The Black Widow

by Linda Calvey

  The ceremony itself was a blur. The brandy Maureen had given me before we left to steady my nerves took the edge off it, and made it feel very unreal. I couldn’t take my eyes off the wooden box that contained my husband. Outside, tough-looking Cockneys in black coats and black ties took a last drag of their ciggies before accompanying us to the place where Mickey’s ashes remain. It was the tradition then to have words made up in flowers. I’d had a large heart made up, with “Love Your Lavender Lady” written across it in silver lettering, and one saying “Daddy” from the children. The sight of it broke my heart again, and I wondered how I would get through that terrible day. Micky Ishmael sent a wreath saying “My Pal”. Some of the older villains were affronted when Maureen’s boyfriend had a sign saying “The Fonze is Cool”. It was a nod to Mickey’s nickname amongst his fellow villains. They called him The Fonze, because he was a sharp dresser, and everyone always liked and respected him. There were whispers that it was too irreverent for a funeral, disrespectful even, and it caused quite a lot of upset. I didn’t mind. I just wanted people to show their love for him, and they certainly did that.

  I didn’t want anyone but my nearest and dearest to witness my feelings that day, so I kept my head high and stayed away from the gaze of the press lenses. I knew I looked pale and drawn. As I’d got dressed that morning, I had felt so sad pulling on a lovely black dress that Mickey had bought me only a few weeks earlier. He’d never even seen me wearing it, and there I was, preparing to cremate him in it. The words I’d spoken to Mickey before his coffin was sealed now burned in my brain. I’d promised him I would give our children what he’d tried to give them: nice things, a nice life, an escape from the poverty he had been born into.

  Mickey had been a Catholic, but the priest in the church nearest to Mickey’s family had refused to hold the service. He was an armed robber, a bad man, someone who lived outside of the law and so, the priest had reasoned, he lived outside the church. We had come instead to the Church of England cemetery, where we were now gathered.

  “We have entrusted our brother to God’s mercy.”

  I threw a last look at the coffin before it moved to the cremation chamber, then turned away. I could bear it no longer. Outside, a rose tree was to be planted to commemorate the man I loved. Much later, Mickey’s mother and father joined their son in that cemetery, but for now, it was over. I shook hands and kissed well-wishers, all the time wishing this day away.

  I gazed at the crowd, taking in the number of people who had turned out to see Mickey off. And at the back of the crowd, slightly removed from the ceremony, I saw Ronnie, the man who had showed up at our door just a month or so before the Eltham raid. The memory of ordinary life, of cooking eggs for Mickey that Monday morning, almost left me doubled up in pain.

  Ronnie seemed to be surveying the scene. A few hard men offered him muted greetings, but it seemed that for the most part he was being left alone. I marvelled that a man with his reputation, a big fish in a stinking pond of crooks, thugs and robbers, had no minders.

  Ronnie’s menace fascinated me. I had never been scared of these toughened criminals – I was interested in them, in how they came to be players in a dark and dangerous world, and I was wary of some of them, but I could never, hand on heart, say I was frightened of them. I didn’t know it, but Ron had a reputation for being one of the toughest, fiercest ones out there. No-one ever picked a fight with him, because they’d end up dead.

  At that exact moment I looked at him, Ron turned, and stared at me. Our eyes met. His were startling blue, and cold as ice. I couldn’t work out what that look meant. A shiver went down my spine. I watched as Ron approached, feeling strangely like someone was walking over my grave. He came straight towards me, not stopping to greet the few who leant in to greet him. My stomach flipped with something like nerves. I knew from his meeting with Mickey that he was a gangland boss, a man to be respected around these parts. He was friends with all the big boys – Freddie Foreman, the Kray twins, the Arif brothers – but I could see already he liked to keep to the shadows, unlike Reggie and Ronnie.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” He held out his hand to me. I shook it and felt my hand tremble in his embrace. I withdrew it quickly.

  “Thank you for comin’. It would’ve meant a lot to Mickey.” My mind had gone blank with the pressure of the day, and I had taken to repeating this over and over.

  Ron looked me up and down. I could see he liked what he saw. I have always been able to read men. Call it my feminine intuition. I didn’t know what else to say. The pause seemed to go on forever, and it was clear Ron had no intention of moving off just yet.

  By now, I was shaking people’s hands or kissing their cheeks as they left for the wake in the nearby pub the Carpenter’s Arms. The villains from North and South London left early, as there was a bitter war raging between them. They’d paused for the rites, but only for that.

  “Can I come and see ya tomorrow?” Ron asked.

  “Yes, alright, you can. I’m at my mum’s,” I said. I felt confused, my head still rattling with ghosts.

  Ron nodded, then walked away. I stood there, wondering if I’d done the right thing in saying yes. Back at Mum’s I fell into a deep sleep, like I’d been drugged. Mickey haunted me all night, and I was grateful to wake up the next morning, tear stains on my pillow and eyes blackened by grief.

  The first thing I did was go back to mine and Mickey’s to pick up some clothes. I hadn’t lived there since the day he died, preferring to stay with my parents for the children’s sake, and I felt strange walking up to the front door of my Victorian terraced house. I put my key in the street door and clicked it open. I had to push hard, as there was a pile of post on the floor. I shut the door behind me, and picked it all up, feeling puzzled.

  Walking into my kitchen, which smelled musty, I saw Mickey’s jacket hanging over a chair, his house keys casually discarded on the work surface. My heart swooped and I felt dizzy. It was bizarre, seeing his stuff, not wanting to believe he’d really gone. At any minute, it felt like Mickey might walk in the door.

  I dumped the post onto the table and put the kettle on to boil. Must be from well-wishers… I thought. All of the envelopes, big and small, were addressed to me by name. They looked harmless enough, but on opening the first one, a cry escaped from my lips.

  “I’m glad your husband is dead. We’ll come and burn your house down…” It was hand-written in florid red ink. I dropped it immediately, my hands shaking.

  I opened another, and another, tearing them open each time to reveal a tide of hatred.

  “Why are you persecuting the police? Your husband was a robber, he didn’t deserve to live.”

  “Your children are going to be murdered for this.”

  I ran to the sink and retched, the sour taste of that brandy from the day before in my mouth.

  How could people write such filth, such horror? How could they do this to a widow and two fatherless children? I carried on opening those envelopes, feeling thankful that I hadn’t spent a single night there since he died. The vile messages were interspersed with a well-wisher sending condolences here and there, but they were few and far between.

  There was a knock at the door. I froze.

  Cautiously, I edged to the doorway. I didn’t know what to expect. Was it someone hell-bent on revenge? Had my Mickey got enemies as well as friends, or were they targeting me? I opened the door, keeping it only slightly ajar and peered out.

  “Thank goodness, hello, I wasn’t expectin’ the postman.” I almost cried with relief. But he wasn’t smiling back. In his hand was a large envelope.

  “People round ’ere are sayin’ you’ve had some nasty mail, and I thought it best if I opened this one in case there’s somethin’ funny in it.”

  “How do people know I’ve had hate mail? Who’s sayin’ that?” I realised that I was the centre of gossip now on my street, and many p
eople were clearly feeling able to vent their jealousy and hatred now that Mickey was gone.

  “I don’t know, love, honest I don’t. I just get told what’s bein’ said. Listen, I can’t hang around ’ere for long, so d’you want me to open this?” The package was the size of a large envelope or small box. I nodded.

  “Well, they’ve been quite creative.” I peered at what he was holding in his hands: a folded-up piece of thick paper which opened up into a large picture, with a photograph of me and Mickey (cut out from a local newspaper) in the centre. Whoever had bothered to craft this had really gone to town. There were garish bits of thread leading out from the centre, attached to pictures of well-known murderers, including Myra Hindley, with that terrible smile playing on her lips and her beehive hairstyle in grainy black and white. The wording said: “You and your husband should rot in hell with the rest of these monsters.”

  “That’s it. I can’t take this anymore. I’ll ’ave to call the council and be moved. I can’t bring my kids home to this, they won’t be safe.” I thanked the postman, picked up a few of the worst letters and put them in my handbag. As I shut the door behind me, I knew I’d never go back there again.

  Later that day, Ron appeared at Mum’s doorstep. I still felt fragile after seeing the bile that had been thrown at me and my late husband, and so I was perhaps more vulnerable to kindness than I might usually be.

  “Oh, hello Ron,” I said, unsure what else to say.

  “Hello. This is for you.” Ron held out a thick roll of money. There was no small talk. No discussion of the funeral or Mickey, just a huge wad of cash.

  “Thank you,” I said, rather lost for words.

  “There’s a thousand there,” he said stiltedly. “It’ll help you get yerself sorted. What are you goin’ to do now?” His voice was low. He was one of those men that didn’t need to shout, everyone always listened because he inspired fear.

  “I don’t know, Ron. I know I can’t live at my home anymore because people are sending horrible letters saying they’ll burn the place down. I expect I’ll apply to the council for a new place and try to start my life again.

  Ron nodded. “When ya do, tell me, and I’ll get you all-new furniture.”

  Again, it was a really unexpected thing to say.

  “But I’ve got furniture, I don’t need anythin’, thank you,” I replied.

  “No, Linda, I will buy you new furniture, the best. You tell me when you move.” It sounded like a command.

  “Ok, I will. Thank you,” I said, shutting the door and wondering why on earth a man I barely knew would go out of his way to furnish my home.

  I had no idea if what Ron was doing was normal. Did bosses give widows money if their frontmen had been killed? Did they set them up with a new place as respect for the departed? I really hadn’t a clue. Knowing I had two mouths to feed, and no visible source of income yet, I accepted the cash gratefully, even if the thought of being given a large sum of money left me uneasy. Could I turn down his notes? Could I tell Ron he wasn’t welcome to call on me? How would he react to that? I was also a grieving widow, at my lowest point, and his kindness felt good – like I was being looked after.

  Mickey’s inquest took place on 15 February 1979 at Southwark Coroners’ Court, with Home Office pathologist Professor James Cameron confirming that the bullet had indeed entered Mickey’s body through his back and out his front. In that, at least, I was vindicated, and I knew my man could rest in peace knowing that the truth was out there.

  Unfortunately, the press misreported Professor Cameron’s conclusions. Cameron said that Mickey could plausibly have had his body turned, if the witnesses who said he was pointing a gun at the officer were to be believed. If he had turned, the bullet could’ve gone through his front. But Cameron then confirmed that the bullet had definitely gone through his back, so this couldn’t be the case. Reporters, however, had jumped on the first theory, and wrote that Professor Cameron had cast doubt on my claim that Mickey would never have faced up the police officer.

  DS Banks, who shot my Mickey, was there at the inquest, standing upright, bold as brass. It felt cruelly ironic that he was called Michael too. I stared at him, my rage building inside me as the police laid out their version of the day’s events.

  The court was told that he had been lying in wait for a suspected robbery outside Caters in Eltham following a tip-off. He’d shouted, “STOP! Armed Police!” at Mickey and his pals when they leapt on the security guards and tried to take the supermarket’s day’s takings. The raiders made a run for it, and two of them managed to get inside the car as it started to pull away. Mickey had been left outside, trying to open the back door as the getaway vehicle moved off. Witnesses said that it looked like Mickey had been locked out of the car. He had shouted, “Bastard, unlock the door!”

  According to the police, DI Banks gave a final warning for Mickey to drop his weapon, then, as he tried to cling to the back of the moving car, he was shot, twice, falling down into the road and dying where he lay.

  I was taken over by a mixture of numb grief, deep rage and utter fury. When DI Banks stood in the dock, our barrister questioned him, asking him if he knew what he was doing before the shooting.

  “I don’t remember,” he said.

  “And why wouldn’t you recall what happened on the day you shot someone and killed them? Surely that would stand out in your memory?”

  “I can’t remember,” came the reply.

  “Do you recall being in the Director General pub from 3pm?”

  “The reason I was in the pub was because I was part of an undercover covert operation and I was watching someone.”

  “For three hours in a pub, nursing half a bitter?” my barrister said, incredulously.

  “Yes,” was all Banks replied.

  The high-ranking officer who had leaked the information to us anonymously had also alleged that Banks was breathalysed at the police station after the shooting and was found to be twice the legal limit – something we couldn’t prove. He’d said there were no police cars lying in wait for Mickey and his pals – just Banks. None of this came to light in the inquest.

  Despite our best efforts, the coroner, Arthur Gordon-Davis, upheld the police action after hearing Michael Banks say he feared for his life. Banks went further than that. He said that if he hadn’t fired, he would definitely be dead.

  I shook my head. I stared blankly in front of me, my head swimming. The coroner told the jury that Banks’ actions were justified. He said that killing my husband was justified. I wanted to spit venom. It felt like there was a hissing cobra curled tightly in my belly. I thought I’d never again feel pain or fury like this. But when the coroner said that Banks should be commended for killing my husband, I couldn’t hold it in a moment longer.

  I marched up to the officer who had taken my man’s life, and I said, calmly, “If you think you’ve killed a nobody who nobody cares about, then you’re wrong. Come home with me, if you’re brave enough, and show my kids the commendation you’ve got for shooting their father in the back. Coward. Murderer.”

  I never did discover why the police had lied that day I saw Mickey in the mortuary. I could only guess that they wanted to cover up Banks’ actions, and make their officer a hero, rather than deal with the sordid truth that he’d shot a man fleeing for his life. Perhaps that didn’t make such a good story for the Old Bill? It didn’t seem to affect the outcome. Banks got his medal, and I got the truth. None of it changed the fact that my husband was dead and I was now alone in a harsh world.

  I walked out of that coroner’s court surrounded by press photographers, all trying to get a shot of Linda Calvey. I had worn nothing but black from the day I learnt my husband was killed, earning me the nickname “Black Widow”.

  One part of my life had died along with Mickey. That chapter, the first part where I met the man of my heart, where I bore our children, wh
ere I didn’t question what Mickey did or the jobs he went on, was all over. I was changed. I was taken down to the bones of myself as a woman. I knew I’d have to fight for survival from now on. I didn’t know how I would survive, but I would have to learn to live without the man who had shaped my life thus far.

  It was a cold afternoon in the most desolate month of the year. Snow fell in gentle flakes as the press camera bulbs flashed. I walked through them, my head held high, not knowing how I was going to cope with everything that had happened, and knowing that I had no choice. I had to get through this savage grief and make a new life for myself and my fatherless children.

  Dressed in black, with my bleached blonde hair and heavy eye make-up, I must’ve cut an impressive, and tragic, figure. No-one else could understand the depth of my suffering. My family and friends rallied round, took care of the kids whenever they could, sent over hot food for me, and it helped, but nothing and no-one ever comes close to healing the pain of a loved-one’s parting, especially if the death seems unjustified, a brutal killing like Mickey’s.

  Chapter 12

  Crook’s Benefit

  Spring 1979

  It is tradition in London’s gangland that a widow of a blagger, criminal, robber or thief is given a benefit night, to raise money to support the dead crook’s family. Two occasions were being thrown for me, again showing the strength of feeling there was when Mickey died. The first benefit, only days away, was being organised by Jonny O’Shea, a pal of Mickey’s, in a hall in Wapping. All the local blaggers and criminals would be there.