The Black Widow

by Linda Calvey

  “You’re welcome to it,” I giggled, feeling in rather a daze. Perhaps life with Ron would work out after all.

  Chapter 13

  Caught in a Web

  Winter 1979

  “You stupid cunt!”

  It was the first time I’d ever heard Ron scream at someone. All heads turned in the pub in Bethnal Green. I almost dropped my drink in shock. I’d never seen Ron lose his temper before.

  A man who was just out of prison had been celebrating with a group of pals in another part of the bar, fairly good-naturedly, when he recognised Ron and came over, swaying as he walked, clearly very drunk.

  “How are ya, Ron?” he leered, standing too close to me as he tried to gain access into our small group, consisting of me, Ron and Maureen.

  “Don’t stand in front of her,” Ron said, his expression turning rapidly from relaxed to defensive.

  The man ignored him. I don’t know why. He clearly knew who Ron was, but I suspect the drink was making him reckless.

  “You’re doin’ it again.” Ron was getting heated.

  “It’s ok, Ron, I can move,” I said, shifting sideways to try and get away from this scary-looking, thick-set guy with his shaved head and tattoos.

  Please go away, I was thinking, seeing Ron’s face darken. Ron had never shown me anything but charm and consideration, but I knew that you didn’t get to be a big name in the underworld without having another side to you, a more sinister, violent side. I could see he was on the verge of blowing his top. His face, usually so reserved, so in control, had turned red. His eyes were hard and they stared straight into the bloke’s face.

  The ambience in the pub had changed. People looked over at us and a hush descended. The place was expectant. People realised something was happening, and if it involved Ron Cook then you stayed out of it.

  The man made an awkward attempt to move, but managed to step on my foot as he did so.

  “Ow!” I couldn’t help but cry out. He was a big guy and I was wearing strappy high-heeled sandals, and it hurt like hell.

  “You stood on her foot, you stupid cunt!” Ron roared. The man shrugged, turned to me and said, foolishly, “She’s only a tart, Ron, so what?”

  If you could cut an atmosphere with a carving knife, then this was the moment. That was that. Ron stepped forward and bellowed in the man’s face, “Do you know who that is?”

  The man, who now looked confused and disconcerted despite the booze, shook his head and looked over at me. Maureen and I had moved a few steps away by now, nervous about what might be coming next.

  “That’s Linda Calvey! How dare you call her a tart.” Ron’s voice was low now, and menacing.

  “Oh if you say so…” The bloke was making it worse. “I knew she wasn’t your wife.”

  With that, the pub silenced completely. It was an incredibly stupid thing to say to a notoriously private man.

  I looked over at Ron. He was glaring at the man, his face incandescent with rage. Ron never spoke about his wife and family. I knew about them, I’m ashamed to say, and perhaps they knew about me too. I knew Ron divided his life between me - his mistress - and his family. That’s all I knew, though. He would never speak about them, and I would never be invited anywhere, even to the court room where Ron eventually ended up, if there was any possibility we might meet. It seemed everyone else knew that any talk of Ron’s family was off limits – everyone except this drunken idiot.

  I didn’t like being someone’s mistress, but Ron had been very persistent, and he was sustaining my family, buying clothes for me and the kids, leaving £100 on my mantelpiece every weekend to help me with bills. I was a kept woman, and even now, while Ron was still being wonderful towards me, I knew it was a gilded cage, and one I didn’t have a hope of finding the key to escape from. I knew already that people did what Ron told them to do – and I was no different. I wasn’t sure I could leave Ron if he didn’t want me to go.

  “Get down on the floor and kiss her feet. Ask her to forgive you.” Ron’s eyes flashed, cold as steel.

  “What?” The man looked back and forth between me and Ron.

  “You heard me. Get on the floor and kiss her feet, then ask Linda Calvey to forgive you.” Ron moved a step closer to the guy, at which point he kneeled clumsily, looked up at me, and said, “I am really sorry. I apologise. I didn’t know who you were.”

  Standing behind him, Ron caught my eye, and shook his head, slowly.

  “No, sorry, I can’t accept your apology,” I said. I wanted to be a million miles away from this bizarre scene.

  “Try again,” Ron sneered.

  So, again, the bloke apologised while still on his knees. I looked over at my boyfriend, who, again, shook his head.

  At this point, it was Maureen who broke the spell.

  “Ron, stop being a bully, you’re upsetting Linda!” Only a woman could’ve stepped in at that point. A man would’ve got his head kicked in for daring to call Ron out.

  “Am I upsetting you?” Ron said, turning back to me.

  “Yes, let’s just forget it, please. He’s said sorry and that’s ok with me. Please, Ron.”

  Ron shrugged. “Just fuck off, and don’t come near me or Linda again, d’ya hear me?” He motioned for the man to leave, which he did at an almost comically fast speed. The evening carried on, but it was a warning about Ron’s character. There were many warnings in that first year.

  A few weeks after we’d got together, I went on a family holiday to Majorca, using some of the benefit fund to give my children something nice to remember and share. We were sunbathing on our balcony when Mum looked up and said, “Linda, is Ron meant to be here with you?”

  “No,” I answered, puzzled.

  “Well, if that’s not him, then I don’t know who it is.” She pointed to a man sitting only a few feet away, sunning himself on his balcony. I peered over the concrete wall. The man wasn’t far away, so it was easy to see that it was indeed my boyfriend sunbathing, just like us, on his private balcony.

  “I think you’re right, Mum, that’s Ron. What on earth is he doin’ here?” As we both looked over, Ron turned his head, took off his sunglasses and waved.

  “Well, that’s very odd. Did you tell him where we were stayin’?” My mum looked at me.

  “I think so, I can’t remember. I’ll go and ’ave a word.” I wandered off and Ron met me halfway.

  “What a coincidence!” Ron said, beaming. “I can’t believe we’d booked the same hotel and are staying only a few rooms away.”

  “You’re right, Ron, that is a coincidence,” I replied uneasily, wanting to believe him. We hadn’t been together long, and he was so good to me – I didn’t know why he would have followed me.

  We did eventually all have a lovely holiday, but that feeling of unease never truly left me. I knew that, deep down, I didn’t believe his story. I knew he’d planned it, but why?

  As the months went on, I couldn’t fault Ron’s behaviour towards me. Every weekend was the same. Ron would take me out shopping and treated me kindly. I counted myself lucky to have attracted a man who wanted to take care of me in the way Ron did. He’d encourage me to wear whatever he’d bought for me and, at that point in our relationship, I was happy to oblige – even down to the lacy lingerie and stockings he loved.

  I knew I’d never love him. Instinctively I knew that I had to keep that part of myself hidden from Ron, keep it to the weekdays when I didn’t see him. I still woke up most mornings and cried. My bed felt so empty without my husband, yet I managed to square it with myself by thinking that Ron was taking care of me when I couldn’t. If I felt any guilt towards my dead husband, I squashed it down.

  When I moved into Harpley Square, Ron refused to let me take any of my furniture from Pembroke Road that Mickey had bought, insisting on buying new stuff for me.

  “But, my furniture is all lo
vely, Ron, it don’t need replacing,” I said, trying to reason with him, all the while wishing to keep hold of it.

  “Forget the cost. I’m buyin’ everything. I like spoilin’ ya,” he said, grinning.

  I gave in. If it gave him pleasure, why not? By the time Ron’s men had finished, Harpley Square looked like a palace. I even had a chandelier in the lounge. Everything was the best, designer brands in sumptuous materials. I could’ve clapped my hands like an excited child when he showed me around the place. It had been transformed.

  “Thank you so much, Ron. I don’t know what to say. You’re bein’ so kind to me.”

  “It’s nothin’, don’t think about it. I want ya to ’ave the best. You deserve it, Lin.” When he said my name the way Mickey used to say it, I shivered a little.

  “It’s beautiful. I don’t know how to thank you,” I said, smiling away my unease.

  “Well, I do. Bedroom, now.” He took my hand and led me to the new four-poster with Egyptian cotton sheets and a thick, quilted, and clearly expensive, blanket in dusky pink thrown on top.

  Ron loved eating at the same Italian place each Friday evening before we went out to the pubs and clubs, and he’d make me call them during the day to secure our table, in the name of Madam Harpley. For him, it had an erotic ring to it, and, again, I was happy to oblige. I liked the glamour. I discovered I liked wearing expensive clothes and eating quality food in the best restaurants. I was dazzled by Ron’s generosity and seduced by his charm.

  Quite soon after our relationship became public knowledge, people were becoming concerned for me. A few broached the subject hesitantly.

  “You do know he’s got a violent streak, don’t ya?”

  “I know. Well, it stands to reason with what he does for a livin’,” I said, “but he’s never shown me that side of him at all. He’s the perfect gent with me.”

  “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” said one friend, someone who worked for Ron and knew him as a blagger.

  “That’s all very well, but what can I do about it? Ron wants me, and what Ron wants he gets.” I shrugged, looking down at my wrist as I nervously turned my new bracelet over an over again.

  Ron loved to play high stakes on the horses, and went down to the betting shop one morning.

  “Be ready at 2pm, I’ll take you out for a meal,” he called as he left.

  I spent the morning doing myself up, pulling on beautiful lacy underwear, a gorgeous pink dress with matching heels and handbag, and a stunning Canadian wolf fur coat he’d only just bought me.

  Two o’clock came and went. I’d gone to a lot of trouble making myself look nice for him, so at 2.45pm I decided to go down to the shop and see what he was up to.

  As I walked in, all eyes turned to me. I must’ve looked like a film star walking into that betting shop, frequented by men sucking on cheap cigarettes. I saw immediately that Ron was placing a £200 bet on a single horse.

  “Oh no you don’t,” I said, grabbing the cash. “You’re supposed to be takin’ me for a meal.”

  “Give that back, Lin, the race is about to start!” Ron said, indignantly.

  “No,” I snapped. “Mine, I believe.” And I put the money into my purse.

  “If that horse wins, you’ll owe me.”

  I pouted a little, but stood firm. I could see the men’s eyes go from me to Ron, waiting to see what would happen next. They all knew it was Ron Cook, big-time gangster, who I was goading.

  “Can’t believe she got away with that…” one of the geezers said, and at that point, Ron laughed.

  “Ain’t she marvellous!”

  I was dazzled. With Ron I didn’t have to worry about a thing.

  But that soon changed.

  “I’m goin’ up the market with Maureen later, d’you want me to pick anythin’ up for you?” I asked Ron. I’d arranged to meet her because he was meant to be working that weekend.

  “Oh, which market are ya goin’ to?” Ron said over his newspaper, eating the eggs and bacon I’d just cooked for him.

  “Just up Roman Road. Why? Do you need anythin’?” I said, sipping my coffee. It was a bright winter morning in 1979 and I was looking forward to seeing Maureen and having a catch-up.

  “No, I don’t think so. You ’ave a good time, there’s some money on the side for ya. Treat yerself to somethin’.” He looked me straight in the eye. He always liked to lock eyes as he spoke. It gave him authority. I nodded and smiled, thinking how sweetly possessive he was becoming of me.

  Later that morning, as Maureen and I mooched around, going from stall to stall, chatting to the stallholders we recognised, my friend suddenly stopped. She grabbed my arm.

  “Don’t look, but I swear Ron’s followin’ us.”

  “You what?” I giggled.

  “I’m not jokin’, Lin. He’s followin’ us. Well, you.”

  I couldn’t help it, I had to see what Maureen was going on about. I glanced to my right, and caught sight of Ron’s face peering round the stall selling oversized women’s lingerie.

  “He’s hidin’ behind the big knickers!” I stifled a laugh.

  “Linda, this is ridiculous. What on earth does Ron think you’ll get up to at the market?” Maureen didn’t find it as funny as I did. “Listen, I’m goin’ to go and ask what’s he’s up to,” she said, stoutly.

  “Don’t you dare, you’ll only wind him up.” I grabbed Maureen’s arm. “Come on, let’s just carry on and pretend we haven’t seen him.”

  We shuffled forward, stopping to go into the deli to buy bread, then browsing through some dresses at another of our favourite stalls. Maureen looked behind her again.

  “He’s still here,” she hissed. “This isn’t funny, Lin, he’s checkin’ up on you.”

  “Let him. We’re not up to anythin’, so let’s just make out we haven’t noticed.” I had a feeling that Ron wouldn’t take kindly to Maureen fronting him up, even though he was the one acting strangely.

  “Let’s enjoy our day, come on, I’ll buy you a cake,” I said, trying to mollify my friend, but turning briefly to see if what she was saying was true.

  It was. My boyfriend was still a few stalls behind us, pretending to look at something on a table of knick-knacks, clearly following me. But why?

  Back at Harpley Square later that day, Ron was sitting on the sofa still apparently reading his newspaper when I arrived home.

  “’Ave a good day?” he said. “Where did ya go then?”

  Why did I feel like he was testing me?

  “Oh well, it was nice, thank you, Ron. We went to the dress stalls and had a chat with Mrs Tranter from the flats.”

  “Are ya sure that’s everythin’ you did?” Ron was staring at me intently. I was being questioned, there was no doubt in my mind.

  “Erm, well, oh yes, I stopped at the deli to buy some bits.”

  “So, why didn’t ya tell me that?” Ron said, folding his paper up and looking at me expectantly.

  “I just forgot, darlin’.”

  There was a slight pause, but my answer seemed to satisfy him. He smiled at last, my cue to put down my bags and head to the kitchen for a cuppa.

  As the kettle boiled, I had a moment to think. Why in heaven’s sake would Ron follow me so obviously? Did he really think we hadn’t noticed? It was very bizarre. I decided that perhaps Ron was having a peculiar day, and it would be best not to mention it.

  A few weeks later, the same thing occurred. Ron said he was working, so, again, Maureen and I decided to do a bit of shopping together. Ron asked where we were going again, and lo and behold, as we made our way round the stalls, there he was, trailing behind us, peering through the second-hand dresses, or over the cheese counter, apparently oblivious to the fact we knew he was there. Every time I went out with Maureen, he’d question me when I got in. Where had I been? Who had I spoken to
? Why had I missed out that stall from my description? Wasn’t there anyone else I’d spoken to, and, if so, why hadn’t I told him? I learnt to keep a mental list of everything I’d done so I wouldn’t leave anything out, because if I did, he became instantly suspicious. I hadn’t a clue what he thought I might be doing if I hovered in the deli too long. What did it matter if I said hello to a neighbour’s husband?

  Maureen thought the whole thing was ridiculous, and even though I agreed with her, I prevented her from confronting him. I had a feeling things would go badly for me if she did, even though I had no proof of that. It was becoming obvious that my “perfect” boyfriend, who lavished me with presents and money, had another, less charming side. The bed of roses I thought I’d landed in was fast becoming a bed of thorns.

  Chapter 14

  Ring on My Finger

  April 1980

  “Now you belong to me,” Ron said as he slipped a large diamond ring onto the fourth finger – of my right hand. It was a huge solitaire on a platinum band. In short, a perfect engagement ring.

  “Ron, it’s so beautiful, thank you,” I gasped, leaning over to kiss him before admiring it. It fitted me faultlessly, and I admit, I was bowled over by the gesture.

  I knew there’d never be any wedding bells with Ron. He’d made it clear from the start that I was his girlfriend to be treated like a queen, and that the other parts of his life would be forever off-limits to me. It didn’t worry me. My heart was never Ron’s. It would only ever be Mickey’s. So I felt nothing about that side of our arrangement, and most of the time never gave a thought to Ron’s wife or kids. My life was totally separate from them, and I almost forgot about them entirely, until Ron presented me with the ring.

  Before that ring went on my finger, Ron still acted the charmer with me. He’d carried on showering me with beautiful clothes and shoes, and he’d take me out every weekend, introducing me to other members of the criminal underworld. I’d met hardened robbers, hit men and blaggers, including John “Goldfinger” Fleming, who was later linked to the £26 million Brink’s-Mat gold bullion robbery in 1983, and Freddie Foreman, or “Brown Bread Fred” as he was called. Freddie had served a 10-year sentence for helping Reggie Kray dispose of Jack “the Hat” McVitie’s body. He was also an armed robber, and was convicted of handling proceeds from the Shoreditch security express robbery in 1983.