Survivor: Only the strongest will remain standing . . .

by Roberta Kray

  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 Bad Girl, Streetwise, No Mercy and Dangerous Promises.

  Also by Roberta Kray

  The Debt

  The Pact

  The Lost

  Strong Women

  The Villain’s Daughter

  Broken Home

  Nothing But Trouble

  Bad Girl

  Streetwise

  No Mercy

  Dangerous Promises

  Exposed

  Non-fiction

  Reg Kray: A Man Apart

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Sphere

  978-0-7515-6106-7

  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 © Roberta Kray 2017

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  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

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Survivor

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Roberta Kray

  COPYRIGHT

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  1958

  He watched the ground as he walked through the trees, careful not to make any noise. Every few yards he would stop and listen, his head cocked to one side. Over the last few weeks he had conducted a number of recces, got to know the lie of the land, but now it was for real everything felt different. He had a sense of anticipation, a surging energy that jangled his nerves and made his heart race.

  He looked at his watch. There was still some time. Slowly he made his way down to the water’s edge. The lake was calm, gunmetal grey and fringed with bulrushes. A fine, hazy mist hung over the surface but he could just make out the house across the other side, a substantial three-storey white building. His upper lip curled a little; other people’s good fortune always filled him with resentment.

  Glancing both ways along the path that circled the lake, he kept his eyes peeled for unwanted company. On all the occasions he’d been here before, he’d only ever seen one other person apart from the nanny, and that was the handyman walking the family’s black retriever. The nanny was a slight girl who wouldn’t put up much of a fight. No problem there. He could take her with one arm tied behind his back. What he didn’t need was an interfering have-a-go hero or, come to that, some fucker of a dog trying to chew off his balls.

  He stood for a while before retreating back into the shelter of the trees. Crouching down, he lit a fag, impatient now for it to begin. The waiting around was the hardest part. He went over the plan in his head, step by step, and automatically checked his pockets to make sure the coils of twine were still there.

  The minutes dragged by and the chill autumnal air began to seep into his bones. He needed a drink, a good strong shot of whisky. His tongue slid across his dry lips. He finished the cigarette, dug a small hole in the ground with the heel of his boot, dropped in the butt and covered it with soil and leaves. He stretched out one leg and then the other, and thought about what he’d do when it was all over. Go abroad, perhaps, and get some sun. He was tired of the cold, grey British weather, tired of everything about Britain.

  And what about Hazel? If the truth were told he was sick of her as well. The things that had initially attracted him, her innocence and wide-eyed adulation, had long since lost their appeal. These days she just got on his nerves. Still, she had her uses. He’d need her over the next week or so, and after that she was history. He didn’t have to worry about her grassing him up; she was in it up to her neck and if she went to the law she’d be sealing her own fate too.

  It was a further five minutes before he heard the sound of the pram’s wheels. Instantly he was alert, the adrenalin starting to flow. He pulled the scarf up over his nose and mouth. Then he got to his feet and began quietly to move down towards the lake. The girl came into view. She was dressed in a drab brown coat and her lips were moving slightly; she was talking to the baby or herself or maybe mouthing the words to a song.

  He crept close to the path and waited for her to pass by before leaping from the bushes and pouncing from behind. She stiffened with fear and panic as his arm snaked around her neck and his gloved palm clamped hard against her mouth. With his body pressed against hers, he knew he had absolute power over her. It was a gratifying, almost sexual feeling – but he wasn’t here for that.

  ‘Don’t try anything, love, or I’ll snap your fuckin’ neck in half!’

  Paralysed with fright, she didn’t dare move. He had her. Now all he had to do was make sure she stayed bound and hidden while he grabbed the baby and got the hell out of there. But then, as he tried to drag her towards the undergrowth, something unexpected happened. As if waking from a nightmare, she suddenly kicked out, catching him on the shin. He gasped in surprise, loosened his grip, and she twisted away from him. In the ensuing struggle, they grappled with each other, a messy desperate battle. She was small but she fought like a wildcat: bug-eyed, terrified, hysterical. As he tried to subdue her, he stumbled and barged into the pram.

  There was a moment when time slowed and stretched, when seconds became interminable, when the wheels continued to turn and the pram lurched off the path, travelling down the bank towards the lake. There was a holding of breath, a terrible stillness in the air. He knew he had a choice: leave the girl and grab the baby or… But he hesitated too long and the pram slipped into the water with a soft splash, tilted and turned over.

  The girl let out a cry. ‘Kay!’ And then she started to scream.

  He snapped into action. He had to silence her before she alerted the whole bloody world to what was going on.
As he yanked her towards the lake, he covered her mouth with his hand. ‘Shut up! Shut up, you stupid bitch!’ And then, because he couldn’t think what else to do, he shoved her hard and sent her flying into the water. It had the desired effect. The shock of the cold rendered her speechless and as she scrabbled around, arms flailing, he waded in to retrieve the child.

  The pram was on its side, half submerged. He snatched up the soaking wet bundle but couldn’t tell if the baby was alive or not. It had only been a short while, not long enough to drown, surely, but she was an odd colour and her eyes were closed. He started making his way towards the bank, but suddenly the girl was on him again, tugging at his coat, clawing at his arms, trying to snatch the kid off him.

  ‘Give her to me!’

  He pushed her away with his free hand but she kept coming back. By now the scarf had slipped off and she could see him clearly. Fuck it! Damn! She wouldn’t have a problem picking him out in a line-up. And suddenly he couldn’t think straight. All kinds of shit was running through his head, including the prospect of a long stretch. He had a sudden flash forward to standing in the dock while a judge sent him down. Ten years? Twenty? Child abduction came with a heavy price. Rage and panic flowed through his body. No, he wasn’t having it. He wasn’t going to jail. He couldn’t.

  And meanwhile the stupid bitch was still clawing at him, still yelling, her cries echoing around the lake. Why wouldn’t she just shut the fuck up? What he did next was impulsive, instinctive, a matter of self-preservation. He put his hand on the top of her head, grabbed her hair, pushed her under the water and leaned on her with all his weight. He just wanted her to be quiet. He counted off the seconds: one two, three, four, five. He should have let go but he didn’t. She struggled for a while, a futile thrashing of arms and legs – bubbles rose from her mouth to the surface – and then she went limp. He stared down through the grey water, knowing what he’d done but not wanting to acknowledge it.

  Finally, he disentangled his fingers from her hair. She didn’t move. And now what was done couldn’t be undone. How had it happened? It shouldn’t have happened. It was her fault, he told himself. If only she’d left well alone…

  Quickly, with the baby in his arms, he scrambled out of the water and on to the bank. The kid wasn’t crying, wasn’t doing anything. The blanket was soaked through. Maybe the shock of the cold water had been too much. He didn’t want to look too closely. He just wanted to get away. As he glanced back over his shoulder he saw the girl floating face down in the lake. And now he couldn’t breathe properly. He felt cold, shivery, sick to the stomach. Shit, it had all gone wrong. It had all gone horribly wrong.

  1

  1971

  By the age of thirteen, Lolly knew her mum was different. Unfortunately everyone on the Mansfield estate knew it too. Sometimes Angela Bruce was ill in a quiet sort of way, indoors with her face turned to the wall, but other times she roamed the walkways of the three tall towers shouting about God and sin, the Elgin Marbles, snakes, spiders, MI5 or whatever else had wormed its way into her head that day.

  The flat, on the fourteenth floor of Haslow House, was cramped and damp. Often there was no electricity and no coins to feed the empty meter. Lolly, who was small and skinny and always hungry, had learned to scavenge. She would root through other people’s bins for leftovers, or beg from the market stalls when they were packing up at the end of the day. Her clothes were old and ragged, cast-offs from the charity shops or from neighbours who felt sorry for her.

  Today the sky was a clear solid blue. Summer was Lolly’s favourite time of year, mainly because the days were longer and she didn’t have to think about keeping warm. There were also six glorious weeks without school. She was glad to escape from the taunts of her classmates, the name-calling, the hair pulling, the relentless reminders that she was not one of them; she was odd, an outsider, an outcast. Sometimes she bunked off but she knew better than to do it too often. With frequent truancy came a visit from the Social, and that always meant trouble. Those busybodies were just looking for an excuse to take her away and dump her in a ‘home’.

  Lolly feared being taken away more than anything else. Well, no, perhaps not anything else. What she feared more was that one day her mum would leave the flat and never come back. This was why she felt uneasy as she gazed into the bedroom. It was seven o’clock in the morning and already the bed was empty. Perhaps it hadn’t even been slept in. She stared at the rumpled blankets but was unable to remember what they’d looked like yesterday.

  Last night her mum had been in one of her jumpy, anxious moods, unable to sit still, pacing back and forth across the living room. Every few minutes she’d stop the pacing and go to the window to stare down at the grim wasteland of the estate. Raising her hand to her mouth, she chewed on her bitten-down fingernails.

  ‘He’s been following me, Lolly. Why won’t he leave me alone?’

  ‘Who’s been following you?’

  ‘He has. You mustn’t talk to him. You mustn’t tell him anything. Promise me.’

  ‘I won’t. I swear.’ Lolly had looked out of the window too, but the only people she could see, apart from a few stragglers, was a gang of lads gathered by the main gate. This happened every evening at dusk. Like a pack of wolves, they came together to hunt down anyone stupid enough to be walking the streets of Kellston alone.

  ‘We’ve got to be careful. He could be on to us.’

  And Lolly had nodded because she’d learnt through the years that agreeing was the only way to keep her mum calm.

  ‘I think he may be next door. He’s trying to listen. We have to stay very quiet.’

  ‘Why is he following you, Mum?’

  ‘You know why,’ she whispered. ‘We mustn’t ever talk about it, not when… there are bugs everywhere. Spies. They’re keeping tabs on us. Can you hear that?’

  Lolly had listened but all she could hear was the soft anxious sound of her mother’s breathing. ‘What?’

  A knowing, tight-lipped smile was the only response.

  Lolly was still turning this over in her head as she walked to the bed and placed a palm on the grubby sheet. There was no warmth, no indication that anyone had been lying there recently. That wasn’t good. She could have been gone for hours. Once, a year or so ago, she’d disappeared for two days and had eventually been found curled up, foetus-like, in the dark space at the bottom of the stairwell.

  Lolly went through to the living room, opened the doors that led out to a narrow balcony and leaned over the rail. She scanned the estate, searching for the slim, slight figure of her mother, for the pale blue jacket and the familiar stream of long black hair. No sign. There was hardly anyone about. She listened carefully but heard only the distant sound of traffic from the high street. An uneasy feeling was starting to stir inside her.

  It didn’t help that she was starving hungry. She’d gone to bed on an empty stomach and now she was desperate for something to eat. After closing the balcony doors she went to the kitchen and looked in the fridge. It had no light and, despite being empty, a bad smell wafted into her nostrils. She slammed shut the door and went to check the cupboards. She wasn’t sure why she was bothering – there’d been nothing in them last night – but she lived in hope of miracles.

  On this occasion, like most of the others, her hopes were immediately dashed. Her face fell as she crouched down and gazed at the empty shelves. Not even a few stray cornflakes or a tin of beans. If she wanted breakfast, she’d have to go out and hunt for it.

  Lolly put on her thin cotton jacket with the deep pockets (she never knew what she might find), made sure she had the front door key, and left the flat. In the shared hallway she pressed all the lift buttons and waited… and waited. There was no indication that anything was happening. They were probably jammed again, or some kids were messing about on the ground floor, keeping all the doors open.

  ‘Come on,’ she said impatiently, jabbing at the buttons. ‘Come on, come on.’

  The estate had only be
en built about fifteen years ago but already it was starting to fall apart. The once-white concrete walls had turned grey and there were long ominous cracks running up the outside, some of them big enough to slide a finger into. The metal railings were rusting. Damp crept through the building and into the flats, black mould gathering on ceilings like a horrible disease. The whole estate had an air of despondency about it as if the residents, many of them stranded up in the sky, thought of the place more as a high-rise prison than a home.