Linda Calvey - The Black Widow: My web of secrets and the truth about my murder conviction

First published by Mirror Books in 2019

Mirror Books is part of Reach plc
10 Lower Thames Street
London EC3R 6EN
England

www.mirrorbooks.co.uk

Melanie and Neil Calvey

The rights of Linda Calvey to be identified as the author
of this book have been asserted, in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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
written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of
binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978-1-912624-59-1

Typeset by Danny Lyle
DanJLyle@gmail.com

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Every effort has been made to fulfil requirements with regard to
reproducing copyright material. The author and publisher will be
glad to rectify any omissions at the earliest opportunity.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Cover images: iStockphoto

For Melanie and Neil

Prologue

Come ON! I screamed as the men in balaclavas ran towards the van, sawn-off shotguns in their hands. They flung open the doors and threw themselves in just as I slammed my foot down on the accelerator. The tyres squealed. Get us out of here! Brian shouted, pulling up his balaclava, a wild look on his face.

Hold on! I swung round the corner and screeched down a side passage to the far end, turning into a backstreet residential road, before abruptly drawing to a stop. I glanced in the car mirrors, making sure we werent being followed by Old Bill.

All clear, I barked. Carl. Balaclava in the bag. Carl pulled off his headgear and thrust it at Brian. Now go!

Carl jumped out and slammed the door behind him, throwing his gloves back in through the window. We sped away in the van as Carl sauntered off in the other direction towards the bus stop, smoothing down his hair, looking to all intents and purposes like a normal bloke just going about his daily business. Brian packed the shotguns away into the holdall containing the money, and stuffed the balaclavas and Carls gloves in on top. The sirens squealed in the distance behind us as I rounded the next few corners at full speed, and shuddered to a halt a few streets further along. Every police officer and squad car within a three-mile radius was heading our way.

Its clear, Brian. Meet you at Harpley Square later. Brian gave me a brisk nod as he leapt out of the van with the holdall, pulling his gloves off and packing them away as he walked towards his own car. He got in and drove off as casually as possible.

My heart was pounding as I tore off once more, alone. Brian had the loot, but the coppers would still be suspicious if they found me in my gloves I couldnt take those off until I was out of the van, to avoid leaving prints.

I raced round the next few bends, still on full alert, expecting the cops at every turn. I pulled up again 10 metres short of my car, which I had left innocently parked up at the side of the road, took off my red wig and dark glasses, and shoved them into my handbag. Then I jumped out of the stolen van, checking we hadnt left anything in there, pulled off my gloves, walked to the car and set off for home.

As my mind began to clear, I realised that wed done it. In five frenzied minutes, Brian and Carl had robbed a bank security van in broad daylight on a busy street in London. Theyd legged it from the scene, brandishing their shotguns. Weeks of meticulous planning had come off exactly as we wanted. Id suggested the bank to the boys as a perfect target, and it was me whod gone to scout the area. Wed discovered the times when the security van pulled up to load up the days money, and Id made sure there were three possible exit routes in case of trouble. And Id stayed cool in the heat of the moment, closing the deal in the getaway vehicle. It was far from over, but I was one of them now. Once Brian had dropped the guns and disguises off at the garage he rented, wed all be meeting back at my place to share the spoils.

The air was heavy with police sirens as I turned onto the main road, straight out in front of a police car that was hurrying to the scene of the crime. My heart skipped a beat as I glanced in the mirrors, and I drove on at a normal speed with the traffic. But they hadnt paid the slightest attention to me, and the Old Bill soon got fed up of following along behind. I allowed myself a wry smile as the police cars sped past me, sirens blaring, and disappeared up ahead.

You were born for this, Linda.

Chapter 1

East End, Born and Bred

1948-60

I grew up in the East End of London, the home of the underclass, the seething, broiling hunting ground of the citys criminal establishment. My family lived just a stones throw away from the area ruled by the Kray twins, near the streets that Jack the Ripper once prowled. East London meant gang wars, violence, poverty and brutality. And yet alongside it was a real sense of yearning for a better life: a life where housing wasnt in slum tenements with outdoor shared lavvies, where clothes werent all bought second- or third-hand at the Mission, where children could play in streets without coming home covered in filthy residue from the nearby dockland industries, where they could breathe in air that wasnt filled with the stench of the tanneries, the boozers and the warehouses. We wanted more than we were born to, and yet we had no way of getting it. Not legally, at least. We survived by ducking and diving, by wheeling and dealing, by looking after our own, under the wing of the women who got us through the post-war deprivations with a grim smile, hot suppers on the table and endless love.

You have to be born within the sound of Bow bells to be a proper Cockney, and I was born in Ilford, so dont quite have that privilege. But nowadays its a rare honour anyway, as most of the maternity hospitals within earshot have closed down. I was born in 1948, the second of nine children. My mum was the pillar of our family, as most East End mums are. It was only three years after the end of the war, and the country was reeling from the loss of a generation of men.

My father was a soldier, a tall lean man with dark hair and eyes that twinkled with mischief. Hed clapped eyes on Mum back when she was working her coffee stall under the arches at Stepney East Station. The story goes that even when the air raid sirens were wailing across London, Mum resolutely refused to go into a shelter, and carried on serving coffee to those who also didnt care for a night spent breathing in the smells of other people, the unwashed, unshaven masses huddling together on the cold steps or floor of the Underground platform. Mum served steaming hot drinks as the Luftwaffe tipped bombs from the heavens onto our city, as the flames rose and buildings fell to rubble, as the docks ignited and explosions were heard as far away as Bermondsey. She put out incendiary bombs in her spare time. She was an indomitable spirit. She showed how strong the women of East London were back then. She didnt tremble at the sound of the sirens she just got on with it, like thousands of others. She was fierce when her back was against the wall.

It was there, under the arches, that my dad Charlie found his way to her stall. He was a dapper man, but he didnt wear a trilby or a suit he went about in braces, a flat cap and a shirt with a grandad collar.

My mum didnt like the look of him at all. He looked like a charmer, a bad boy with far too much confidence about him.