live in Greece.

In 1969, the Krays were tried at the Old Bailey for murder. Jimmy O’Connor, my late husband, and I obtained press tickets for the hearing – we were thinking about writing a book about it.

I had not seen the twins for seven years. When they entered the dock in Number 1 Court, I was shocked by the change in their appearance.

They were no longer identical. Reggie was thin, drawn and obviously terrified of the situation he found himself in. Ronnie was fat and seemed not to have a care in the world. I would say he was away with the fairies. He looked around the court with smiling curiosity. He could have been starring at the Palladium.

He recognised me and sent me a note via one of the prison officers. It read:

Dear Miss Lethbridge,

You are more beautiful than ever.

When I get out of this, I will take you to the moon. Alas, he got no further than Broadmoor. But he sent me a Christmas card every year until he died.

Nemone: A young woman barrister’s battle against prejudice, class and misogyny by Nemone Lethbridge is out now (£12.99)