My life as a gangster's moll A new book by the daughter of one of the Great Train robbers gives a fascinating insight into London's criminal underworld, finds Lorna MacLaren

An east end blonde with an impudent grin, Wisbey, 47, has a strong pedigree as far as Cockney rebels are concerned and she has been quick to join the growing throng of colourful ne'er-do-wells, not to mention film directors, cashing in on public fascination with the criminal underworld.

''I met that Guy Ritchie - he's a nice lad, a bit of a dish, but I don't think his films are realistic. Madonna is supposed to be playing a moll in his next one. She should get some tips from me, love,'' she laughs. Disapproving of the movie The Krays, starring former Spandau Ballet pop stars Martin and Gary Kemp, she adds: ''It was terrible casting them two as Reg and Ronnie - too pretty by half.''

The accent is pure Eliza Doolittle pre Henry Higgins. Aitches are dropped like petals from a flower stall and rhyming slang translated as she goes. Her novel, Gangster's Moll, has footnotes to take the uninitiated through the same process. ''When the police came to our door I thought, oh gawd, have we got any dodgy tom lying about?'' ''Tom's slang for Tom Foolery - jewellery,'' she whispers helpfully.

Harking back to 1991, her former live-in boyfriend of 10 years, ''Mad'' Frankie, now a scarred but dapper 76, has romantic memories of when love blossomed in a wine bar as Marilyn belted out her on-off cabaret act: ''She was singin' that song Crazy. I fort, is she gettin' at me or wot?''

Known as The Dentist for his penchant for pulling teeth minus anaesthetic, Frankie has finished compiling his third volume of memoirs. The first book was called Mad Frank.

Now the pair, still close friends, conduct ''gangster'' bus tours of London supported by nervous-looking tourists.

Wisbey's first writing effort, Gangster's Moll is described as a candid account of a woman's life at the hard end of London's gangland. Her examination of the roll of the criminal female is questionable, however. Memories appear heavily rose-tinted and based on the dubious logic that as long as innocents don't get hurt the gangsters can shoot, bludgeon, and garrotte each with impunity. This point of view may have lain behind a difference of opinion between Ms Wisbey and her original ghostwriter - a disagreement which delayed work on the book.

''I had problems putting down some of the things I felt strongly about,'' is all she would say.

If you can overlook the cliches, rhyming slang, and her stream-of-consciousness delivery, she does have some dark tales to tell.

Numerous previous boy-friends have been involved in shootings and her first husband was ''put on a plane'' at her request and never seen again. She stole diamonds from an

ex-lover who just happened

to be the chief of police in

Mexico City and she was jailed, along with her mother, for a crime committed by her father for which she readily took the blame.

Also a former brothel worker, Wisbey laughs loudly at the recollection of her feeble attempts at being a dominatrix. Traumatised after walking over a man's back in stiletto shoes, she was promptly sick in his bath tub. ''He was spluttering for breath in this mask and there was me looking for scissors to cut a hole for the mouth. I didn't realise he was enjoying it!''

She has a long list of showbusiness friends, but meeting the actress Diana Dors and Frank Sinatra stand out as special moments.

Her family memories are peppered with ''windfalls''. While pregnant, her mother had a craving for jellied eels. Father, Tommy, was dispatched one night to fetch two cartons of the Cockney delicacy when he stumbled across a bag in the street with #100 in it. ''I believe Christmas was extra special that year,'' the author grins.

As a child playing with sister Lorraine at hide and seek they wriggled under a pile of sheets to find 16 green woollen balaclavas. It emerged their mum had been sewing secretly in preparation for August 8, 1963, when Tommy Wisbey helped steal #2.6m (about #25m in today's terms) from the Glasgow-London mail train in the Great Train Robbery.

Three of the gang - including the man who coshed the driver - got away with the crime and only #336,534 was recovered. Buster Edwards hanged himself and Charlie Wilson was murdered in a gangland hit in Spain. Even Ronnie Biggs says it wrecked his chance of happiness with his wife and family.

So crime doesn't pay then? Wisbey's childhood, like those of other gangster families, was one, she claimed, of feast and famine. ''It was all sausage and beans then mixed grill and steak.''

Men were on the run or locked up for years while the wives scraped by, kept afloat by the occasional bundle of fifties handed over by a criminal colleague of their mate - or even the man himself, appearing unannounced before vanishing off to Majorca or Tenerife.

''Coppers'' would raid the house looking for hidden cash. The Wisbey family, being linked to the train robbery, also lived in the glare of press attention. ''I remember my mum having to put the phone off the hook to avoid reporters. People in the street would stare and whisper when my sister and I walked past.''

Before her father was captured she claims the family had plenty of fun with a windfall of cash. ''It was Christmas every day'', with plentiful taxi rides, shopping trips to Harrods, and endless lavish meals. She adds: ''My dad was a criminal but he personally would never contemplate hurting anyone.''

Again Wisbey insists on declaring Arthur Thompson, a man described as Glasgow's Godfather of crime, a gentle, father figure. ''Me and Frankie went to visit someone in Barlinnie and the Thompsons were wonderful to us.''

While the Krays were ''genuine chaps'', ''tame compared to some - puppy dogs'', ''lovely'', Biggs bought her a crystal train in Rio, and others were humorous, caring, or downright fanciable.

''Youngsters don't give a shit about anyone these days. They have no code,'' she says, refusing to see the criminals from her golden age as being anything other than ''decent''.

''The sentences the Krays and the train robbers got were ridiculous. It was political. Now we get rapists and child molesters out in a few months. It's the powerful money men, the politicians and bankers who rip off the public.''

The captured train robbers were ordered to spend 30 years each in jail - Wisbey's father served nearly 13 years of his sentence; and then found himself back inside for a further lengthy period following another offence. These days he runs a couple of market stalls.

Wisbey's only son Jonathan, 26, is working on his own flower stall and his pregnant girlfriend, Victoria, is about to make Marilyn a grandmother.

So what did her boy think of her airing the family's considerable dirty washing?

''Jonathan was pretty shocked. I had been nervous about him reading some of the stuff I'd done but it made him sit up

and take notice. My mum was laughing and crying through the book. She knew I had stuff to say and it brought back a lot of memories for her.''

The death of her 16-year-old sister, Lorraine, following a car crash was, she says, the lowest point in her life. ''It was very difficult to go back over that time again and write it down. Lorraine should have been enjoying her own kids and grandkids and had a life of her own. None of us ever got over it.''

She touches on how difficult life can be when a relative has entered the prison system and admits it has left her embittered towards authority.

''When your dad or son is inside you are the lowest of the low. We would travel for miles to go on a prison visit and then be told, when me, Lorraine, and my mum arrived, that he had been moved that morning. Nobody bothers to contact the families. There is no excuse today because of the computer systems they have, but it still goes on.''

One visit to Durham prison saw the young family being forced to wait outside in a blizzard until the prison guards chose to let them in. ''They don't have to give you any respect.''

Since those days she has come through a lot, she says. A previous cocaine and heroin habit which saw her spending around #700 a week on drugs at one point has taught her a painful lesson. ''I lost a lot of respect for myself back then. Young girls should stay away from that stuff.''

She gets angry when asked about the profit she and others are making from gangster projects such as books, tours, and public appearances.

''Frank and my dad have paid their debt to society. Do people think it's ok for greedy film-makers to feed off the likes of people like Ronnie and Reg and the train robbers but not all right for them to earn some legit money to stay out of trouble?''

Today she is happily living in a smart flat in London.

She has invited Barbara Windsor and the rest of the

Eastenders cast, along with Guy Ritchie, to a fund-raising knees-up this month in aid of meningitis research. Frankie will be doing his spiel for the crowds and Marilyn will be singing some gangster melodies.

She says she has high hopes about getting into media research. Life is looking up.

Regrets? she grows sober for a second.

''I wish I hadn't gone crooked and that I'd married a lawyer and had a quieter life. I just hope my grandchild never follows in my footsteps. My dad lost 20 years of his life in jail. You can still see it in his lovely blue eyes.''

l Gangster's Moll is published next Thursday in hardback, priced #15.99.