by Linda Calvey
I was never intimidated by meeting these men. They were always scrupulously polite to me, and very sociable and charming. “Flash” Harry Hayward was another. He was a member of the Hayward family gang, which, alongside the Richardsons, ran South London. His brother Billy was a dangerous man, and involved in the infamous gangland shoot-out at Mr Smith’s nightclub in Catford. In 1966, Eddie Richardson and his gang henchman “Mad” Frankie Fraser were drinking in the club, as was Billy Haward, when members of the Krays’ Firm arrived. Billy sent for weapons, expecting a gun battle, which ensued in the early hours. The fight pre-empted George Cornell’s death at Ronnie’s hands, and Billy, along with most of the Richardson gang members, was arrested.
Another Billy, “Scatts” Tobin, was introduced to me by Ron. He ran the Thursday Gang, which was notorious for hijacking security vans, sometimes dressed as police officers. He’d been acquitted two years earlier of conspiracy to rob, and possession of firearms, in a raid on the Daily Mirror, claiming he bribed a high-ranking police officer in the process.
It was definitely an experience being with Ron. I knew I was leading a strange life, dabbling with the shadowy world of London’s gangland, mixing with convicted criminals and gang leaders, but it was a fascinating experience. One night as Ron drove us to a pub in the East End, I asked him why he spent so much money on me. I never asked for the things he bought.
“You’re my shop window,” he said.
That answer was so revealing. I realised then I was more to Ron than a girlfriend. I was a symbol of his success as an armed robber and proof of him being a big man on the scene. The expensive things he gave me – the flashing diamonds on my neck and wrists, and now my finger, the luxurious furs I draped over my shoulders, the cut of the chiffon, lace and silk dresses I wore – all of this was a talisman, showing the underworld how well he was doing, how powerful he was becoming. I sensed in that answer that I too was trapped, like a fly in his web, the Black Widow entangled in her lover’s tightening grip. He put his hand on my leg as he answered, one hand on the steering wheel, feeling the bump where my stockings clipped onto my suspenders.
“I can’t wait to get you home to bed,” he growled.
I liked his attention. Ron was always a passionate man, and he made it very clear he lusted after me. I was still a young woman, just turned 32 years old, and it felt good to be wanted. The ring, however, changed all that.
As Ron slipped the twinkling diamond onto my finger, he paused, making sure I looked into his eyes. He’d never bought me a ring before, so I knew this was something different. Something had changed between us.
“But we can’t get engaged,” I said, confused, even though it was going on my right hand. In my brain, it looked so like a wedding proposal that I blurted that out, foolishly.
“It isn’t an engagement ring, Lin, it’s a ‘you belong to me’ ring.”
I looked back at him. His stare bored into me. I was being told something, and I knew in that moment that I’d better take heed.
“You can’t ever take it off. It’s on your finger, and you now belong to me.”
Even though he was married, Ron was staking his claim to me.
In that second, I realised what a terrible mistake I’d made in going along with everything. I felt chilled to the bone. Ron meant every word – I could see it in the quiet determination in his eyes. More than that. It was like looking into the face of a shark about to devour me. I realised that this man, my boyfriend, was a psychopath. What everyone had been trying to tell me was true. This man owned me now. He owned me body and soul, and I would never, ever get away from him. I felt like flinging off the ring, which was now a symbol of my entrapment, and running from the room. Goodness knows what would’ve happened to me if I had.
That day, Ron’s manner changed towards me completely. When we went out, I was now told I had to stay by his side, whereas before, I had been free to talk or chat to whomever I wanted. Now, I was told who I could speak to, where I should stand. I was a possession to be treated as he wished. He would “let” me bring Maureen on nights out, because otherwise I had no-one to speak to. He stopped me from chatting to other men, even if their wives or girlfriends were standing next to them. He told me what to wear each and every time we left the house. He would pick my outfit and lay it on the bed for me. He didn’t have to order me – I could feel a menace emanating from him that hadn’t been there before. Or perhaps I’d just refused to notice.
Standing in the pub, he’d say to people, “Don’t talk to Linda, she’s with me.” Or, “Don’t talk to them, you’re with me and I need you at my side,” or even, “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” and make people leave me alone. It was a bizarre about-face.
Not long afterwards, we had our first major row. I wanted to go out with Maureen and some other girls one Saturday night. Ron refused. He told me my place was with him and that was that. I couldn’t understand why he felt he should control me. It was so unreasonable that I felt compelled to speak out.
“You’re not fuckin’ goin’ out, d’ya hear me?” Ron screamed in my face. I’m not a woman easily spooked, so I didn’t back down, even though my hackles were up and I knew I wouldn’t win this fight.
“If I want to go out with my friends, that’s my decision, Ron. You don’t have a right to stop me,” I shouted back. I was scared, but my sense of injustice was outweighing my usual care not to upset him.
At that moment, his face changed. Darkness came over him. He moved towards me, fast as a striking snake, and before I knew it he had his hands round my throat and had shoved me up against my kitchen wall.
“Stop, Ron, you’re hurtin’ me!” I was gasping for breath, trying to claw at his hands as his grip tightened.
“You need to fuckin’ listen to me. I told you no, you can’t fuckin’ go out with your slag pals.” His face was screwed up. He looked like the monster I was starting to realise he really was.
“Ron, let go of me, you’re goin’ to kill me if you keep goin’,” I begged. For a moment, I felt a bolt of sheer panic. Was Ron going to kill me? Was he so violent that he’d lose his control and finish the job he’d started?
“Please… Please, Ron…”
Ron hesitated.
That’s it, he’s goin’ to murder me in my own home.
But the horror was interrupted by my daughter Melanie. She’d chosen not to go to Nanny’s that weekend, and she’d seen everything from the doorway.
“Let her go!”
She started crying, fits of sobs that seemed to bring Ron to his senses. He let go of me and turned away, running his hands through his hair. I collapsed on the floor, holding my neck, choking and gasping for air.
“Come ’ere, darlin’. I’m ok, I’m ok, shush now, Mummy’s ok.” I pulled my 12-year-old daughter into my arms and started to rock her like a baby.
As I did so, the front door slammed. Ron had gone out. I didn’t know where he’d gone, or whether he’d be back that day, and, frankly, I didn’t care. By the next day, the bruise around my neck had turned a florid purple.
To make it up to me, Ron had gone into town and bought me another piece of jewellery, but I hadn’t the heart for it, and for the first time, I got no thrill whatsoever from opening the box to find yet another sparkly bracelet. Ron hadn’t gone out for long – just long enough to cool down, walk back in with the key he’d had cut for himself, and pretend that nothing had happened.
“What’s wrong with Mel?” he said, sitting down on the sofa and picking up the betting slips he’d discarded earlier.
I looked at him in disbelief. What on earth was Ron talking about? Why was he asking why Mel was upset when he knew damn well it was his attack on me that had caused it? That was how he was after a fight. He’d act as if he’d done nothing: if we rowed, if he hit me, or twisted my wrist until it bruised. If he held me down when I didn’t want sex. If he stopped me from leavi
ng a room by grabbing me and refusing to let go. He’d just act as if he’d done nothing wrong, and ask why I was crying. Or he’d carry on as if nothing had happened at all. Sometimes I even questioned my own sanity. Did I make it up?
It wasn’t long before Melanie asked me one day if she could speak to me.
“Of course you can, my darlin’. What is it?” I said.
“Mum, I want to go and live with Nanny.”
I looked at her, and saw what it cost her to say that. I didn’t feel sad or rejected that she didn’t want to live with me anymore. If anything, I was relieved she’d be away from Ron and his tempers and violence.
“Of course you can, Mel. It’s only five minutes away, so I can see you every day if you want.” I opened my arms and she fell into them. I hugged her. My little girl was almost a teenager. She was growing up fast, and the further away from Ron she was, the better.
Things weren’t great for Neil either. Ron made it very clear from the start that he didn’t like my son. I knew it was because Neil closely resembled his father, with the same olive skin and dark hair. Ron tolerated Neil, and that was as far as it went. Ron never threatened Neil in the way that he did with me, which was a good thing, but it can’t have been easy for my son to have to deal with him. So most weekends he’d stay with my mum too. Anything to get him away from my bullying boyfriend.
“I won’t be around next weekend. There’s a weddin’.” Ron didn’t look up from the racing papers.
I knew immediately what Ron meant. There was a family wedding and I wasn’t invited. To be honest, I was relieved to have some time away from him.
“Would you mind if I went out with Maureen then, on Saturday night?”
I knew I was trying my luck.
“Which pub are you goin’ to?” Again, Ron didn’t look up, so I had no idea if he was getting angry or not.
I told him the pub Maureen and I might go to, if I was allowed, without Ron.
“Ok,” he said, after a long moment’s hesitation.
I couldn’t believe it. He’d let me go out. Excited, I rang my friend, and it was all organised.
On the Saturday of the night out, I was over at Mum’s when the phone rang.
“Get that, will you?” Mum said as she washed up the dishes from lunch in the kitchen.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Linda, is that you? I can’t believe it, I was ringin’ ya mum to find out how to get hold of ya. Haven’t seen you in donkey’s years.” It was a man’s voice at the other end of the line.
“Peter!” I exclaimed. “I thought you were in America?”
It was a very old friend, a pal of Mickey’s who’d upped sticks and gone to the US, where he’d met a girl and stayed.
“Listen, Lin, I’m back for a couple of nights and I’d love to see you and Mickey.”
Something caught in the back of my throat when I realised he didn’t have a clue that Mickey had been killed.
“Oh, gosh. Mickey was shot, darlin’. He’s dead.” I couldn’t think how else to break the news. “I’ve moved, and that’s why you couldn’t contact us at Pembroke Road.”
“Linda! God! I’m so shocked, I can’t believe it. Not Mickey. He was too full of life, weren’t he?” Peter managed to say. It was obvious he was choked up.
“He was, Peter, but he’s gone.”
“Linda, we have to meet tonight. Tell us where you’re goin’ and we’ll meet you there.”
Without thinking about Ron’s reaction, I told him. Getting ready that night, I staged a small rebellion against Ron’s rule, and chose a dress I’d bought for myself – admittedly out of the money he gave me, but something I’d chosen rather than something I was told to wear. It felt good to have a moment’s liberation.
Sitting in the pub, Peter was shaking his head. “It just doesn’t seem real,” he kept saying.
“I know, darlin’,” I replied, sipping my vodka and lime. Maureen was there, chatting to Peter’s girlfriend. Suddenly, we all became aware of a man standing next to our table, standing too close to us.
“Bloody hell, Ronnie Cook!” Peter exclaimed.
We all turned our heads to see Ron towering over us. I knew instantly that he’d come to check that I was where I said I’d be, and he’d seen me with another man, albeit one that was attached. Ron’s face was harsh. He wasn’t happy, to say the least.
“What’s all this then?” He stared straight at me. “You told me you were out with Maureen tonight. You didn’t tell me you were goin’ with him.”
All of us fell silent.
“Peter’s just a friend. Don’t be cross, Ron,” I said, trying to smooth things over.
“I know exactly who Peter is. I’ll ask you again. Why didn’t you tell me who you were goin’ out with?”
By now, Peter and his girlfriend were visibly uncomfortable. None of us could do anything, though. This was Ron Cook. You didn’t mess with him. You didn’t get into a fight with him.
“When did all this happen?” he asked again.
“Look, Ron, it’s nothin’. Peter rang today. He didn’t know Mickey had died, and so I told him and he wanted to hear more.” My voice was steady, though my heart was racing.
“Give me all my jewellery back. Now.”
“What?” I replied, confused rather than anything else.
“Take off everythin’ I’ve given ya. Take it all off. Now. Where are ya car keys? Good, I’ll ’ave those too.”
Ron was serious. I looked at Maureen, and she nodded. She looked as scared as I felt.
I divested myself of everything Ron had ever bought me: my car keys, my bracelets, earrings, necklace, fur coat, high-heeled shoes and my handbag. I tipped it all onto the table and handed him the silk purse.
“And the dress.” He looked dangerous. “Did I buy it?” he asked, his head cocked to one side.
“No you didn’t, Ron. I bought it.” My voice wavered but I faced him up. I refused to cower under his menace.
With that, Ron turned and left.
“Oh my God, if he’d bought me this dress, he’d have made me take it off as well, in front of the whole pub,” I said, looking round at my friends. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I realised my hands were shaking.
“Let me get you another drink,” Peter said, hastily, and went to the bar. He returned with a double, saying, “Why didn’t anyone tell you what a nutcase Ron is?”
“They did, Peter, but it was too late,” I replied.
About 20 minutes later, Ron reappeared at the pub door. This time Maureen spoke to him. He handed her back everything he’d taken from me, though she tried to refuse, as I didn’t want any of it back. All it symbolised for me now was my gilded cage.
Ron walked back in, and it was as if he was meeting us all for the first time, as if he’d never walked in and done what he’d done.
“How are ya, Peter. Good to see ya back. Let me get you all a drink… We’ll ’ave our own catch-up in The Needlegun tomorrow, Peter.”
Later, Ron told me the way he’d reacted was all my fault. I’d “wound him up”.
“Where did ya get the dress?” he added.
“From the hoisters. Maureen bought it, but it was too big for her, so I bought it off her.” The hoisters were the shoplifters who worked our area.
“Thank God for that. If I’d taken that dress off you, I’d ’ave to ’ave killed everybody in there who saw you without a dress on,” Ron said matter-of-factly. His face was devoid of humour, and I realised he meant every word. I knew then, if I didn’t know it before, I was with a monster.
Chapter 15
Confession
1980-81
“Mickey’s death was your fault.” Ron slurred as he spoke, holding onto my wrist too tightly.
I tried to shrug him off, but his grip tightened.
We were back
at Harpley Square in my bedroom after a night out drinking and meeting more of Ron’s criminal acquaintances. His cold blue eyes were hazy from the whiskeys he’d been downing all evening, but he knew what he was saying, of that I was sure.
“How d’you work that out, Ron?” I replied, making sure to keep the tone of my voice even. I didn’t want a blazing row, as it was late on a Saturday night and we’d been out pubbing and clubbing until the early hours. It wasn’t like Ron to get drunk – he normally liked to keep control of himself – so this was a rare exception.
I couldn’t begin to guess why he was in such a foul mood, as he kept all of his shady dealings from me. He wasn’t like my Mickey, confiding in me, asking my opinion, respecting my take on a robbery plan. Ron was different. He kept me separate from the other parts of his life. But tonight there was something odd about the way he was behaving. My only thought was that something in his line of work had either backfired or gone horribly wrong, and that usually meant people being killed or arrested, though I’d never really know. But I knew enough about Ron now, more than a year into our relationship, to know that riling him up would only lead to misery for me, either verbally or physically. And I knew that when Ron shut that front door behind him, he stopped being the cool-headed man-about-town, and became a bully who I had to tiptoe round, making the meals he told me to cook, wearing what he told me to wear, and going to bed when he wanted. He saw me as one of his possessions, something to show off to his pals and to decorate with gems and furs. To him, I wasn’t a woman with a mind of her own.