by Linda Calvey
It was an astonishingly candid speech from a High Court judge. I believe Mr Justice Hidden knew I was innocent. Why else would he say such a thing, and give me such a low sentence, when my alleged crime had been upgraded from Murder to Gangland Murder? When I’d asked my legal counsel what the difference was, he’d replied, “About 25 years.”
I looked over to Danny. A single tear ran down his hard features. “This is for you, not for me,” he said. Danny was given a 15-year minimum term.
My life had been destroyed in a devastating miscarriage of justice. What would happen to my children? They were there in court to see me convicted, and they were hysterical. How would they cope with this latest blow? Danny and I held hands until we were led back down, our hands breaking off as we were marched in opposite directions. In the holding area, someone had drawn an arch above the doorway, and had written The Hall of Fame. I knew that Dr Crippen and Reggie and Ronnie Kray had walked up those stairs and into the dock: Crippen for the murder of his wife Corrine, and the Krays for the murders of Jack McVitie and George Cornell. It made me shudder to think I had ended up in the same place, facing an almost unimaginably long jail sentence. A convicted murderer.
Chapter 25
Reggie
1991
The great exterior gates shut slowly behind us. I was sitting inside the prison van, waiting to be unloaded at the entrance of Holloway, the vast rebuilt brick prison that housed 500 female inmates. Among those imprisoned in the past were Suffragettes Emmeline Pankhurst, Emily Davison, Mary Richardson, Ethel Smyth, Countess Markievicz and Dame Christabel Pankhurst. Those on hunger strike had been force fed within the walls of the original Victorian building, and it had also been home to women members of the Fascist movement, notably Diana Mitford, who married Sir Oswald Mosley, and lived for a time with him in a cottage inside the prison grounds. Today, it was a grim red-brick building without the imposing turreted gateway that was the prison’s hallmark.
I was taken into the municipal entrance with yellow walls, where a prison guard was sitting behind a thick glass frontage. I waited as the formalities were carried out. The place stank of diesel fumes and cigarette smoke, a familiar smell to me by now. Each section of the prison was fenced in by iron barred gates painted blue, and as I was taken through, I heard each set of bars shut behind me, drawing me deeper and deeper into the formidable prison. We zigzagged through the long corridors, some made of concrete, some wooden. The walls were all the same sickly yellow, like in a hospital ward.
I stumbled on as my life collapsed with each step I took. It was very unlike me, but I didn’t say a word. I was stunned into silence, literally, as the third nightmare of my life was beginning. I’d been through Mickey’s death, Ron’s murder, and now I was starting a life stretch. There was nothing I could say or do to make sense of it all, to change it in any way. I knew I’d have to accept my fate or I’d be crushed by the penal system. I knew this because I’d spent so long visiting people in prison: first Mickey, who had been in and out for most of our married life, from talking to Ron, Brian and Danny when they were inside – the things they’d told me about having to shut their feelings down, be a closed room so no-one could mug them off. It had sounded horrible to me, but I understood, as I never had before, that it was essential to surviving inside the brutal prison regime.
There was a part of me I knew I’d never shut down, though, and that was my anger at the system that had put me here. My hatred of the establishment burned in my chest as I was led through Holloway, towards that most feared of wings, where the inmates were in single cells rather than dorms. I would fight my conviction with every ounce of strength I possessed – of that I was sure. Most people say they didn’t do whatever it was they got put into prison for, yet we all know that our prisons aren’t full of innocent people. There was no point me protesting my innocence to the screws and inmates, because everyone did. It would’ve been a waste of breath.
“Oh Linda, I’m so upset that they found you guilty.”
“I can’t believe you’ve been banged up for it!”
“It’s so shocking, Linda, I just can’t believe it.”
The prison guards were sympathetic, but they couldn’t change the fact I was convicted for something I didn’t do. Where was the justice? Where was the evidence? Had my reputation damned me so much that the jury could never have let me go free?
“Where are you takin’ me?” I asked when I realised the screws weren’t taking me to the wing I’d been on remand in. I’d made a good circle of friends there, and had been quite happy with my job as a cleaner, chatting to the other girls and getting on with life as I’d waited a year for my case to come to trial.
“You’re goin’ to C1,” said the prison guard.
“C1! You’re jokin’, aren’t you? That’s a psychiatric unit!”
This was too much to cope with. C1 had a reputation of being a dumping ground for the most volatile and disturbed prisoners in the system – and they were sending me there. The unit had a punishment block where women were kept in solitary isolation. The place was a by-word for verbal assault, racism and violence between prisoners. It was nothing short of a hell-hole.
“Rules are rules. All the convicted murderers go there because we ’ave to watch you in case you try and commit suicide.”
That infuriated me. “I can assure you that I won’t commit suicide. I’m goin’ to be fightin’ for my appeal.”
“Don’t worry Linda, you won’t be stayin’, you’ll get freed in a year when you can appeal, I’m sure of it.”
I smiled, grateful for the optimism of the officer as she pointed to a grey metal door in front of me. We’d been through locked door after locked door to get here, our footsteps echoing on the scrubbed corridor floors, girls cat-calling from their cells as we passed. We’d walked along the glazed walkway, decorated with colourful designs by inmates, but I barely glanced at it. My world was in shreds, and it was all I could do to keep putting one foot in front of me.
I was finally introduced to the cell where I’d be spending three days alone inside. I was on solitary again, just like the first time I spent the night between these walls. The sense of irony, of deja-vu, made me sick to my stomach. A woman was moaning from a nearby cell, while another shrieked with laughter, the sound rattling down the length of the corridor. It smelled of cheap bleach and fried bacon.
“Your home for the next few nights, Linda,” the screw said, ushering me inside the magnolia painted room with its familiar blue linoleum flooring. The door was locked behind me, and I took a moment to look round. It contained the same sparse items as the one I’d occupied years ago for my armed robbery conviction. There was the single bed, the toilet in the corner, a small wash basin and an empty chest of drawers. That was it. There was a small window high up the wall from which I could see the outline of a treetop, its branches bare, bitten by the winter chill.
It wasn’t my first night behind bars, but it was the longest. I sat heavily on the bed, the familiar rough blankets at one end, and put my head in my hands. I had moved on from denial, thinking I’d walk free, to anger at my conviction, and now all I felt, sitting there alone, was determination to find a way to be free. I’d do anything, say anything to get myself out of that place. You can’t bargain with the prison system, and yet I was determined to speak to the right people, to beg my solicitor to take action, to do anything I could to regain my freedom.
That night was the darkest of my life. I watched the light fade across the tiny slice of sky I had been given, and I could’ve wept in frustration and disbelief. The wheel of fortune had moved ever downwards for me. I was trapped, inconsolable and all I could think about was how Neil and Melanie would’ve taken the news that their mother had been found guilty of murder and taken from them yet again.
While I’d been on remand, Melanie had visited me. She’d looked brighter than she had done for months.
“Mum,
I’ve got somethin’ to tell ya,” she’d said, smiling, sitting back in the chair in the drab visitors’ room. The sunlight was streaming in that day.
“What is it, darlin’? Is everythin’ ok?” I replied, squeezing her hand as we sat across from each other.
“Mum, I’m pregnant,” Mel said, “and I’m really happy about it.”
“That’s wonderful, darlin’, I’m so happy for you. Do you know what it is, yet?”
We’d chatted about Mel’s baby, her due date, and I gave her tips about managing with a young baby, telling her to ask the family for support if she needed it, choked up inside that it wouldn’t be me helping her at the birth, as my case would most likely not come up in time. I didn’t let her see how I was feeling. I didn’t want to spoil the moment, and she didn’t let anything she must’ve felt out either.
I would’ve hated giving birth without my mum around. My parents had done everything for me when my babies came, especially when Mickey was banged up. The first time Melanie had met her father was in a prison. I found it unbearable that my first grandchild would most likely meet me for the first time in Holloway. I thought of that as the night stretched onwards until the first glimmers of bleak winter light crept across the sky, casting a grey light through the tree and into my cell.
My eyes were puffy from lack of sleep but I knew I had to get up, clean my teeth, get myself washed, and meet the day with as much dignity as I could muster. My work to be freed started today. I had to show the screws I wasn’t a problem, that I was fine and could be moved back to my wing, from where I could speak to my solicitor and get the ball rolling. I had work to do.
Bullwood Hall became my next home after only weeks in the slammer. I was sad to say goodbye to the girls, but relieved to leave Holloway. Bullwood Hall was a smaller jail, half the size of the prison in North London.
The cell had painted brick walls, a slop bucket and a couple of heating pipes running up to the ceiling. It had a tiny square window, which girls would poke their heads out of to talk to each other, starched sheets, scratchy blankets and an iron bed. It looked like something out of the Victorian times.
“It looks very undignified,” I said huffily, though I was laughing as well. It didn’t really bother me, as I was pleased to be in Essex, closer to my family, who were all based around the Chigwell area now.
Each morning, we’d be woken up at 7.30am with a rattle on the door. A screw would pull the hatch down and say “Morning”. The meals were brought in by trolley and we ate in the lobby, the only room with a television as it was such a small prison, built to be a borstal, so not really fit for use as a prison. Every morning I refused to eat the porridge. Our meals were like school dinners: lumpy mashed potato with grisly meat and a few carrots and peas, followed by jam roly-poly and custard. The place smelled permanently of boiled cabbage. We were locked in from 8pm and the lights were switched off. I didn’t mind, as I’ve never been a reader, so I’d listen to plays on the radio – my prized, and virtually my only, possession.
From there, I worked on my appeal. I was so confident that this time justice would prevail that, the night before going to court, I gave away everything I owned to the other girls. I gave my slippers, shoes and clothing to friends who needed a new set. I gave my toiletries to girls who’d run out. I even gave my radio away to a new girl who’d come in with nothing.
This time, I told the solicitor that I wanted to say who really shot Ron.
By now, Danny was visiting me every three months, and he had chided me for not telling the prosecution the real facts. “I lost a son,” he’d said. “I know what it’s like to lose a boy, and that’s why I had to do it. I couldn’t bear the thought of you losing Neil even more tragically than my son.”
Danny and I grew closer, as he was really the only person who understood my plight. He had convinced me, at last. But our legal counsel warned us that it was too late to change my tune so dramatically. They insisted that it looked like we were lying to get me freed – ironically – and so they refused to take it to the judge.
Our case was dismissed for lack of new evidence.
I was utterly devastated. I’d been moved back to Holloway in preparation for my appeal. Afterwards, bizarrely, I was told I couldn’t be taken to the holding cells, so I was left to stand outside the court, handcuffed to a prison screw, as the rest of the world, city workers and students, walked by, oblivious to the fact a convicted murderess was present.
On my return, I was touched to see that everything I’d given away to the other girls had been given back to me, laid out for me on my newly made bed. Tears stung my eyes as I looked at the things I had wanted never to see again – and yet again, my cell door was locked behind me.
Worse news was in store for me on my return. After I came back from my appeal, I was called into the prison office to see the governor.
“We’ve had a call from the Home Office, Linda. They said that there was a mistake in your sentencing, and you should have been a Category A prisoner.”
My hands began to shake. Why were they changing my status now? Were they going to send me to Durham?
“They’ve instructed us that you are now to be classified as a Travelling Category A prisoner. This is not something we’ve ever had to deal with before. What it means, Linda, is that as soon as you leave the grounds here, on a visit or a transfer, we’ll have to move you immediately to Durham.”
“Oh my God, I’ll be in with all the nonces!” I cried. “This is so unfair, it’s disgustin’. How will my family come to visit me? It’s so far away from them.”
At the time, Durham was a notorious men’s prison with only a small section for women. I was also really worried about being locked up with women murderers, paedophiles and arsonists, and I was fuming that the Home Office had made this decision without any prior warning.
When I arrived in the far north of England, the governor Mr Smith called me to his office. He was a nice-looking, smart man in his forties, and had some words of reassurance. “The girls are all worried about meeting a gangster, armed robber and murderess,” he chuckled. He seemed to be a kindly man, and I warmed to him instantly. “If I can give you one piece of advice, Linda, it’s this: don’t judge anybody by their crime. Just take them on face value.”
“But I don’t want to have anythin’ to do with killers or child molesters,” I said, horrified at the thought of speaking to these people.
“Well, you won’t have anyone to talk to then.”
It wasn’t long after I settled there that I received mail.
“Linda, you’ve got a letter.” An envelope was pushed through the hatch in my door.
“Thank you, darlin’.” Getting mail was a privilege. It was always opened before we saw it, but I still relished unfolding the paper and setting the letter out to read.
This one had a prison stamp on it from Maidstone nick. I wondered who could have sent it.
Opening the letter, I scanned the unfamiliar writing and saw a name that made me burst out laughing.
“Reggie Kray, I can’t believe you’ve written me a letter! After all this time.”
He was offering me advice. I remembered that my brother Tony and my friend Billy Blundell had told him all about me when they were all serving time together in Maidstone. As a long-serving prisoner, Reggie certainly knew what was what.
“Dear Linda, I was so sorry to hear what happened to you. It may seem like you’ll never get out but you will. Just be brave.”
It wasn’t a long letter – and I never kept it, much to my regret – but at the heart of it was his sincere regrets for my conviction. He had kind words to say, and signed off by saying, “I’d like to ask if I can call you.”
I wrote back saying he could. At Durham, we were allowed incoming calls only. A week later, the call was scheduled.
“’Allo, Reg Kray ’ere.” His voice was familiar, still softly s
poken, though with a proper Cockney accent.
“Hello, Linda Calvey here.”
At that point, Reg burst out laughing. “There ain’t many people who do that, who answer and say yer full name.”
I’d only said it like that because he did. It sounded amusing to me, and I played along with it. We got on really well.
“How are ya copin’?” Reg asked. He was solicitous, and seemed genuinely concerned about my wellbeing. “I’ve been in Durham. We may ’ave been in the same cell. Just think of that.” He chuckled as we talked.
I told him my appeal had been quashed and I was facing the full life term.
“Can I call ya regular, like?” he said at the end.
“’Course you can, Reg. That’d be nice,” I replied. I wasn’t scared of him at all. His reputation among hard men was vicious, but to me he was always a gentleman.
A few days after that first call, I was peering out of my cell window when I saw a screw carrying a huge basket of white roses.
“I wonder who those are for?” I said to my two new friends, young women called Ella O’Dwyer and Martina Anderson. Both were IRA bombers, and had been sentenced to life at the Old Bailey in 1986 for planning attacks. Ella had been 26 years old, and Martina just 23.
“Linda, this is for you,” the screw holding the basket said.
I gaped at the spray of flowers, remembering that during one of my conversations with Reg, I’d mentioned that I love white flowers.
“We don’t normally allow a big basket, as people hide drugs in the oasis, but as it’s you, Linda,” she grinned.
The card on them simply said, “To Linda Calvey, from Reggie Kray.”
Chapter 26
Prison Wedding
1994-95
“Show us yer tits!” called one shaven-headed inmate, leering out of his tiny window.
