by Linda Calvey
“You killed him, and d’ya want to know how ya did it, Linda?” He almost sneered those words. His breath stank of booze, though I did my best not to show my disgust as I put a smile on my face and gave him a small nod, trying not to react, trying not to light that tinderbox inside him, which one spark of anger could ignite.
“You tell me, Ron, I’m listenin’,” I replied. I marvelled at how serene I sounded, as if this was a perfectly ordinary conversation between a couple. I was exhausted and wanted to sleep. My head was starting to pound, but I knew if I got this wrong then I’d get more than a bruised wrist.
“Because when I saw ya, standing at your door in your make-up with a silk dressing gown on, I fell in love with you and I had to ’ave ya.”
There was silence for a second. My head spun. I knew what he was referring to: that time he knocked on our door. He and Mickey were planning the heist that got Mickey killed that day. It wasn’t a day I cared to remember.
“Go on, Ron,” I said quietly, all my senses alert to this man, to what he was going to say. I knew I was on the verge of hearing some kind of confession. The air seemed to still.
“I was going to get rid of Mickey, but fate did it for me.”
I had to interrupt the pregnant pause that descended. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.” I stumbled over my words now, a sense of horror engulfing me.
Ron smiled, and the sight chilled me to the core. Then he spoke. “I was in the car at the Caters robbery. I shut the door and left him out for the gunman. Don’t cry. You see, it’s really your fault he’s dead.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears. Ron was telling me that the witness was right. Whoever had been in the car had pushed the lock down while Mickey was trying to get inside. By locking Mickey out, he had killed him. It might as well have been Ron firing that gun.
“You lied to me. You told me you weren’t at that robbery.” I’d questioned him repeatedly if he knew who’d been in the getaway car, and he’d categorically stated that he didn’t know. All this time, it had been him.
I had my back to him. I was braced for his displeasure now, but I couldn’t hold back. He’d confessed to helping murder my husband, and now he was planting the blame firmly on my shoulders, because Ron had wanted me so badly he was “forced” to take action. I felt utter revulsion. I turned, expecting a slap to the face – or worse. Ron was slumped back on the bed, passed out and snoring.
I sat there for a moment, thinking how easy it would be, right now, to pass a pillow over his face, to squeeze the air from his lungs, to make him pay for Mickey’s death. It would be easy, over and done with in a moment, and yet something stopped me. I sighed. I knew I could never murder someone, however evil they were, however badly they treated me or mine. I was tough. I could take care of myself if I really needed to, but a murderess I most definitely was not.
Instead, I went back to my lounge, and poured myself a drink from the bar. I sat for hours, staring into the darkness, nursing the brandy, feeling crushed. How could I ever let him touch me again? Just the thought made my skin crawl. At the same time, I knew I was trapped. Ron had decided that day he first saw me that he was going to have me. I had been right. I’d never had any choice in the matter.
I hardly slept a wink. I couldn’t bear to touch even an inch of Ron’s body that night, so I slept on the far edge of our bed. The next day, I awoke to the sound of Ron in the shower. He was whistling tunelessly. When he came out, scrubbing his wet hair with a towel, I spoke, cautiously.
“Ron, do you remember what you told me last night?”
He paused for a second, then slid his eyes away from me. “Oh don’t ya listen to me, Lin, when I’m pissed. Nothin’ of any importance was said last night. If ya heard anythin’ then that would be your hearin’ playin’ tricks on ya.”
By now he was speaking from the kitchen. I heard the kettle switch flicked on, yet more of that terrible whistling, which now made my flesh crawl. He’d done it again. He’d denied what he’d said, and made out it was my problem. I knew I wasn’t going mad. I knew he was lying now, just as he had lied to me when we first got together. To think that all these months, I’d been sleeping with and accepting gifts from the very man who killed my husband.
There was no escape. I saw that very clearly. I had to carry on, pretend that everything was ok, and just hope against hope that fate would intervene and Ron would come a cropper somehow. I hoped that might be a prison sentence, or losing lots of money on a raid. It wasn’t a plan of action or a focused idea, just a vague longing for my own life back, far away from this non-relationship.
From that day onward, something in me changed, hardened. I realised that one day I had to get away from Ron. I just didn’t know how.
Then things kicked off, big time.
Ron fell out with Peter Spelling, husband of my sister Maxine, and turned up one day at Mum’s brandishing two handguns, demanding entry, thinking Peter was hiding from him in my mother’s home. Mum told me what happened, calling me from hers. She sounded terrified. “It was awful, Linda, he was bangin’ on my door, I thought he’d break it down. Then when I opened it, he just held up these two guns, one in each hand.”
“Oh my God.” If my strong East End mum was frightened, then he’d really gone for it.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I refused to let him in, of course.” Mum’s voice was croaky as she laughed without mirth. “I said to him, ‘there are babies in this house, you can’t come in, take those guns away, you should be ashamed of yourself’.”
That sounded like my mother.
“If that had been a man refusing Ron entry, it would’ve been a shoot-out, for sure,” I said. “Thank goodness it was you at the door. But it sounds awful.”
It was the first time Ron’s violent lifestyle spilled over into family life, and from then on my parents and siblings knew what he was really like. At the time, Maxine was in hospital after giving birth, and so Mum told Dad to take Shelley over there to warn our sister what was going on.
But as Shelley was driving, she glanced in her mirror to see Ron following her in the car behind. She knew Dad would demand they stop and confront him if she let on, so instead she drove to her house, saying she had to pick up a box of things.
Shelley rang me afterwards. “Oh Linda, it was terrible. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t tell Dad, or he would’ve gone ballistic, and I couldn’t stop, or Ron would’ve got us, so I had to keep drivin’. Honestly, Linda, I was frightened for my life. My hands were shakin’, I had to run indoors, draggin’ Dad with me, and pretend I was lookin’ for a box of things to take to hospital. I locked myself in the toilet. I was panicking, Linda.”
“That’s dreadful! What did you do?” I couldn’t believe Ron had intimidated my family like this. I knew he was nasty, I knew how he treated me, but this was worse, somehow.
“Dad was really confused, so I had to tell him I had belly ache. I looked out of the window hoping Ron would drive off, because he was parked outside. I was in there for 20 minutes, then luckily he drove away. I feel sick talkin’ about it.” Shelley was clearly still shaken up.
I only found out the true story a few days later from my brother Tony. “The next day, Peter went to hospital to bring the baby and Maxine home,” he said. “Peter was carrying the little one, and then Ron appeared and punched him in the face, right in front of Maxine and with the baby in his arms. It was terrible, Linda. Ron said, ‘It’s your lucky day. Yesterday, I’d have shot ya – I’ve killed 13 people and I was goin’ to make you number 14. Today, you get that’.”
“But why would Ron do that?” I countered, mystified.
Tony explained. Peter had been in the Ship of the Green pub a few nights previous, and there’d been two whips going – glasses left on the bar, which people put cash into for the next round of drinks. “A fight broke out, and the guv’nor threw
everyone out. Peter picked up the wrong whip – the one Ron’s crowd were puttin’ money into. He thought it was his pals’ whip, and someone grassed to Ron, saying ‘Spelling’s got your money’. That’s all it was, an honest mistake.”
It didn’t matter how aggrieved my family and I were, there was no way I could confront Ron and demand that he stopped or changed his behaviour. And yet my brother-in-law had almost lost his life over a £15 whip. That’s how Ron was. You couldn’t go after him and confront him. One of you would end up dead.
Ron was planning on taking me to Las Vegas to watch Muhammad Ali fight in October 1980. He’d come in one Saturday with a large holdall, which he unzipped to reveal a huge stash of American dollars. Ron had done a raid on a foreign bank, and he announced that we had $4,000, and £24,000 to spend during our week in Vegas. A princely sum. Meanwhile, Ron needed somewhere to keep the dollars until we left.
“It’s fine here,” I offered. No-one would go looking for it in my flat, I reasoned.
Ron didn’t like that idea. He wanted it kept well away from me, in case anyone got wind of it.
“There’s a lady who sometimes babysits for me. She’s a friend, and I know she won’t ask any questions,” I volunteered.
“Well, I don’t want you havin’ stolen money in ’ere,” Ron said, so we went over to Old Bow and knocked at my friend Nita’s door.
“Fuck me, not you, ya old tart,” Ron swore as she opened her door.
“Oh, you, is it? I object to being called an old tart.” Nita showed us in. I was bewildered until she dug out an old Polaroid picture. “I’ve still got a photo of you ’ere,” she said to Ron.
“Oh I see, you two already know each other,” I said, with eyebrows raised. They’d obviously been intimate in the past, but Ron had never said anything about it.
“Look, Neet, do me a favour. Look after this money will ya?” Ron wheedled.
Nita shrugged. “Yeah, ok, stick it in that drawer over there.”
We went home and thought nothing more of it.
A few days later Nita got a spin by the police. They’d got a warrant to search the wrong address – hers – and instead of going away and rectifying their mistake, they decided to search her place anyway.
Before long they found Ron’s money.
“What’s this?” The copper said.
“Oh that’s not mine, it’s Linda Calvey’s,” my friend replied. She was naturally shaken by the Old Bill searching her house, and so I didn’t blame her for grassing me up.
“What, Linda Calvey whose husband got shot?” an officer said.
“That’s right”, Nita had replied, and gave them my address.
Next thing I knew, there was a knock at the door.
“Linda Calvey?”
“Yes, that’s me. Can I help you?”
“We’ve just searched a property in the same block, and a bag of American dollars was found,” the copper said.
“How do you know?” I replied, my brain whirring as fast as it could. I had to stall them until I could think of a plausible reason why thousands of pounds worth of stolen money would’ve been in my possession.
“I’ve got them in my hand, that’s how I know,” the officer said smartly, and thrust the small bag in my face. I realised what Nita must’ve said, and I knew that if she’d told the police who the money really belonged to, she’d have got herself in serious trouble with Ron.
“Oh, did she tell you who my husband was?” I began. A plan had formed in my mind quick as anything. I couldn’t grass up Ron either, so I’d had to think of something. Being the widow of a well-known blagger had to come in useful at some point. “I found it in my husband’s toolbox when I moved,” I said. “It was obviously money he’d got from somewhere. He’s been dead 18 months now.” I looked the officer in the face without flinching.
“A likely story, Mrs Calvey,” he replied.
“How often does your wife look in the toolbox?” I added, making the other officer with him snort with laughter.
“Good point,” the copper said. “You’ll have to come to the station and give a statement.”
Later, Ron didn’t take the news well.
“They’ll find out where that money’s from. In two days’ time, they’ll send in the heavy mob. You need a new story.”
“No, I’ll have to stick to mine, I gave a statement,” I said.
“That money will be marked. They’ll know it was stolen recently, and not while Mickey was alive!”
I hadn’t thought of that.
Sure enough, two days later the Flying Squad arrived. Nita and I were nicked for handling stolen money. Ron had reassured me that if I got a suspended sentence and a fine, he’d pay it, but insisted I change my statement. My story just didn’t stand up. I spoke to my solicitor, and told him I’d plead guilty but with mitigation.
On the day of my sentencing, I walked into the court room wearing my finest garb: a red fox fur hat, matching fur coat, and high-heeled shoes.
The screw who led me in whispered, “They’ll love you in Holloway.”
“I might be goin’ to Hawaii,” I replied, “but I’m not goin’ to Holloway tonight. You just watch.”
You could’ve heard a pin drop when I entered the dock.
I pleaded guilty. I saw the police officers say “Yes!” when they heard me.
My solicitor proceeded to tell the court what I’d instructed him to say. I was a widow of a gangster, left with two children to bring up alone, and so I’d turned to high-class prostitution to make ends meet. I’d met an American guy, and we’d gone to his hotel, where he’d asked me why I was selling my body. I’d replied that my husband, an armed robber, had been killed. The client had felt sorry for me, handing me a bag of money and telling me to treat myself and my kids. My story had touched a nerve with him, because he was obviously an armed robber himself.
Every word was a lie – except for being a widow, of course. As my lawyer spoke, I looked over at the judge and smiled a wan smile. It was like a pantomime – I was acting my part and doing it well – but even I couldn’t have foreseen what happened next.
When it was my turn to speak, I told the judge that I couldn’t get work anywhere because of my notoriety, and had been forced into the degrading but lucrative work. The prosecution thought they’d won. It was an open-and-shut case.
Then the judge spoke. “Mrs Calvey, I must ask you not to do this anymore. It is such a dangerous world out there. There are bad men who could do you harm. Please don’t do it.”
“I won’t, Your Honour, I promise,” I said meekly, and the judge smiled and nodded.
By this point, the prosecution barristers were glancing at each other, looks of nervous disbelief on their faces. They couldn’t believe the judge had swallowed every word of my lies – and neither could I.
Both Nita and I walked out of the courtroom with suspended sentences and fines, both paid by Ron.
That meant I was free to go to America to live the life of luxury in Vegas. We stayed at Sands Hotel and Casino, went to all the shows, gambled away a small fortune, and watched the Ali fight. The atmosphere was almost sad. It was one of the last times the great boxer ever fought, and he was a shadow of his former talent, eventually retiring against Larry Holmes in the 11th round. Despite that, I felt I’d been at the ring side of history. It was a heady feeling. The problems I’d had with Ron were swept aside by presents of furs and diamonds, sharing magnums of champagne and watching him gamble like a man possessed. We spent every single cent that week. It was one of the most memorable of my life, and not at all what a girl from Ilford would ever have expected to experience in her lifetime.
Chapter 16
Banged Up
1981
“I’m bringing an acquaintance round to your flat for dinner. I want you to make exactly what I’m about to tell you, nothin’ more or l
ess. Can ya do that?” Ron said, eyeing me from my kitchen doorway.
“Tell me what it is, Ron, and I’ll be able to answer you.” This man, I thought, whoever he was, must be privileged if Ron was inviting him home. He never let anyone come round except for my sisters or Maureen. He’d done my place up like an opulent Mayfair mansion, even though it was a council flat, and yet I never got to show it off.
“Prawn cocktail for starters, fillet steak with mushrooms, tomatoes and chips for main and strawberries and cream for dessert.” Ron stared at me.
“Of course I can do that, no problem.” I was unnerved by how intense he was being over such a simple meal as this.
Later that day, Ron turned up with the man. He was very good-looking, with lovely white teeth. Funny the things that stand out in my memory! He was polite, ate every scrap of the meal I’d prepared, drank the white wine I’d laid on, and thanked me afterwards.
“That’s alright, darlin’, Ron must really like you to invite you over. You’re privileged!” I laughed.
Ron and the man, whose name I never found out, left.
“I’ll pick you up at 8pm and we’ll go out for a drink,” Ron said, before shutting the street door. “I’ve left your outfit on the bed.”
I went into my bedroom, and sure enough, Ron had laid out the outfit he wanted me to wear that evening.
At 8pm on the dot, Ron appeared in his car, and I got in.
“That bloke ain’t joinin’ us?” I enquired, as much to make conversation as anything else.
“No, he definitely won’t be joinin’ us.” Ron snorted at his own private joke. “You look wonderful, Linda.”
I thanked him and thought nothing more about the geezer who’d disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared in the first place.
Ron bought me a drink at The Needlegun on Roman Road, and then, uncharacteristically, said, “I need to do somethin’ for an hour. Wait ’ere and don’t talk to anyone.”
Ron had never left me alone in a pub. As he left, he told me to watch the door and see who came in and out.
