Deceived: THE BRAND NEW NOVEL. No one knows crime like Kray.
Page 1
Through her marriage to Reggie Kray, Roberta Kray has a unique and authentic insight into London’s East End. Roberta met Reggie in early 1996 and they married the following year; they were together until Reggie’s death in 2000. Roberta is the author of many previous bestsellers including No Mercy, Dangerous Promises, Exposed and Survivor.
Also by Roberta Kray
The Debt
The Pact
The Lost
Strong Women
The Villain’s Daughter
Broken Home
Nothing But Trouble
Bad Girl
Streetwise
Dangerous Promises
Exposed
Survivor
Non-fiction
Reg Kray: A Man Apart
Copyright
Published by Sphere
ISBN: 978-0-7515-6961-2
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Roberta Kray The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Lyrics from ‘Stormy Weather’ on p2 and p341 by Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Sphere
Little, Brown Book Group
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Contents
About the Author
Also by Roberta Kray
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
Prologue
1937
She lifted the long mink coat from the bag on the floor and held it up in front of her before slipping it around her shoulders. As she stared at her reflection in the mirror, she imagined she looked like one of those rich Mayfair ladies, the sort who took afternoon tea at the Ritz and treated the waiters with polite disdain. She turned to the left and the right, viewing the effect. Yes, if she kept her mouth shut, she could easily pass for a woman of substance.
She stroked the soft mink, wishing she could keep it, but fancy furs didn’t pay the bills or put food on the table. Anyway, the coats were too hot to hold onto. As soon as Hull found out they were missing, he’d do his nut. To thieve off a thief was a risky business at the best of times, but when that thief was Lennie Hull, you were just asking for trouble. Ivor didn’t care – said the cheating bastard owed him – but that wouldn’t count for much when his legs were being broken.
She flinched at the thought of it.
Still, they’d be away soon, out of here and out of London. She glanced down towards the five bags full of ermine, sable and mink. They’d bring in a pretty penny once they found the right buyer. Her gaze lifted to the clock on the mantelpiece. Half an hour, Ivor had said, and it was way past that. How long did it take to buy petrol?
‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered.
Nerves were starting to get the better of her. She lifted a hand to her mouth and chewed on her nails. The seconds ticked by slowly. The sky was darkening, the low clouds full of rain. That song, ‘Stormy Weather’, crept into her head. ‘Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky …’ she crooned. She lit a cigarette and paced from one side of the room to the other. Had something gone wrong? No, she just had the jitters.
It would be fine once Ivor got back. She had never known a man like him before: smart and witty and fearless. Just the thought of him took her breath away. She’d grown up surrounded by villains, most of them with big ideas and cotton wool between their ears, but he was a world apart. He had a talent, a skill that none of them possessed. There wasn’t a lock he couldn’t open in England – maybe the whole world – or a safe either. All of which meant he’d never be out of work. It was the kind of work, however, that came with risks. The East End was full of copper’s snouts, lowlifes who’d grass you up for the price of a pint. And who wanted to spend years in the slammer with nothing to look forward to but more of the same? It was a mug’s game and he knew it.
Ivor had no respect for the law, for authority, but he wasn’t a fool. ‘The system always wins out in the end,’ he said. If it wasn’t a bent copper planting evidence, it was some loose-mouthed idiot bragging about a job in the boozer. He was forever looking over his shoulder, forever waiting for the knock on the door. And even though he’d grown up in Kellston, he didn’t really fit in. He wasn’t one of the boys. He was different, and people round here didn’t like different.
‘It’s time to make a move, love,’ he’d said. ‘Time for pastures new.’ And she hadn’t disagreed with him. She’d be glad to see the back of this place, although she’d miss her friends. Still, it would be an adventure. And who cared where they lived so long as they were together? The cash from the furs would give them a fresh start, a chance to get established.
She stubbed out her ciggie and went back to the window. She wondered what it would be like up north. She had never been further than Epping in her life.
Her gaze strayed to the clock again – ten to ten. They’d intended to leave at the crack of dawn, but that plan had gone for a Burton when Ivor had climbed into the Humber and discovered some tea leaf had emptied the petrol tank in the middle of the night. With the local garage closed until nine, they’d had no choice but to sit it out until opening time. Of course he could have gone and done some siphoning of his own, but that was always risky. Getting nicked was the last thing he needed.
She peered out of the window again. Where was he? It was then that she saw the motor, a dark saloon, turn the corner and start crawling down the road as though the driver was counting off the numbers on the houses. Her whole body froze. For a moment she stood rooted to the spot. She knew who it was and why they were coming.
The name rose to her lips and hung there in an agony of disbelief.
Lennie Hull.
How had he found out? The furs weren’t due to be moved from the warehouse until tomorrow. And how had he guessed that Ivor had nicked them? But none of that was important now. Jesus, they were for it! She had to scarper, and fast. They’d be here in a minute, and one flimsy front door wasn’t going to hold them for long.
Finally the adrenalin kicked in. Shrugging off the mink, she legged it to the kitchen, pulled back the bolts and threw open the door. She rushed through the back yard and along the narrow weed-filled alley that ran behind the terrace. Should she duck into one of the neighbours’ yards and hide in the lavvy? No, it was too risky. Hull and his goons would search every square inch until they found her.
She ploughed on until the alley eventually turned and rejoined the road further up. Here she stopped, knowing that the moment she stepped out they would be able to see her. She could wait until they forced their way into the house, but what if they decided to come round the back instead? She’d either have to make a run for it or double back, and if she did the latter, she’d be trapped with nowhere to go. No, her only option was to walk out as if nothing was wrong, to act as though she was just an innocent woman on her way somewhere. She took a deep breath. Hold your nerve, girl.
She saw the motor out of the corner of her eye as she turned left, but didn’t stare. It was parked in front of the house, the occupants in the process of getting out. Four of them, maybe five: big fellers, suited and booted. They were about twenty yards away, far enough perhaps for them not to recognise her. She set off in the opposite direction, spine straight, head up, heels click-clacking on the pavement. Not too fast, not too slow. Don’t look back.
She might have got away with it if she’d taken her own advice. Past the first lamp post, and then the second, trying to stay calm even though her head was exploding, but she just couldn’t resist that quick glance over her shoulder. Big mistake. Hull and the others were at the front door, giving it a hammer, but the driver was leaning against the saloon with his arms folded across his chest and his gaze focused right on her.
Blind panic engulfed her as their eyes met. She made a split-second decision, and it was a bad one. Reason went out of the window. Before her instincts could engage with her brain, she took off. Almost immediately she stumbled and knew she’d have to ditch the heels. Quickly she kicked off her shoes and started to run again.
From behind she heard a shout: ‘Oi!’ And then the sound of the saloon doors banging shut.
She was dead. She knew it. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her, her stockinged feet slapping against the cold pavement. But it wasn’t fast enough. She could hear the motor getting closer. Her face was twisted, wet with tears, as she hurtled forward, intent on only one thing – if she could just reach the cemetery, she might be able to give them the slip, to hunker down and hide among the tombstones.
She had to get off the main road before they caught up with her. Out here she was a sitting duck. Which way now? She knew Kellston like the back of her hand, but her mental map was being ripped apart by fear. There was a network of alleyways criss-crossing the district, but if she chose the wrong one, she could finish up in a dead end, trapped like an animal. Was it the next right? She thought it was. She prayed it was. Anyway, she had no choice. She dived across the road and sprinted into the gloom.
She heard the squeal of brakes as the motor pulled up. This time she didn’t look back, and kept on running. Her heart was pounding, the breath bursting from her lungs. The alley twisted and turned, the high brick walls looming over her. On the ground there was hard soil and sharp stones that dug into the soles of her feet, but she didn’t slow down. On and on until she finally found what she was looking for.
The gate was ancient and rusty, hanging off a single hinge. She pushed it just far enough for her to squeeze through, and then launched herself into the undergrowth. There had been a path here once but now it was overgrown, a mass of brambles and stinging nettles. As she stumbled through them, thrashing her arms, she could hear the heavy thud of footsteps back in the alley.
She was exhausted, but terror spurred her on. Here, in the older part of the cemetery, she should be able to find somewhere to hide. Eventually she emerged into clearer territory, full of long grass and weeds but easier to negotiate. She flew past weathered graves, granite towers and grey stone angels until she reached a dark place overhung by trees. A row of mausoleums, like an avenue of small abandoned houses, lay ahead. She got as far as the fifth before her legs gave way and she slumped to the ground.
Even as her backside hit the earth, she heard the male voices travelling through the air. Sick panic rose into her throat. Crawling on her hands and knees, she dragged herself round to the back of the tomb, curled up and tried to make her body as small as possible. It was then that the pain made contact with her brain. Her stockings were torn and her legs, arms and feet were covered in scratches and bright red welts from where she’d been stung.
She whimpered and quickly clamped her hand across her mouth. If they heard her, she was done for. She held her panting breath, pressed her cheek against the cool brick and listened. Now the voices were coming from different directions as the men spread out searching for her. How many? Two, three? She reckoned Hull and at least one of the others would have stayed behind to retrieve the furs – and wait for Ivor.
Ivor, Ivor. She repeated his name in her head like a mantra. When he got home, he’d be walking straight into an ambush. There wouldn’t even be the saloon parked outside as a warning. Perhaps they’d grabbed him already. She shivered, and her heart thudded in her chest. Hull would make an example of Ivor, of them both.
She closed her eyes and prayed. Please God, keep him safe. Please God, don’t let them find me.
It was starting to rain. The water pattered against the leaves and made a pocking sound as it dripped off the roof of the tomb. She stayed tightly curled, rigid with fear. Her teeth began to chatter. She clamped her jaw shut, scared the noise would betray her. Footsteps drew nearer. She heard the boots, heavy on the earth, and the sound of snapping twigs. The smell of cigarette smoke floated in the air.
This is it, she thought. This is the end.
The steps advanced, closer and closer, until her pursuer was only a few yards away. And then he stopped. There was a long silence as though he was trying to decide what to do next. Or maybe he was just listening. She held her breath. All that separated them was the square brick tomb. If he decided to check round the back, it would all be over.
She pressed herself closer to the wall, wishing she could pass right through it into the darkness on the other side. The dead felt no fear, no horror. All she wanted was to be safe again. Time passed as slowly as it had in the house. Then there had been anticipation; now there was only dread.
The man remained where he was for what felt like an eternity. Then, like a miracle, he began to walk away. She heard his steps receding, growing fainter, but she stayed completely still. Maybe he was just toying with her, playing a game. Maybe it was a trap so she would show herself. She wasn’t going to fall for that one. No mistakes. No sudden stupid movements. Patience.
And so she waited … and waited. The cold and damp crept into her bones. She thought about which exit to head for. There were three in all, including the old gate she had used. Best to stay clear of that. So, one of the others. But where could she go from there? Not back to the house, that was for sure; there’d be a welcome committee installed in the living room.
With no money, and no shoes on her feet, she needed somewhere close by and someone she could trust. Her friend Amy was her best bet. She had a flat on the high street, above the baker’s. Yes, that was the place to go. Which meant she had to circle round the cemetery to the main entrance, but not until she was certain the coast was clear.
Carefully she stretched out one leg, and then the other. How long had she been here? Over an hour, she thought. Her join
ts were stiff and aching. She concentrated hard, listening for any unwanted sounds. There were none. No voices. No footsteps. Surely they must have given up by now.
If it had been warmer and dryer, she would have stayed where she was for even longer. But the cold was starting to get to her. She was shivering and soaked through. Much more of this and she’d end up with pneumonia. She hauled herself upright and tiptoed round the side of the tomb to peek along the narrow path. Empty. But she couldn’t see far. Someone could be hiding in the trees.
She had to make a move at some point, but fear made her legs leaden. Her intention was to sneak through the darker parts of the cemetery, keeping off the main thoroughfares, until she reached the perimeter wall. From there she could edge round to the main gate. She thought this over. All things considered, it wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all she’d got.
Her heart was in her mouth as she set off. Her feet, cut and sore, made every step a painful one. She tried to stay in the shelter of the trees and bushes, keeping her eyes peeled for Hull’s men. Her ears strained to hear the slightest sound. She moved slowly, taking care where she trod. She sniffed the air, paused and went on. As she passed between the old graves, her gaze skimmed over the names of the dead, the young and the old, the husbands and wives, the mums and dads.
Ivor was in her thoughts. There was still a chance he’d got away. Maybe he’d realised something was wrong as he approached the house. All she could do was hope. He’d have to make himself scarce, lie low until the heat was off. But he’d come back for her. She was sure of it.
The wall was within spitting distance when it happened. She heard the tiniest of noises behind her, no more than a shifting in the air. As she whirled around, her worst nightmare became reality. A man was rising up from behind a pink granite tombstone, his face scarred and brutish, his mouth stretched into a devil’s grin. He had a shooter in his hand and it was pointed straight at her.
‘You took yer time, doll. I was starting to think you were never coming. Been freezing my bollocks off here.’
She backed away from him, but only as far as the wall. A thin whimpering sound escaped from her lips. It was too late for regrets, but they still tumbled through her head: if only she’d stayed where she was, if only that petrol hadn’t been nicked, if only Ivor had stayed well away from those bloody furs …