2 The Imposter

by Mark Dawson

  Eventually Edward could see that Drake had realised that he was not going to get the juicy story he had hoped to find. He quickly became bored. After all, what did he have? A bland and inoffensive piece about a soldier coming home from war and gratefully accepting the charity of a local family. If it escaped the editor’s spike it would languish deep inside the newspaper, hidden away, soon to be forgotten. Edward noticed that his shoulders were tight and stiff and so he settled back in the seat, loosening his posture. He relaxed and congratulated himself. What was he so worried about? He had done well, handling a difficult situation with confidence and aplomb. He sank into the cushions and pretended to busy himself by spooning another sugar into what was left of his coffee.

  “Ah. Here he is. About time,” Drake said to the man who had just struggled into the coffee shop with a large camera and a bag of accessories. “This is Trevor. He’ll be doing the pictures. I thought here might be nice––war hero not too grand for coffee-shop, that kind of angle. What do you say?”

  “Pictures?”

  “Of course. We need pictures.”

  “No-one said anything to me about pictures.”

  “It’s essential, Edward. Put a face to the story. Violet insisted we do it properly. You’re not one of these chaps who doesn’t like his picture taken are you? Be a shame not to, with those matinee idol looks of yours––you’ll have them all going weak at the knees. Fan mail, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Edward balled his fists so hard that his nails cut into the fleshy part of his palms. He couldn’t say no; it would look like he had something to hide. He gritted his teeth as the photographer set up a tripod and slotted his Rolleiflex atop it, inserting the film and winding it through. He tried to persuade them to let him wear his hat, and then tried to angle his head away, but the photographer was persistent and would not take the pictures until he was satisfied with the shot. Edward smiled, thinly and without warmth, as the shutter snapped open and closed.

  It sounded final. It sounded like a door slamming shut.

  21

  IT WAS A PRIVATE JOKE between the chaps that Billy Stavropoulos was particularly well balanced on account having a chip on both shoulders. The subject of his difficult upbringing was one he returned to frequently, a setting against which his subsequent success as a criminal was some sort of underdog’s triumphant battle against the odds. He referred to himself as being from ‘the gutter’, making the assertion so often that it became a sort of catchphrase. The gutter to which he referred was Saffron Hill, yet that was not the beginning of his story. The first five years of his life were spent in Leicester, in one of the sprawling developments built on the city’s south side in the 1920s to accommodate the city’s expanding work force. His mother, Demetria, found work as a machinist in the city’s hosiery factories. His father, Khristos, was a cobbler. The city avoided the worst depredations of the depression and enjoyed growth. Billy’s early years were happy, by all accounts. They might not have been rich but they had enough money to get by, and the Stavropoulos family ‘villa’ was close enough to the factories that Demetria was able to come home to cook lunch for Billy and his two brothers. It was a comfortable first few years: adequate, mediocre, safe.

  A fondness for the bottle made Khristos Stavropoulos an unreliable employee and, when it eventually cost him his job, he moved the family to London. They found a house on Saffron Hill and, compared to the relative comfort of life in Leicester, things were difficult. Khristos’ alcoholism cost him two other jobs and, as the depression exerted its influence on the city’s factories, he found himself unable to find work. He fell in with the Costello brothers and, under their aegis, was persuaded to take to burglary to provide an income for his family. A string of breakings provided a glimmer of hope that he might have finally found something he was able to stick at but, eventually, he failed even at that. He usually got lit-up before a job and one time, his reactions dulled by drink, he fell from a first-floor window, broke his leg and was arrested. He was charged and tried, the judge rubbing salt into the wound by describing him as a ‘particularly inept criminal’ before gaoling him for a year.

  Khristos resorted to the bottle for succour and died a bitter and broken man when Billy was eight years old. Without the income he had provided the family could no longer afford to pay even the meagre rent on their house. Despite the offer of a lighter sentence, Khristos had not named the Costello boys as his accomplices. His loyalty did not go unrewarded and his widow and her three boys were moved into a house the family owned. They had two rooms for the four of them: a front room and a bedroom. The front room looked onto the narrow street below and had a bed that was shared by Billy and his mother. The family’s furniture comprised of two beds and a rickety wooden sideboard. The only evidence of Khristos were the mementoes that he had kept from six years as an infantryman in the Great War: a helmet that he had pilfered from the body of a dead German and a beer stein, in which Demetria occasionally kept the flowers that her boys uprooted from the local parks. It was a crushingly depressing existence. The house in which Billy spent the next ten years of his life was low-ceilinged and fetid, thin walls covered with flock wallpaper that stank of fried food and damp.

  Demetria became a hoister, raiding stores in the West End and selling her spoils in Clerkenwell’s pubs. When times were hard she offered wall-jobs to the local drunks for the pennies in their pockets. Memories of her comfortable life in Leicester must have seemed like cruel taunts and she became bitter and resentful. The bottle found her, too, eventually, and she took her frustrations out on her children. It did not matter. Billy was dedicated to her, and the chaps occasionally spoke of the time they saw a man make a joke about her brassing. He had flown into such a rage they had to restrain him for fear that he would do murder.

  * * *

  BILLY WRAPPED HIS FIST IN HIS COAT and punched hard through the panel above the door handle. The glass smashed, the fragments shattering as they fell to the floor. He paused for a moment, and heard nothing to suggest that they had been detected. He thrust his arm through the gaping pane and unlocked the door. He went inside, with Jack McVitie close behind. The house was empty, just as Joseph had said it would be. He had been tipped off by a chap from the pub who was seeing one of the maids. The family were off abroad somewhere and the place was vulnerable. Pity for them, Billy thought. The man of the house was a successful businessman, something about the motor trade. He was supposed to be rich and that looked about right, Billy thought, judging by the state of the place.

  He flicked on his torch and continued the conversation that the two men had begun as they made their way to the house. “He’s lost the plot.”

  Jack closed the door behind him. “So you keep saying.”

  “It’s true, though, ain’t it? Fabian’s bad news. Bloody bad news. I mean, ask yourself––what’s he doing with us? We don’t need him.”

  “If you say so.”

  “It was fine, the four of us, before. Me, you, Joseph and Tommy. Does Joseph think we’re going to do places five-handed? No thanks. Might as well ring Old Bill up before and tell them what we’re up to.”

  They left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the first floor. The hallway was wide, wood-panelled and laid with an expensive parquet floor. Billy flipped through the mail that had been stacked on a table next to a telephone.

  “What is it with him and Joe?” he said. “Has he said anything to you?”

  Jack shrugged. “Nothing you don’t already know. Army pals.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. They only met right at the end, didn’t they?”

  They went up to the second floor and tried doors until they found the master bedroom. They went inside. It was a large room, with a walk-in wardrobe and a bathroom leading off it. They knew what they were looking for. Billy went to the tallboy and started to turn out the drawers, strewing the clothes on the floor.

  “War hero––can you believe that?”

  Jack opened a wardrobe and set abo
ut emptying it. He shrugged.

  “It don’t sound that likely, though, does it?––given the evidence, what the man’s like. He don’t look the type for that kind of thing.”

  “Who knows?”

  “He must have something on him. No other reason why Joe would’ve let him get into this with us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know––he’s got the black on him.”

  Jack scoffed, “Don’t talk rot.”

  “What, then?”

  Jack gave a long, exasperated sigh. “I don’t know.”

  “The last thing we need at the moment is a passenger. From what I’ve been told things are going to get spicy soon.”

  “You mean Jack Spot?”

  Billy nodded. “You heard he’s been telling people that they need to be with him rather than with us?”

  “I heard he had a word with a couple of pubs on Shaftesbury Avenue.”

  “More than that. He’s been threatening blokes in Soho, too. He’s not someone Violet and George will be able to ignore like he’s not there. He’s a bloody psychopath, him and his bloody gypsies too. I heard they don’t think he’s anything to worry about.”

  They worked in silence for a few minutes until Jack tipped out the cupboards of a chest of drawers. “Here,” he said, “found it.” He held up a presentation box and, inside, a diamond necklace. There was other jewellery in the drawer––rings and bracelets and necklaces––and Jack tipped them all into his pockets.

  The two of them finished in the bedroom and went back downstairs.

  “No,” Billy said, returning to the same theme, “that Fabian’s no good, no good at all.”

  He had been picking at the same theme for most of the night, and Jack was growing weary of it. “Aye,” he said, hoping Billy might let the matter rest.

  They exited through the main door and, closing their mackintoshes around them, they walked quickly away from the house.

  “He’ll get us all nicked, you mark my words.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Jack said, hoping to forestall another tirade. He tapped his pockets so that the diamonds clinked. “Fancy a drink?”

  They walked the short distance to the main road. In five minutes they had hailed a taxi and were heading towards Soho.

  22

  EDWARD AND JOSEPH arranged to meet three days after the burglary at Piccadilly Circus. Joseph was waiting for him beneath the statue of Eros.

  They embraced warmly.

  “What’s the plan?” Edward asked. “We’re going for a drink?”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” he said.

  “Where? Soho?”

  “Actually, I was thinking the Ritz.”

  Edward looked down at his tatty second-hand suit and scuffed shoes and sighed. “Don’t be daft––they’re not going to let me in looking like this.”

  “I was thinking we’d make a stop and get you some new clothes first.”

  Edward did not complain. They set off, Joseph leading the way. They had to walk past West End Central police station in order to get to the Savile Row tailor’s that Joseph had in mind. The station had taken a direct hit during the Blitz and it had only been open again for a few months. A pair of detectives slouched at the bottom of the steps with cigarettes in their mouths and uniformed men emerged for the start of their beats. Edward walked on, eyes down, resolutely aimed towards the pavement.

  Joseph chuckled at his discomfort. “Stop being so bloody flighty,” he said once they had put the station behind them. “It’s been a week."

  It wasn’t that that Edward was worried about. He knew that they were in the clear there but he would allow Joseph to think that he was anxious. He would expect that of him, surely. “Policemen always make me feel guilty,” he explained. “But it’s not normally with reason.”

  “We’re not getting caught. Nothing’s happened, has it?”

  “No––not yet. But––”

  “So we’re fine. Old Bill don’t know nothing. Relax, Doc––we’re in the clear.” They walked on a few steps and Joseph reached into his jacket pocket. “Look, it’s natural to be nervous. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t put me on edge, too. But you know it was worth it, don’t you? Here––this is for you.”

  He reached across and handed Edward a thick, brown envelope.

  He peeled back the seal of the envelope. A thick wedge of banknotes was inside. “How much?”

  “Three hundred.” Joseph said it with a wide grin. “Not a bad little tickle for your first job, eh?”

  Edward could hardly believe it. “You said a hundred, maximum.”

  “It was worth more than I thought.”

  Edward put the envelope into his pocket. “Capital,” he said.

  “Not bad for half an hour’s work,” Joseph said.

  Joseph had arranged a series of appointments for them: a tailor, a shirt-maker, a cobbler. The first appointment was at Dege & Skinner. They were greeted deferentially by a tailor and showed inside. The shop was as quiet as a library and redolent with the dry smell of fresh fabric. There was barely enough space on the wall behind the counter to display the Royal Warrants. George V had been a regular customer, the Duke of Windsor had continued the family tradition and Clark Gable and Tyrone Power represented Hollywood’s royalty. It was impossible not to be impressed.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. What can we do for you today?”

  Joseph said he was going to buy three suits: one off the rack, to wear immediately, and another two that were to be made bespoke. The cost would be around forty pounds, the tailor said, before asking Edward whether he would be ordering the same. He gaped: forty pounds? The most expensive item of clothing he had ever bought was a suit for his interview at Trinity, and that had cost a fiver from Selfridges in the Christmas sales.

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  Joseph intervened, “No, he’ll have the same.”

  “Joseph…”

  “You can’t wear that thing for another minute more. It’s a monstrosity.” The tailor must have noticed his awful suit too but he was too discrete to mention it. Joseph tapped his breast pocket knowingly. “We can afford it. Treat yourself.”

  “Sir?” the tailor prompted.

  “Go on, then,” Edward said, unable to prevent the self-indulgent grin that broke out across his face. “The same, please.”

  Another tailor appeared from the back and the two fussed around them, taking measurements and flicking through a book of fabric samples. When they were finished, he chose a suit from the rail, added a new shirt, cufflinks and a pair of shoes, and took it all into the changing room to try on. He shut the door and shrugged off his old jacket, catching sight of the top of the envelope in his inside pocket. He tried on the suit. It was a little long in the leg but adjusting it would be simple. He stepped outside and turned before the big, floor-length mirror. Joseph was waiting for him. They stood alongside and regarded themselves in the glass. His suit was single-breasted, cut from a heavy grey flannel with a waistcoat in a similar colour. It was a traditional English cut, with that combination of style, cutting and craftsmanship that flattered the figure and communicated substance. The shirt was brilliant white and thickly-starched. The brogues were polished to such a high sheen that they reflected the face of the tailor as he knelt down to adjust the fall of the trouser. Joseph took a ninepenny handkerchief, folded it into a neat square and slid it into Edward’s breast pocket. He took a grey trilby from a nearby shelf, placed it on Edward’s head and adjusted it carefully.

  “There,” he said. “You look like a new man. What do you reckon? Better?”

  Edward turned side-on and regarded himself. He pulled the brim of the trilby down a touch. He amused himself in the mirror. He had always had a malleable face, one that he seemed able to mould to fit the impression that he was trying to portray. He fancied that he looked like an American gangster, the sort of role James Cagney would play in the pictures. He imagined himself with the suitca
se full of money and a pistol in his pocket, not long removed from a heist. He liked the way the clothes and the hat made him look.

  He shot his cuffs and flexed his shoulders. “Much better,” he said.

  They took a taxi to the Ritz. Edward had been once or twice, before the war, and had always loved it. He knew all the stories from the newspapers he had read as a little boy: how the Prince of Wales and Mrs. Simpson had dined in The Palm Court, how Charlie Chaplin had needed a retinue of forty policemen to negotiate a passage past his screaming fans, how Anna Pavlova had danced there and how the Aga Khan had permanent suites. He was relieved to see that little had changed. The doormen, dressed in their spotless uniform and with box hats on their heads, ushered them inside with extravagant good manners. “Good afternoon, Mr. Costello,” one of them said with a deep tip of his head. Joseph smiled broadly at the recognition and Edward was impressed. They passed through into the Ritz Bar, the gloriously art deco room whose beautiful furnishings and glamorous patrons reminded Edward of an entirely different kind of life. The Merano chandelier gave off a soft, golden light that burnished the tortoiseshell walls and picked out the details in the glistening emblems etched into the Lalique glass. The bar was long and narrow, with the tables arranged as if in the dining car of a particularly opulent train; it had always put Edward in mind of the Orient Express. Joseph took the menu from the bar and handed it to Edward. He scanned it, his eyes widening as he remembered the stratospheric prices that were sensible only if money was of no consequence.

  “I don’t know about you,” Joseph said, “but I’m pushing the boat out.”

  Edward reminded himself: money was not of so great a consequence today as it had been yesterday and he could afford to be extravagant.

  Joseph ordered a Negroni. Edward had ordered one himself, many years earlier, although his had been authentically Italian, ordered in the same Caffé Cassoni bar where Count Camillo Negroni had asked his Florentine bartender to strengthen his Americano by adding gin rather than the normal soda water. The memory promised to lead to others that he preferred to recall alone and so he did not mention it and, instead, ordered quickly for himself. He selected the Cesar Ritz, a cocktail made with Courvoisier l’Esprit, Ruinart Blanc de Blancs champagne and Angostura bitters. The bill for both drinks was two pounds and they were delivered to their table by a tail-coated waiter who fawned over them as if they were royalty or Hollywood stars.