by Mark Dawson
“You’ve had us all fooled, haven’t you? All this stuff about being a doctor. None of it’s true. I couldn’t believe it when I found out. It’s all moonshine.”
“Billy––” He saw his own face in the mirror behind the bar: he had a wall-eyed stare that made him look rather idiotic and frightened.
Billy sniggered. “It was that bloke who came into the garage that started me thinking. He swore blind that you were his brother. I said he must have been wrong but he was so sure, eventually I had to take him seriously. And then I thought about it a bit more. There’s always been something about you that’s been a bit off. So I had a look around your place the other day. Found all sorts of interesting stuff.” He reached into his pocket and laid a passport on the bar. Edward looked down at it fearfully: it was for Jack Stern, his real passport. “There’s another couple of these, plus Registration Cards and all sorts of other things you probably don’t want people knowing about. I’ve just borrowed them for a bit. Letters, too. I had a good read of all of them. It was your uncle who put me in the picture. Uncle Jimmy. I went to see him the other day. Lovely chap. He said I didn’t know what I was talking about at first, just like you, but I can be persuasive when I want to be. You know that, though. That’s why you asked me to help with the milkman.”
Edward rose so quickly that the stool clattered against the bar. He closed the distance between them but Billy did not flinch, raising a hand and holding it lightly against Edward’s sternum. Joseph had turned at the sound of the stool. Billy smiled at him, took his arm and put it around Edward’s shoulders and turned him away to face the bar. In the mirror, he saw that the colour had drained from his face. He was as white as a ghost. “Don’t do anything silly,” he advised quietly. “You’d rather we kept this between ourselves, right?”
He reached into his pocket again, took out the engagement ring and dropped it onto the bar.
Edward reached impulsively but Billy cupped his hand over it.
“Wouldn’t want Joe to see that, would you?”
“If you’ve hurt him I’ll––”
“You’ll what? You’ll do nothing, mate. Sweet fuck all. Me and good old uncle Jimmy just had a friendly little chat and it all came out. Every last detail. And you’re not in a position to make threats, are you? I’ve got everything I need. The ring you stole from him, the passports, pictures of you when you were younger, letters, and––I nearly forgot––I know where your old man is. Jimmy told me all about it. Basket case, ain’t he? Dribbling into his soup. From now on, see, when I tell you to do something, you’re going to do it. Understand? Because if you don’t, I’ll pay your Dad a little visit like I did with Jimmy. And when I’ve finished with him I’ll go to Joseph and explain how you’ve led us all up the garden path since you got on the scene. How you’ve been working for Spot. And then I’ll tell Violet, I’ll tell George and I’ll tell Joseph’s sister, too. That’s the best of all, how you’ve pulled the wool over that poor little bitch’s eyes. How do you reckon she’ll feel, learning that she’s been spreading her legs for a con artist like you? I reckon she’ll want to be the first in line to watch what her brother and her uncle does.”
Edward flinched at Billy’s arm across his shoulders. “What do you want?” he said, his voice knotted.
“We’ll get to that but you can answer a few questions first. I was wondering––the real Edward Fabian––did you top him?”
Edward gritted his teeth. “He was already dead. He was killed by a German bomb.”
“So you made it look like Jack Stern died instead? Just took his papers and off you went?”
“Very good, Billy. You always were sharp.”
“Mind your tongue. You don’t want to upset me no more, do you? How’d you do it?”
“I had a friend working in the mortuary. He doctored the papers.”
“Clever. It was all going so well, too.”
“How much do you want to keep quiet?”
“We’ll start at a ton and see how we go from there. Every Friday. No exceptions. Mess up and”––he lifted his cupped hand for a moment, the ring sparkling beneath, and then replaced it––“everyone knows about your dirty little secrets.”
“Alright,” Edward said. “Fine.”
“You know what?––I always knew there was something wrong about you, Jack. I had a feeling in my gut. But it’s all over now, isn’t it? Now that I know.” He tightened his arm, squeezing him closer to his body. He leant closer, breath that reeked of alcohol on Edward’s ear. “And unless you want everyone else to know, you’ll do exactly what I say.”
55
EDWARD LEFT THE CLUB and walked hurriedly to the Shangri-La. This was a nightmare, he thought. The worst nightmare he could have imagined. Billy had him in a terrible spot. Everything was suddenly put back at risk again but it was worse this time. It was not just his place with the family that was at risk. It was everything: his clothes, his car, his apartment, his lifestyle. His freedom. Billy could go to the police and take his liberty from him. Everything would be revealed. Something awful was going to happen now, he knew it. He had been lucky for too long and now the world was going to mete out his just desserts. He had been lucky for nearly seven years in avoiding detection for what he had done but his luck had finally run out. They would find out who he really was and, from there, it would be a simple enough matter to tie him to what had happened in Sicily. His mind became fixated on his fate. He would be hung. The life he wanted to lead, the things he wanted to see, and to own, the places he wanted to visit, all of it would be denied to him. A fatalistic premonition of his own doom settled over him and he felt that there was no way that it could ever be lifted.
He reached the restaurant. The paper sheets that obscured most of the windows had been pulled away in one corner and he cupped his hands around the aperture, staring into the darkened room. He could see the brighter white of fresh paint on some of the walls, paint pots and brushes arranged neatly on the floor, and then, beyond them, two chairs had been overturned. A cold fear ran across Edward’s body and he knocked loudly on the door, then, when there was no response, he crouched down and pushed open the flap of the letterbox with his fingers, calling into it.
He went to the flat, let himself in and knocked on the inside door. The dog barked again. There was nothing for several minutes until, finally, a light came on and Edward heard Jimmy’s voice asking who it was. He sounded frail.
“It’s me––Jack,” he said.
Jimmy unlocked the door and opened it and Edward came inside. There was enough silvered light from the street outside to see that Jimmy’s face was puffed and bruised. Both eyes were blackened and livid contusions marked his cheeks and forehead. Edward felt the beginnings of an awful fury at what had been done to his uncle. He slipped his arm beneath the older man’s shoulders and helped him to the settee. He set him carefully down and switched on the light. Jimmy’s injuries looked much worse. One eye socket had swollen so badly that the eye was shut, dried blood had collected beneath his right ear and, when he smiled painfully at him, Edward saw that two teeth had been knocked out.
“I’m sorry,” he said, because that was all he could think to say.
“I tried to telephone,” Jimmy said, his voice weak. “I couldn’t get through.”
“I’ve not been around. I’ve been busy. Oh, Jesus, Jimmy, look at you––I’m sorry.”
His uncle dismissed his apology with a feeble wave of his hand. “Looks worse than it is,” he said, his laugh whistling through the gap in his teeth. Edward didn’t believe him. “Who was he?”
“His name is Billy Stavropoulos.”
“I’m sorry, Jack––I told him everything.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s my fault. I was stupid.” Edward thought of the blasted newspaper article, and was conscious of a certain sense of annoyance as he recalled it, because it had been an awful, amateurish error.
“What’s he going to do?”
“He means trouble.
He knows about father.”
“Don’t worry,” Jimmy said. “I spoke to the sanatorium. They won’t let him have any new visitors.”
That, at least, was a relief. Edward thanked him for it.
“What are you going to do?” Jimmy said.
Edward thought about that. What was he going to do? He realised, then, that he had already decided. He had been considering what to do ever since Paris. There was a line that he had thought he would not need to cross. It was funny, he thought, just two hours ago he still thought that. Now, though, he saw that it would be necessary, and much more besides. “I’ll sort it out,” he said. He waited until Jimmy had settled himself back into bed and then spent the rest of the night in the front room, sitting at a table with a bottle of whisky and a single glass. He spent the next hour running through what he knew he had to do. He would have to amend his plan a little to take Billy into account, but that should be possible. He plotted out his next steps, considered the two alliances that he would have to form. His timetable would need to be accelerated a little. He built the story that he would have to tell and planned where he went from here.
He would fix it all.
Joseph.
The family.
Billy.
He would take care of everything.
56
IT WAS JUST before dawn. Ruby Ward stood by the side of the street as George Costello’s driver stepped out of the Bentley and handed him the keys. “Can’t get it started most mornings,” he complained. “If you ask me the engine’s shot. He wants you to have a look at it.”
“Of course,” he said. “Leave it with me.”
Ruby had sold that car to him––well, he said ‘sold’, but George had made it clear that he wanted it and Ruby had ended up practically giving it to him. It had been a very nice motor then, a top of the range Mark V1, but that was nearly five years ago and it was beginning to show its age. The motor sounded throaty, the paint was fading, the leather upholstery was cracked and weathered. It had seen better days, Ruby thought, and that was just about right; the car was like George and the rest of his insane family.
He watched as the chauffeur disappeared down the street towards the Underground. Ruby had known them for years. He had started doing business with George’s younger brother, Harry, taking nicked cars, filing off the registrations and flogging them on. Harry Costello: now there was a man. Astute, ruthless, all the angles covered, nothing ever got past him. His siblings weren’t a patch on what he had been: Violet was shrewd, for sure, but you didn’t want a bleeding judy at the head of the family; George could be a frightening bastard but he was too simple to be really dangerous. Neither of them––not even when they put their heads together––could match up to old Harry. He had been the real ticket.
He wasn’t foolish enough to bring it up––not with anyone––but Ruby could see an end to it for the Costellos. They’d had a good run at the top, coming up to twenty years, but the last two or three had been difficult. Harry’s death had started it. They had been kicked off the race-courses, swapping their action there for the same kind of scams at the dog tracks. Like George’s car, that, too, summed up their plight: from private boxes at Ascot to chicken-in-a-basket at Walthamstow and Wimbledon. The gee-gees had always been their bread and butter, that was Harry’s father had started out, and without that action; well, Ruby thought, things looked bleak. He had been over to the big house in the Cotswolds for Chiara Costello’s birthday and the place was starting to look tatty, unloved, nothing like what it had been like before the war. That was a sign, and now George couldn’t afford to replace a five year old motor that was well past its best; as far as Ruby was concerned, the writing was on the wall.
A case in point: the five hundred pounds he had given George were for the lorry-load of stolen whiskey he’d bought from him the previous month. Ruby had turned the booze around the next day for a grand, so he was laughing. It wasn’t going to be so good for George; he’d have to split his gelt, passing the right amount down the line to the blokes who’d hijacked the truck; more to the geezer from the hauliers who’d passed on the inventory and shipping timetable; more to his dodgy coppers down at West End Central so they’d let him know if the Swedes were barking up the right trees. By the time he was done with settling all of that little lot the most he’d be left with was a hundred, two if he was lucky.
No, Ruby Ward was not a stupid man. He had started to hedge his bets, started to cast around for other people to work with. He didn’t want to get caught with all his eggs in one basket.
He shivered in the damp cold and closed his overcoat more tightly around his body. He went through the garage to get back to his office. This business had been his career once, but times had changed. He still made plenty from it, but the black market paid more. Ruby washed his illicit profits through the garage and the two pubs he owned south of the river; there was a lot of money to hide. He bought this place ten years ago, selling his first dealership and funding the difference with a loan he had inveigled out of the bank against trumped-up accounts they must have known were moody. He had worked hard for the first three or four years, but it hadn’t taken long for him to realise that, when it came down to it, his old man had been right: ‘only mugs work.’ There was more to be made on the fringes of things, in the margins between legal trade and the black market. The war had been the best thing that had ever happened to him.
He first saw the smoke as he passed the inspection pit. It was coming from the showroom. He reached for the door and recoiled: the doorknob was burning to the touch. He wrapped his hand in the sleeve of his coat and opened the door, a cloud of smoke billowing out, curling up against the ceiling. He covered his mouth and went inside. There was a slick of petrol all the way across the floor and he watched, in confused fascination that quickly became horror, as a blue wick of flame spread avidly across it. The flames crackled hungrily, racing across the showroom, high enough in places to start to blacken the ceiling. He was backing away when he saw the rag that had been stuffed into the fuel tank of the Packard nearest to the door. The fuel cap had been taken off and the rag was pushed all the way inside. It was alight, burnt almost all the way down, and as Ruby dumbly realised what was about to happen he also realised that it was too late to do anything about it. A moment later and the tank exploded, lifting the car off its rear wheels and then crashing it down again. The blast flung Ruby off his feet and tossed him back outside again. He landed heavily on his back, his head whiplashing back against the floor. His vision swam with woozy filters as consciousness ebbed away. He would wonder, later, if the hooded figure he saw was real or a tattered figment of his imagination, a concussion dream.
57
EDWARD BRACED HIS ARMS against the sides of the wooden-panelled corridor as the train rumbled around a sharp bend. He continued along the carriage, checking through the windows of the compartments on the left of the corridor. The train was on the fringes of the metropolis now, and most of the compartments had emptied out as commuters disembarked at the end of their journey home. He made his way along to the end of the corridor and the final compartment. He had checked earlier; it had been full, and he had decided to wait. Now, it had emptied out. The lone occupant was sitting facing the direction of travel, a copy of the Times held open before him. A glass of gin rested on the small table fixed to the wall of the carriage, ice clinking against the sides as it moved with the motion of the train.
Edward had done his research. Everything Charles Murphy had said to him in the dining room at Claridges had been true. He was the youngest detective chief inspector at the Metropolitan Police in living memory. Hugely ambitious and ruthless to a fault. His career had been made by the apprehension of a serial murderer during The Blitz but he had built on those strong foundations in the years that had passed. His own father had been one of his victims. The newspapers called him the “Scourge of the Underworld” and said he was spearheading the Commissioner’s public promise to root out black marketeers and put
an end to gangsterism.
It was all true.
Edward wanted to speak to him somewhere quiet to reduce the chance that they would be seen together as much as possible. He paused at the door, his eyes on the man, and then on the landscape rolling past the window. The world keeps turning, Edward thought, and here I am, about to make myself a grass, the lowest of the low. But it was necessary, he told himself. There was no question about it any longer: it was what he needed to do.
The last few days had been miserable. His time with Chiara had been uncomfortable, undermined by a persistent chill of anxiety that he could not dismiss. It was the same with Joseph. Had Billy said anything about him, he wondered? Every cross word, every disagreement, and Edward convinced himself that the cause was Joseph’s knowledge that he had deceived them all. The sudden weight of guilt made Edward sweat, droplets on his forehead and on his back, his palms slick and damp. He needed to act. It would remove a dangerous threat and provide him with an opportunity to put his career with the family into its natural and proper place. He had wrestled with his decision and was happy with it. It needed to be done. Without it, he would probably have to leave, to flee, to go abroad.
He would never get what he deserved.
No. He knew he was doing the right thing. He had no choice.
He slid the door aside and stepped into the compartment.
“Detective inspector,” he said.
Murphy looked up, unable to prevent the expression of surprise that broke across his face. “Edward.”
He pointed at the bench on the opposite side of the compartment. “Do you mind?”
“It’s a free country.”
