Why I took the rap for my gangster lover’s murder -- then married his real killer in jail
...and the moment I realised my fellow inmates Myra Hindley and Rose West were having an affair behind bars. Just two of the gripping tales in the final part of LINDA CALVEY’s prison memoir
SHE’S one of Britain’s most notorious female criminals. In last week’s Mail on Sunday, Linda Calvey gave a gripping account of her first stint in HMP Holloway for armed robbery. Today, she details how a miscarriage of justice saw her back behind bars – this time with Myra Hindley and Rose West…
IKNEW who was underneath the black balaclava because he took it off, showed me his face and grinned after he’d aimed the gun at my lover and pulled the trigger. BANG! went the gun, catching the arm of my boyfriend Ron. Blood soaked through his sleeve. ‘This one’s for Mickey Calvey!’ yelled Danny before unleashing the shot that killed Ron.
BANG! went the gun again, this time splattering blood, bone and gristle across my newly painted kitchen.
Pieces of Ron’s skull rocked on my new terracotta tiles and his body slumped onto the floor, his head blown apart.
Danny showed me his face and ran, leaving me crouched in a corner, screaming.
I don’t know why Danny Reece did what he did. Perhaps he was settling an old score on behalf of my dead husband, Mickey. Perhaps news had reached him that my boyfriend, Ron Cook, a big-time gangster, had threatened my son, implying he’d kill him if he ever found out I’d been unfaithful.
Within minutes, blue-light police cars arrived, their sirens squealing. A helicopter circled overhead. Officers swarmed into my house, and I was taken down to the local station.
The police were kind, bringing me coffee. They offered me the tests to prove I hadn’t held the gun, swabbing my face and hands for traces of cordite. One of the coppers gave me his hankie to blow into. This was also taken for forensic testing.
They checked my clothes to see if there were any gun residues. They saw that there was blood all down my back from where I’d crouched when Danny fired the killing shot. I had to give all my clothes to forensics to be examined.
They found nothing. The tests came back negative and so they sent me home.
Naturally, I lied to the officers saying I didn’t know who’d killed Ron, saying he had many enemies. There is a code of honour among crooks. You don’t grass. It’s dishonourable in the underworld, and I was never going to land Danny in it.
If anything, I was already thinking that Danny had done me a favour, and possibly saved my life. Ron had said my son’s life would be payback if I was ever unfaithful – but that doesn’t mean he’d have stopped there.
Ron had controlled my life. He gave me money, yes, but the price was high. I knew I couldn’t ever leave him. That’s why I felt nothing but relief, though the manner of it was horrifying.
Then the Old Bill discovered I was Mickey Calvey’s widow and everything changed.
Two weeks later, in December 1990, there was a knock at the door. A lone police officer stood outside. His face was stern.
‘I’m arresting you for the murder of Ronnie Cook,’ he said. I was questioned under caution back at the local nick. ‘You know I didn’t kill Ron, because your tests all came back negative,’ I said.
‘Which tests were those?’ The officer questioning me sat back in his chair.
‘The swabs.’
‘That’s funny. None of our officers remember any tests...’
Is this a joke? I thought. Were they really telling me they had no recollection of the swabs I’d had done? ‘Yes, the ones that showed I hadn’t picked up a gun,’ I said. The officer shook his head. I was starting to panic. ‘The results were given to me...’
Nothing I said made a difference. My reputation as the ‘Black Widow’ was proof enough, in their eyes, of my involvement.
So here I am. On remand in Holloway. Only this time, at least, I’m an innocent woman.
HMP HOLLOWAY 1990
IT HAD all started so well. My sister and I had really made a go of it with the curtain company we’d set up after my release from prison for armed robbery. I’m so lucky to have such a close-knit, loving family.
We had loads of orders and only took on the high-end ones. I loved doing the work, being creative and doing something that added to a person’s life rather than taking something away. It all came to a halt when Ron was shot.
One thing I’m grateful for is that Holloway holds no fear for me.
I know every trick in the book. I know how the prison operates, and I also know that being on remand for gangland murder, which is my official charge, means I won’t be harassed. People keep their distance.
‘Right, Linda,’ says my solicitor. ‘It’s obvious you’re innocent. If all goes well, you’ll be home in a year.’ I learn that Danny has also been arrested. He is insisting I should name him to exonerate myself. I’ve refused, thinking justice will prevail. How wrong I was.
On November 12 1991, Danny and I are found guilty. As he delivers his verdict, the judge does something strange.
As if he knows I’m innocent, he says: ‘You have both been found guilty of the murder of Ronnie Cook. There is nothing I can do but pass you directly to the Court of Appeal.’
To my mind, what he’s saying to the jury is: you came back with the wrong verdict.
The judge looks at me. ‘The only sentence I can pass on you is life,
Blood splattered across my kitchen, pieces of skull rocking on the tiles
but I can give you the recommended minimum tariff of seven years.’
I’ve been through a lot, and now a life stretch due to a miscarriage of justice. I know in my heart I’ll have to accept it, but for those first few hours and days I can’t.
Holloway seems more bleak. This time, I notice a lot more, including the bullying.
I can see the women who prey on the newly convicted. Cigarettes and drugs are the main currencies as there’s little money. So, when girls come onto the wing with ciggies given to them on a visit or sent in, you get the tough women circling them. It winds me up, but there is little I can do to help.
HMP DURHAM 1993
MY APPEAL fails. Three months later I’m sent to the notorious HMP Durham, which houses women who can’t mix with the rest of the prison population: paedophiles, child killers, bombers and murderers. The wing is three floors high. I look up and see netting strung across each level. It’s the first time I’ve been in a prison with this. It’s designed to stop people committing suicide or throwing someone over.
One week after being transferred to Durham, I’m woken up by a screw saying: ‘Linda, you’ve got a letter.’
‘Thank you, darlin’,’ I say, jumping out of bed and grabbing it. The envelope is stamped with HMP Maidstone. The handwriting is scrawny and hard to read.
‘Reggie Kray, I can’t believe you’ve written me a letter! After all this time...’
I grew up only streets away from the Krays and their names were bywords for power, influence and violence in the East End. I have to say they’ve always been courteous and charming to me, so I never saw any of that side of things.
Reg has written:
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. I’d like to ask if I can call you?
Reg
It is not a long letter, but I’m thrilled to get it. A week later, I receive his call. We’re allowed two a week.
‘’Allo, Reg Kray ’ere.’ His voice is so familiar, softly spoken with a real cockney accent.
‘Hello, it’s Linda Calvey ’ere,’ I reply. There’s a moment’s silence before Reg bursts out laughing.
‘There ain’t many people who do that, who’ll answer me with their full name,’ he says.
We chat, and he asks me if he can call again. There is something reassuring about his voice and manner – a taste of home perhaps.
A few days later, I see a screw carrying a large basket of creamy white roses with long stems.
‘These are for you, Linda,’ she says. The card tucked inside them simply says:
To Linda Calvey, from Reggie Kray.
‘Looks like someone’s got a soft spot for ye,’ says one of the girls.
NINE months after I’m sent to Durham, Myra Hindley arrives from Cookham Wood, where I last saw her. She’s very ill with osteoporosis and other health conditions.
She nods to me, and I do the same back but I don’t go over. I don’t want to be known as someone who might be friends with Myra Hindley.
The months creep onwards. Despite the efforts of my legal team there are no new leads on my case, and Danny and I have been told our regular visits to each other to discuss developments now have to stop.
At our final visit Danny reaches his hand across the table and holds mine.
‘Listen, I’ve had a thought,’ he says. ‘What would ya say if we got married? That way we can carry on with visits and work on our case. ’Ave a think anyway.’
‘I will,’ I say, feeling grateful for his suggestion. I mull it over, but there’s bigger news on the wing: a woman called Rosemary West, accused of multiple murders, is being sent here on remand.
For obvious reasons, no one wants her here. We’ve all been following the case in the newspapers.
Rose turns up and, lo and behold, in a queasy turn of events, she becomes bosom buddies with Myra. The pair of them are sitting at a little table with a red-and-white checked tablecloth, looking for all the world like they’re a pair of old women outside a bistro. Their heads are together and they are chatting and smiling together.
Within days of dumpy Rose West arriving in Durham, the rumours have already started. ‘They’ve started an affair,’ one of the girls tells me. ‘F***in’ birds of a feather, Lin.’
We both look over at them: Myra, with her purple-red hair and a brightly coloured kaftan, sitting next to Rose, with her prissy cardigan, tweed skirt and large glasses, knitting as she always does.
‘What I’d give to ’ave a camera
A screw was carrying a bunch of roses. They were from Reg Kray
right now.’ A male screw sidles up behind us. ‘That picture’d be worth a f***in’ fortune!’
We all laugh, which makes Rose and Myra turn our way. I shudder. I can’t help it.
Then, just as suddenly, within a month of Rose arriving, her and Myra’s friendship ends abruptly. From that day, Myra and Rose avoid each other. They both continue serving their sentences without speaking to one another, which is quite hard as there are only 20 prisoners on the wing.
Meanwhile, life moves relentlessly onwards. Eating breakfast on the landing one morning, I notice one of the girls, Debbie, has not come out of her cell.
A girl who usually sits with her goes to check. The scream reaches the far ends of the corridor.
‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Get help, quick! I think she’s committed suicide...’
A nurse is called, but she refuses to call for an ambulance. ‘She’s nearly dead, so there’s no point helping her,’ says the nurse.
‘She’s a f***in’ murderer,’ says one of the girls.
The nurse is overruled and the principal officer dials 999. Two days later, Debbie walks in, very much alive.
As far as we are aware, no disciplinary action is ever taken against the nurse. Prison hardens people.
Many of the staff are as institutionalised as the girls. Prisons like Holloway and Durham are bleak, brutal places and, in time, it is my theory that the people who work in them (as well as the inmates housed inside) become just as bleak and brutal.
Hindley shrieked and jumped up – she’d seen a spider
PERHAPS I’ve finally lost my mind in prison, but I have put in an application to marry Danny. Astonishingly, the governor approves it and the date is set for December 1, 1995, just a few short months away.
‘Don’t do it, Linda. It’s a bad idea. It makes you look guilty,’ my mum says. But the women on the wing are ecstatic about the idea.
Ignoring a nagging feeling in my gut that this isn’t right, I write to Danny and say we should go ahead because we need to keep fighting. Reg calls.
‘Reg, I’ve got some news,’ I say. ‘Linda, can I stop ya there. I wanted to ask if ya might marry me...’
Well, I’m not expecting to hear that. ‘Oh,’ is all I manage to reply.
‘That doesn’t sound good. Sorry, Linda, I don’t mean to embarrass ya. Forget I said anythin’,’ Reg replies.
‘No, it’s alright, Reg. It’s just that I’ve agreed to marry Danny so we can carry on our visits.
‘I don’t think they’d ever let me out of prison if I married a Kray
twin. Sorry Reg,’ I say, hoping this doesn’t upset him.
‘No, I’m sorry, Linda. Many ’appy congratulations to you and Danny. I see ya point about your freedom. Let’s forget I said anythin’.’ We chat away, but life feels quite surreal at the moment, because Reg’s proposal isn’t the only one I’ve had this week. The infamous inmate Charles Bronson has been writing to me.
Each letter contains a proposal. I’ve never met Charles, but he’s well known in my circles. He’s a dangerous man, yet his antics make me laugh.
NEW HALL, WAKEFIELD 1998
‘I’M SO sorry to tell you, but I’ve got this memo from the Home Office...’ says the officer. ‘They added eight more years on to your sentence, making your minimum term 15 years.’ As he says it, I hear an audible gasp from around the wing.
The worst part is telling my children. ‘Listen, I knew I wasn’t goin’ home anytime soon,’ I tell them. ‘Because I won’t do any of the “offending” courses, which I’d have to admit I did the crime to complete, I always knew I’d be penalised. It’s just like starting my sentence all over again.’
HIGHPOINT PRISON, SUFFOLK 2002
HIGHPOINT is a closed prison but is a Category C, which means there are fewer security measures in place. Myra Hindley is here too, and I’ve been told it’s my job to wash and dye her hair.
It doesn’t go down well to disobey a request from the higher echelons of the prison. They know I won’t complain because I want a clean sheet so that they can’t refuse my parole. A couple of days later and I’m standing in Myra’s area painting dark red dye on her hair when she suddenly shrieks and jumps up.
‘Linda! A spider!’ For a moment I think she must be joking. Then I see it. The spider is huge. It’s as big as my hand and has black furry legs.
My nickname might be the ‘Black Widow’, named after a deadly arachnid, but I’m just as scared of them as Myra appears to be. ‘Aaargghhhhh,’ I scream.
‘It’s massive!’
‘You kill it!’ screeches Myra. ‘I can’t kill it!’ I yell back. ‘I’m frightened as well!’
The irony. A child killer and the proclaimed ‘Black Widow’ cowering and screaming over a large spider.
EAST SUTTON PARK 2007
TIME has marched on, in which Danny and I have been married and amicably divorced, both agreeing our wedding was a bad idea.
My parole application has been submitted, and I’ve been told I’m allowed out on day release.
I’m given a volunteering job in a sustainability shop nearby as part of my re-integration programme.
At the same time my friend Kate Kray, ex-wife of Ronnie, invites me to her restaurant in Kent on the next Sunday I can leave the prison.
It is here that I sit down next to a charming and rather portly man called George.
The place is crowded but we manage to start chatting. He asks me if I’m married and I tell him I’m widowed and divorced.
He nods, and I see some sadness there as he explains he is divorced too. At the end of the meal, George asks if he can take me out.
When I say I can only do Sundays, he seems surprised.
‘I’m only allowed out once a week.’ George, who has a really kind face, looks puzzled.
‘Why?’ he says.
‘Because I’m in prison,’ I reply. George looks at me for a moment, before bursting into laughter. ‘You’re that Linda, Linda Calvey!’
‘Yes I am,’ I say, and we both dissolve into giggles. ‘Does that mean you’ve changed your mind about takin’ me out?’
‘Absolutely not. I’d be honoured,’ he says, and I find myself blushing.
The following Sunday, I’m waiting at the prison for my date. George is late, and for a moment I think he won’t come. I don’t blame him.
Suddenly there is a commotion as girls line the windows.
‘Linda. LINDA! There’s a red roller turned up and it must be for you!’
I go to the window and, sure enough, George is there, standing by a red Rolls-Royce.
He takes me to a restaurant for lunch, and that is that.
Already I know we have a future, just by how easy it all is with him, and how unconcerned he seems to be by my criminal past.
On the third date a few weeks later, George asks me straight: ‘Did you kill Ron?’ When I reply: ‘No, I didn’t,’ he nods, satisfied.
My luck has always swung from very good to very bad, and back again. Finally, something wonderful is happening.
I’m an engaged woman, and my parole hearing is in a few days’ time. ‘As you know, we’ve been concerned throughout your sentence that you’ll return to your old life, mixing with criminals and gangsters,’ the governor says.
‘But now you’ve met George, we can see things are different. He is a decent man, with a fabulous home to go to, and we can’t see any reason why you’ll go back to a villainous life when you have so much to look forward to.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That’s wonderful to hear.’ George squeezes my hand and smiles.
Just as we’re leaving the room, one of the officers pulls George aside. ‘Are you looking forward to getting married?’ George beams at me.
‘Yes, of course I am,’ he says.
The officer clears his throat.
‘I feel it’s my duty to say this to you, but have you thought she may murder you?’
For a moment I think I’ve misheard him. George shakes his head. He looks back at me as if to say: ‘Oh my God!’
‘No, not for one moment,’ he says quietly. The officer stares at him, then over at me.
‘I think you should keep that in mind...’
2008
THIS time, the red roller pulls up on the gravel bang on time. Out of the window, girls are leaning out and waving. Some are blowing kisses, and I have to fight to stop tears from streaming down my face.
George opens the door for me on the passenger side. ‘Shall we?’ he says, smiling.
I smile back.
‘We shall,’ I say, savouring each second of this moment.
The car purrs out of the driveway, away from the prison.
The window is open and I feel the breeze in my hair. It’s like a blessing, a miracle that I am no longer a prisoner. I’m finally free.
Life Inside by Linda Calvey (Welbeck Publishing Group, £20). © Linda Calvey 2024. To order a copy for £18 (offer valid to 17/02/24; UK P&P free on orders over £25) go to www.mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.