by Mark Dawson
“How much do you want? The takings are over there––take it all.”
Spot laughed. “Don’t worry, lad. I’m going to.”
“Please.”
“It too late for please and thank you. Should’ve buggered off home when you had the chance.”
Tommy went for his .38 as Spot pulled the trigger. He took both barrels in the chest from twelve inches away. Spot slotted extra shells and finished him off, his patent leather loafers––bloody and gore-streaked––the last things that Tommy Falco ever saw.
PART FIVE
London
January – March 1946
CALENDAR
–– 1946––
The Star, 25th January:
GANG WARFARE IN SOHO
MAN DIES VIOLENTLY IN SUSPECTED FEUD
A murder investigation has begun after the bodies of four men were discovered in a property in Soho, W1. Thomas Falco, Albert Thomas, George Taylor, Edward Bennett and Paul Spano were found in the Regal Bridge and Billiards Club, a well-known gambling den, on Friday. While police were not prepared to be drawn on the motives for the mens’ deaths, this reporter has been informed that it is the latest in the escalating blood feud between rival gangs in London’s West End.
STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
To: Commissioner
I.O: D.I. Charles Murphy
Submitted at request of: D.A.C. Clarke
Re: Gang Activity in Soho, W.1.
Sir,
You asked me to provide up-to-date information on the spate of killings in the West End. I can confirm the speculation in the press: these murders are certainly inspired by the increasing violence that has erupted between the Spot and Costello gangs. The recent victims were all Costello men, and it is a curiosity to both my men and myself as to why there have been no reprisals. Of course, we must assume that retaliation will be forthcoming and the delay makes it more likely that, when it does finally come, it will amount to a serious escalation.
Our investigations to date have concentrated on the Costello Family. While we have made some progress with that, it is not as fast as I would have liked. With that in mind, I am considering novel approaches to the enquiry. The methods I am considering might be considered radical, or perhaps even dangerous. I will, of course, keep you abreast with developments.
Sincerely,
D.I. C. Murphy
2nd February 1946
44
THE COMMISSIONER’S OFFICE was the grandest in the whole of Scotland Yard: a large bookcase against one wall carried law reports and criminal treatises; a chandelier hung down from the high ceiling; a framed portrait of Lord Trenchard hung over the fireplace; wide windows offered a view of the Embankment and Waterloo Bridge. The Commissioner, Harold Scott, was behind his desk and Deputy Assistant Commissioner Stanley Clarke was sat in the armchair against the left wall. The atmosphere was tense, freighted with a dull foreboding that did not augur well. Charlie thought it felt like an inquest. He stepped forward, removed his hat and hung it, together with his coat, on the oak hatstand next to the door. The Commissioner invited him to sit and he did so.
Charlie had never been particularly impressed with Scott. The man was a civil servant. His background was in the Civil Defence Administration and something to do with aircraft production––nothing to do with policing or police. His face was long and sombre, marked by the deep lines that ran from his nose to the edges of his mouth, and he rarely smiled. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that made him look like an accountant. He did not suit his uniform.
“Good morning, detective inspector.”
“Morning, sir.”
“You know what this is about, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I believe I do––the murders in Soho.”
“Five men. A massacre would be a more appropriate way to describe it.”
“I think that’s fair.”
“Yes, inspector, quite fair. What can you tell me about it?”
“The five were all Costello men. It is a safe assumption, therefore, that the shooters were from the Spot Gang.”
“You’re just assuming?”
“They left no evidence and no witnesses, sir. I can’t offer any more certainty than that at the moment.”
“This isn’t good enough, inspector. It really isn’t. There was the murder in August, too, I believe.”
“That’s right. Leonard Masters.”
“We’ve got nowhere with that case, either?”
“We know it was Spot––”
“––then bloody well arrest him!”
“I could bring him in, sir, but it would be a waste of time. No-one will go on the record against him. We don’t have a case yet.”
“Do you understand the pressure this is putting me under, detective inspector? A massacre, right on our doorstep? This isn’t America, for God’s sake. It’s bloody London! And the black market, too.” He held up a report. “This is from the government. Home Office. They say the black market is totally out of control. Rampant, they say. Getting that sorted was the whole reason behind your investigation. You said you could do it and, yet, all I can conclude is that things are worse now than before you started.”
Charlie took a deep breath. “I understand your frustration, sir. It’s frustrating for us, too. These gangs are well organised and professional. They are held together by the promise of significant reward and the threat of violence. It might not look like it from your position”––from behind your comfortable desk, he felt like adding––“but we are making progress. We’re developing our understanding of how these groups are comprised and how they function. We are gathering intelligence. We’re probing for weaknesses, and for potential informants.”
“Do you have any?”
“Potentially.”
“‘Potentially?’ What does that mean, inspector?”
Charlie felt a flash of anger but he smothered it. “It means, sir, that we are developing two particular ways into the Costello family that could be very fruitful for us.”
“Details, man!”
He took a deep breath before he spoke again. “There’s an ex-soldier who’s working with them,” he said. “He doesn’t fit the usual type. I’ve spoken with him. Put the screws to him a little. There’s something that makes me think he could be a weakness for them.”
“And the other one?”
He thought of Eve. How could he mention her to them? His brother was not a policeman any longer but he was still a liked and respected man, well connected, and everyone knew about Eve’s disappearance during the war. Charlie knew that they were aware of his ruthlessness––he had to believe it was one of the reasons why he had been promoted so quickly––but withholding the information that his brother’s daughter was alive and well and, what was more, consorting with a known criminal in the hope that he could turn her into an informant? They would see that as a step too far, even for him? Frank would find out, they would clash again, Eve would be pulled back from the brink and he would lose one of the two levers he had worked so hard to find. No. That wouldn’t do at all.
“And,” he said, “The other one I’d rather keep to myself for the moment, sir.”
There was grumbling and shaking of heads but they did not press him.
“I’ll admit that progress is slow,” Charlie said, “slower than I would have liked, but I remain completely confident that I’m the best man for the job and that if given sufficient time I’ll deliver the results that you want.”
“Yes,” Scott said. “Time. That comes down to the nub of it.”
“We have to set a deadline on this, Charles,” Clarke offered from the side. “If you can’t present us with tangible progress––and by that we mean reliable arrests––then we’ve decided that we are going to have to close the investigation down and try something else.”
“I see, sir. How much longer do I have?”
“Three months,” Scott said. “Not a day longer.”
“Very well, sir. I understand.” Char
lie stood. “Will there be anything else?”
Scott steepled his fingers and looked over them at Charlie, his eyes cold and blank. “Sit down, Murphy. I’m not finished yet.”
Charlie sat. He felt his heart hammering in his chest.
“The press is bad enough, detective inspector, but it’s more than that. The Minister was in here yesterday. Two hours. He was complaining that we’re not doing enough to get our house in order. And he can make ultimatums, too. He can assign blame. Just think about it for a minute: there are thousands of hard young men who have just returned home after fighting in the war. Many of these men have been unable to find work. After five or six years of service abroad, some of them might think that they have been abandoned by their government. Many of them will be tempted by the quick cash they might think they can make outside of the legitimate economy. Those men are not likely to be dissuaded from that course by a police force that is trumpeted as inept all the way across the national press. It was made very clear to me that something will be done unless we start to bring things under control.” He paused. “I know your reputation, Murphy. My predecessor and the deputy assistant commissioner here speak very highly about what you did during the war and, I’ll admit, your record is particularly impressive. But none of us can live on past glories. This is a results business and, to put it simply, you are not getting results. Your reputation and your career depend upon you doing your job and bringing these animals to justice. You understand me?”
“Yes sir,” Charlie said. “Perfectly well.”
“See that you do. Dismissed.”
45
EDWARD CROSSED PICCADILLY AT THE RITZ and headed west, then north, following Hyde Park up. They still had searchlights from the war hidden amongst copper-beeches and sycamores. St Johns was on Hyde Park Crescent. An empty hearse was already parked at the kerb. Edward parked behind it, checking his reflection in the hearse’s window before going around to the cemetery, a narrow space bounded by fir trees and box-cut hedges. Twenty-five men were gathered around the freshly dug grave. He slid through the throng until he was between Joseph and Jack. They each acknowledged him with a silent nod. They were dressed in black suits, white shirts and black ties, just as he was.
The atmosphere was palpable: sadness and anger in equal measure.
Tommy’s girlfriend stood alone on the other side of the grave. The chaplain delivered the sermon and she started to weep. Violet Costello put her arm around her shoulders. They sang a hymn before the eulogy, sang another hymn afterwards. Edward stared at the coffin. The vicar recited the committal as Tommy was lowered into the ground, the family and a few of the men casting flowers and handfuls of dirt down onto his coffin.
* * *
THE WAKE WAS IN THE ALHAMBRA. The club looked tattered and worn in the daylight, the imperfections that could be hidden in the darkness now more easily displayed. George and Violet Costello stayed for a drink, paid their respects to Tommy’s girlfriend, then quietly left. Edward necked a couple of jars then went up onto the roof to smoke and get a lungful of fresh air. When he went down again, the women were all gone. The chaps were gathered at the bar, talking. Edward went over.
“Something’s got to be done,” Jack McVitie said. “Another bloody funeral. My mate was shot dead by that bastard, and what are we doing about it?”
“Nothing.”
“That evil Jew must be laughing his bloody socks off at us.”
“You heard what happened in Soho last night? Fucking liberty! They hit three restaurants that have been paying up to us for donkey’s years. You know Da Vinci’s on Brewer Street? I went in there this morning, and they’re sweeping the glass up from all the windows they smashed, and I ask him for the weekly payment and he says he ain’t going to pay it no more. He says what kind of protection am I getting for my money when this kind of thing can happen? I gave him a thick lip, fair enough, I ain’t having him talking to me like that, but then I got thinking and you have to admit––end of the day, he’s got a bloody point.”
“And I can’t get the bookies on my patch to pay me my points. They’re more scared of Spot than they are of us. He’s nabbing all of them.”
“What’s happened to George’s bollocks? If this was a couple of years ago, he would’ve strung the greasy kike up on the nearest lamp-post weeks ago. He’s making us look like a bloody laughing stock, that’s what he’s doing. I used to be able to walk around the manor and people would treat me with respect. Blokes would either tip their hat to me or cross over to the other side. That don’t happen no more. They don’t give two shits about us. They all think he’s going soft.”
Joseph had been listening with a deepening scowl. He had no answer to that. Edward could see the colour rising above his collar and into his cheeks and decided it was better to intervene. He stood everyone a round. “To Tommy,” he said. “A good mate.”
“To Tommy.”
He drained his glass and ordered two more. He took Joseph by the arm and turned him away from the others.
He handed Joseph one of the fresh pints. “You can see the way this is going, can’t you?”
“I know,” Joseph said, fixing his stare into the bottom of his glass.
“If George and Violet don’t do something, they’ll start to lose the men.”
“Thank you, Doc,” Joseph said, his voice a tight slap. “I know that.”
Edward realised that Joseph didn’t want to pursue the conversation, but he there were things that had to be said and, he thought, he was the best man to say them. “Maybe I could speak to them? Your sister has invited me down to the house at the weekend. I could have a word with Violet?”
He snorted. “You saw how they reacted the last time you tried that. You’re not family, Edward. It wouldn’t go down well at all.”
Edward gritted his teeth. You’re not family. He did not respond to that, even though the truth of it stung. It was a reminder that that would always stand between them, a gap he could not cross. Joseph stood with his arms folded, staring out of the window behind them. Edward fumbled for the right thing to say, unable to find the words, his attention switching from the smell of the Senior Service between Joseph’s fingertips, to the curlycued grain in the wood of the bar beneath his hand, to the tight pressure in his stomach as if someone was holding their palm against his navel. The sense of frustration and inarticulateness was agony to him and, helpless to stop himself, he said, “Jesus, man, someone has got to do something.”
Joseph snapped. “Leave it out, Doc, alright? For God’s sake––on and on and on, every bloody day. I don’t need your advice. We don’t need it. You’re starting to be a bore.” Joseph started to say something else, his eyes flicking away as he considered better of it. He took a breath and said, instead, “Violet is sharp and she doesn’t mess about. You think she got to be where she is now by sitting around and letting things happen? She’ll have something in mind for Spot. We’re just going to have to trust her and brazen it out.”
There was no point in pressing him and so Edward reluctantly let the matter drop. He drank quickly, his mind working. He had been presented with an opportunity to make something of himself. A chance, and he had only really scratched the surface of it so far. To be stood at the side, watching impotently as the family slowly imploded, crippled by fear or inertia or laziness at the very moment that he arrived, was torture. He felt sick at the thought of it. It was almost more than he could bear.
46
EDWARD WAS IN THE SAME ROOM as the last time he stayed at Halewell Close. He laid his suitcase on the bed and changed out of the comfortable clothes he had worn for the drive from London, choosing one of his new suits instead. He applied pomade to his hair, shaved, and then regarded himself in the mirror: he looked very fine. He crossed the room and opened the window, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke out into the cool night air beyond. It was eight o’clock and the light had faded, replaced by a gloaming that made strange shapes of the lines of trees and made the landscape
beyond the garden murky and indistinguishable. He saw his new car, next to Violet Costello’s Packard. It was a Triumph Roadster, the lights of the house reflecting on the highly polished, blood red bodywork. It had an 1800cc engine and a four speed gearbox with synchromesh on the top three ratios. There were large headlamps at the front and the radiator was set back between large “coal scuttle” wings. He was always taking taxis or relying on Joseph to drive him around and, now that money was less of a problem, he had decided to splash out. Ruby Ward had arranged the car for him. It had been enjoyable to return to the showroom. He was not fond of the other salesmen, and he knew that they would be jealous to see how far he had travelled in so short a time. It was brand new, not second-hand, and he had paid for it in cash. It had been a pleasurable way to spend an hour. Their gawping incredulity had been worth it all on its own.
The car was a beauty, and he loved it. He loved to own things, carefully selected items that he could cherish. He was not materialistic, but he liked the kind of things that said something about a man and his standing in the world. Excellent clothes and fine shoes, well-chosen pieces of jewellery, cultural artefacts that spoke of taste, tables at the best restaurants and seats at the opera. They gave a man a sense of self-worth. They spoke of his substance. It was more than just the impression they projected to others, although Edward was aware enough to know that that was a part of their appeal to him. They provided him with ratification. They were the proof that he had done well and that, despite the rotten cards he had been dealt so often in his life, he had still made a success of himself on anyone’s terms. They made a mockery of the self-doubt that sometimes whispered in his ear. He had owned those things before and, together with the lavish lifestyle that he had arranged for himself, they had made him as happy as he had ever been. He had had to abandon it all when he had stopped being Jack Stern. All he had taken with him into the jungle were his memories, and they had been just enough to make the worst moments bearable. It would never have been possible to make a beginning of reacquiring those things on the pitiful fifteen shillings a week that the Labour Exchange paid to him. It would have taken him a decade, even if he lived frugally, to buy the things he wanted. Joseph and his family had given him the opportunity to acquire them more quickly. The money would allow him to travel to Paris with Joseph and to do the trip properly, to fly first class, to stay in the best hotel and to enjoy the best restaurants. Paris would only be the beginning: he was already planning a trip to Athens and Rome, he wanted to return to Venice and he had heard that the Adriatic Coast was spectacular. His circumstances would allow him to begin his book collection again and, to that end, he had spoken to a dealer on the Charing Cross Road who said he would be able to source the first edition Dickens, Dostoyevskys and Conan Doyles to replace the volumes that he had had to sell. It would grant him the leisure to attend the Opera or to wander without direction through the sober halls of the Tate or the Royal Academy or even to find a struggling artist and to serve as their patron. It allowed him the opportunity to demonstrate his taste and the aesthetic discretion that set him aside from the likes of Joseph and Billy and all the others. They simply could not have been any more different to him. They were plebeians, ignorant and unappreciative of the things they were lucky enough to possess. It would allow him to support his father and uncle, too.
