The Soho Noir Series

by Mark Dawson

  “I’m grateful.”

  George frowned at his sister. “We should be going,” he said, showing her his pocket watch.

  Violet checked the time and nodded her agreement. “We have an appointment. It was a pleasure to meet you, Edward. I’m sure we’ll see you again.”

  The two of them got up and, bidding them farewell, made their way to a parked car. A large, serious-looking man was waiting by the kerb. He opened the rear doors for them, got into the front and drove them away.

  “She liked you,” Joseph said.

  “You think?”

  “Certainly.”

  “This job? What do you think? Was she serious?”

  “It’s like she said: the family has a lot of business interests,” he replied, choosing his words carefully. “The showroom would be a good fit for you––better than a job in a kitchen, anyway.” He got up. “Now then,” he said. “How about another drink? How about a nice brandy? Doc? Are you listening to me?”

  “Sorry,” he said. He had been miles away.

  “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

  Edward brushed that off as Joseph went over to the pub but it was true. He had plenty on his mind. Opportunities, openings and main chances. All of them aimed towards the future prosperity of Edward Fabian.

  PART THREE

  London

  June – August 1945

  11

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR CHARLIE MURPHY stared out of the window of the car, peering through sheets of rain. He was outside an office building on Upper Street, right in the heart of grotty Islington. There was no sign of a police station, at least not one that could be recognised as such. Charlie got out and trotted through the rain into the building, through a wide door and into a lobby. He took a flight of stairs and passed through another door. The walls were painted green, like all municipal buildings, and the paint was peeling. The windows were tall and narrow and all of them had missing panes, boards covering the gaps. The place was in a state. It looked like it was empty. It looked nothing like a police station and that was exactly what Charlie wanted. If the Ghost Squad was to be effective, it needed to be anonymous, and this was a good start.

  Charlie opened a set of double doors. Beyond was an open floor, not all that big, with a couple of offices leading off on one side. The place looked like it used to be a fashion warehouse: a crowd of battered old mannequins were gathered in a corner, dusty armless corpses that had seen better days. There were large industrial windows, a wide door in the wall with a winch outside, the sort of get-up for hoisting gear straight in. Two middle-aged women were working at typewriters and one whole wall was covered with shelves, books, box files and piles of paper. Half a dozen men were working at desks.

  Vernon White and Roderick Carlyle, the sergeants who made up the heart of his little team, were waiting in Charlie’s office, cups of tea steaming before them. He had hand-picked from uniform all the way back in 1940. They were his men. They had been with him since the Ripper case, the arcs of their careers following his own. There had been quick promotions from detective constable to detective sergeant and growing acclaim at the Yard, yet they were loyal and showed no interest in leaving his side. Charlie knew why: he was good, they knew it, and they also knew that they would rise faster with him than without. White was a cold-eyed hatchet-faced man, as lean as a rake and as hard as the manager of a loan office. Carlyle was a fresh-faced, a razor-sharp mind hidden beneath a naïve face. “Morning, lads,” Charlie said.

  “Morning, guv,” they said together.

  “Are we ready to go?”

  Carlyle nodded. “The men are all here.”

  “Did we get them all?”

  Carlyle shook his head. “We got six. The Commissioner will double it if we can show results.”

  Charlie grunted. There were hardly mob-handed, and a job like this would only work with a good deal of manpower, but it would have to do. “Get them ready,” he said. “I’ll get myself a cuppa and then I’ll give them the run-through.”

  Carlyle and White went outside into the main room and Charlie heard them organise the men for the briefing. He made himself a cup of tea and went outside. The six detective constables had arranged their chairs so that they were facing the wall on which Charlie had fixed a pinboard.

  “Morning, gents,” he said. “My name is detective inspector Charlie Murphy and I will be your C.O. for the next six months. Everything I am going to tell you today must stay in this room. Everything we will do in this building is secret, and nothing must leak out. Nothing.” He put his briefcase on the desk before him and popped open the clasps. “You’ll all be aware of the problem with the black market. It was bad during the war but it’s even worse today. There are shortages of everything and if there’s one thing you can say about chummy it’s this: he knows how to take advantage of a situation, and he’s taking advantage of this one. London has been flooded with criminals looking to make a quick buck. We’ve got fellows who wouldn’t normally have anything to do with crime falling to temptation. Blokes who work in factories leaving the door open so that goods and material can get nicked. Stevedores siphoning off a third of the fuel they’ve just unloaded and flogging it on. Butchers putting a little extra meat in the packets of their favourite customers for a payment on the side. And, of course, the underworld has reacted. You can’t walk down Oxford Street without seeing a spiv flogging nylons. It’s everywhere, lads. It’s an epidemic. You’ll have read some of the stuff in the papers, having a go at the Met for letting it happen. It’s got to a point where we can’t ignore it any more. The Commissioner has made this a priority. We are going to tackle the black market.”

  Charlie opened his briefcase and took an envelope. He slid his finger inside and opened it, tipping out a collection of glossy prints onto the desk. He took them and, one by one, tacked them onto the pinboard in the shape of a pyramid.

  “It’s not going to be an easy job,” he admitted, “and it’s so big it’s difficult to know where to start, but since we’ve got to start somewhere, we’re going to concentrate on this lot. This”––he said, gesturing to the pinboard––“is the Costello Family. They made their name on the racecourses twenty years ago and they expanded into Soho and the West End. Gambling, drinking clubs, prostitution––they have a lot of interests. They’ve had a harder time of it since the head of the family, Harry, kicked the bucket, and in the last couple of years they’ve retrenched. They’re into the dogs more than horses these days and, even though they still have plenty of other interests, it’s the black market that’s making their money. They’ve gone into it in a big way.”

  He turned to the pinboard and pointed to the picture of George Costello. They had taken it yesterday, at the festival. He was scowling into the camera, frightening even at fifty feet.

  “This is George Costello, otherwise known as Georgie the Bull. His real name is Salvatore but since the last person who called him that got knifed in the gut no-one uses it anymore. Early on, one of his relatives said that he reckoned Salvatore looked like his uncle George and that’s what they called him from then on. He did badly at school, was expelled at thirteen and started running with the family on the racecourses. He was conscripted in 1917, actually went, which is unusual for a wide boy like him, but managed to stay out of the way before he was discharged. There were plenty of scraps with other men and we think that’s where he got his nickname. He’s Harry Costello’s older brother. Since he got out of the army he’s done time for assault and battery, robbery and false imprisonment, and those are just the big ticket items. He quickly made a name for himself for violence and made his way up the chain. The Yard has long suspected him as being an executioner for the family, and there are at least six murders we think he did but we can’t prove. For example, it’s common knowledge on the street that George participated in the conspiracy to murder Brummy Sage in 1921. And we know that he was involved in the murder of Jock Wyatt after the White Mob murdered Michael McCausland, one
of the Costello lieutenants. Those are just two of the men we know he’s murdered, but there are more. We can’t prove any of it––he’s clever enough not to leave evidence and you’d have a better chance of getting blood from a stone than anyone to finger him.”

  Charlie looked around the room. The men were rapt. He pointed to the picture he had pinned next to George’s.

  “This lovely is Violet Costello. Also known as Lady Violet on account of her airs and graces and the way she dresses. Also known as Bulletproof Violet on account of the fact that we’ve never been able to get her for anything and none of her rivals have ever laid a glove on her. Also known as Glorious Violet of Saffron Hill, on account of being a bit of a heart-breaker when she was younger––but she’s more likely to break bones now, or at least get her brother to do it for her.” The picture had also been taken at the festival. George was next to her, scowling at the camera, and she had a hand on his arm. “If George is the muscle, Violet is the brains. Harry Costello had everything, but since he’s been gone the planning and strategy has fallen on her shoulders and, by all accounts, she’s good at it. We don’t know very much about her save that she’s clever and ruthless.”

  Charlie pointed at the photographs directly below those of George and Violet. There was a row of seven lieutenants. Charlie went through them one at a time.

  Bobby “Milkbottle” Minstrel.

  Pasqualina Papa.

  Paddy “Onions” O’Nione.

  Jimmy Brindle.

  Stuttery Robinson.

  “Mile Away” Johnny Richardson.

  Mickey Cornwall.

  They were a motley collection of men, some of them in prison, all of them with time on their records at one point or another, all of them dangerous. As Charlie went through them he started to feel a little trepidation at the scale of the task he had undertaken. These were not two-bob dipsters and hoisters, they were proper criminals. Some were clever, others were shrewd, the rest were violent. They had been under investigation for most of their adult lives and yet finding a reason to bring them in was challenging.

  The moment of uncertainty did not last long. Charlie dismissed it. He knew he was the man for the job, the best man that the Commissioner had at his disposal. He did not suffer from doubt. He would bring them all down.

  “Pay attention,” he said. Below the lieutenants came a further five photographs. “This is Joseph Costello. Youngest son of Harry Costello. He’s been in borstal for burglary and then he was away in Burma for six years. We don’t know much about him except that he’s back and up to no good. The chap next to him here is Billy Stavropoulos, otherwise known as Billy Bubble or Billy the Greek. He’s a tasty boxer under the name of Bert Gill, borderline professional, with form for assault and burglary. And here we have Edward Fabian. We know less about him than we do any of the others but what we do know is very interesting. He’s been away fighting but he seems to be on friendly terms with Joseph––it’s possible they met during the war. The only Edward Fabian we can find who would be of the right age was at Cambridge studying medicine until 1938. No criminal record or any suggestion that he is into anything hooky. And this is where it gets really interesting. This photograph was taken two days ago. The reason he’s in uniform is because he’s just come back from Buckingham Palace where he was given the Victoria Cross. Seems he’s a war hero, to boot.”

  “And he’s caught up with this lot?”

  “I know it seems unlikely that he’s our chap but until we can say for sure we’re as interested in him as we are all of the others.”

  Charlie gave brief mention of Tommy Falco and Jack McVitie, the other two likely lads who were known to associate with Joseph Costello. Joseph and Billy were closest to the family and the most likely be of interest. Fabian deserved attention because he was so terribly out of place that there had to be something worth knowing.

  “So who are we going after, boss?” one of the new men asked.

  “There’s no point in George or Violet at this point. They’re too far from the street, and she’s much too clever to do anything that could tie her into anything criminal. The lieutenants are worth a look, but chances are that they’re too long in the tooth to make stupid mistakes.” He pointed at the lowest row of pictures again. “No. We’re more likely to have success here, with these lads. They’re young and wet behind the ears. They’re all big drinkers and chances are they won’t be discrete. Take a look at their faces. Remember them. For the next two weeks I want you to find out everything you can about them, Fabian especially. There must be something we can use: a parking ticket, an overdue library book, something. We bring them in and sweat them for a bit, and then we see what happens.”

  He looked around the room. They were young and keen. He’d have to work on them, hone them, but there was potential there.

  “This is a big job, lads. Important. To the man in the street, it looks like the underworld is giving us the run-around and that’s something we can’t have happen. People start to think that, they lose respect for what we do. They lose respect for what we do and they start to think, hello, maybe it’s not so bad to get a little extra on my ration. And that’s just one step away from putting a brick through a window. It can’t happen, boys. We can’t let it.” He pointed up at the rogue’s gallery behind him. “We’re going to bring these buggers down, boys. This is the Ghost Squad. You’re all going undercover. You don’t tell anyone about it. Not your wife. Not your girlfriend. Not even your priest, if you’re so inclined. We might have to bend the rules a little bit to get what we want but the ends are going the justify the means. I want to know everything there is to know about these lads. The brand of beer they drink. Where they get their clothes. The type of car they prefer. I want to know who they share their beds with. If they fart, I want to know what it smells like. That’s what you’re going to do, boys. I want these lads here to be the first thing you think about in the morning and the last thing you think about at night. We’re going to bring them down. We are. It’s just a matter of time.” They were looking up at him, avidly. “What are you waiting for? Dismissed. Go and get started.”

  12

  IT WAS JUST AFTER DAWN and a bank of fog was rolling in off the river and creeping, damp and wet and dense, through the streets. This part of town still used gas, and the lamplighter was slowly making his way down the street, extinguishing them one by one as the sun rose. The remaining lights glowed through the smoggy haze, fuzzy globes of gold. Edward emerged from the station and followed the Tottenham Court Road down towards Euston. The area was full of car dealerships, new and used, and the one that Joseph had directed him to was halfway down the road.

  He walked onto the forecourt. The floodlights were on, bleeding through the fog. Slogans and signs were hung from the lamp-posts: “over 100 for under £100,” they proclaimed, but the fabric banners were tiny compared to the huge mural that had been painted onto the wall at the end of the terrace. There appeared to be plenty of stock: family motors that ran well but were probably on the verge of a serious breakdown; Chryslers and Buicks that had been thrashed too hard by young men who had grown out of them; a handful of sports cars, brightly painted buzz-boxes with plenty of gadgets and chromium lamps and fittings, caned half to death by tearaways with indulgent parents.

  He shivered in the damp cold and closed his overcoat more tightly around his body. He passed through the showroom to the back, and followed a painted, pointing hand towards a doorway labelled ‘office.’ He took a short flight of stairs and passed through another door, this one marked as ‘general office.’ A final door had ‘Mr. Ward’ stencilled across its frosted glass panel. Edward heard voices inside. He rapped his fist against the glass and was told to come in.

  There was a man sitting behind a desk and another in a chair facing him. The first man was obviously the boss. The first thing Edward noticed was his beautiful suit, and next how well his face was shaved under the faint brush of powder, and then his forehead, where the pale hair receded, which gl
istened. The man was wide, there could be no doubt about that, but he didn’t look like the drones who flogged packets of nylons on the pavement outside Oxford Circus tube station. He was dressed in an understated way that said he knew the value of money but wasn’t interested in flaunting it.

  “Sorry,” Edward said. “I didn’t realise I was interrupting.”

  “Who are you?” the first man said.

  “Violet Costello sent me. About a job?”

  “Ah yes,” he said, nodding with sudden vigour. “I remember. Sit down. We’re nearly finished.” His voice became harsh as he turned to address the second man. “You’ve got to pull your socks up, man. I’m fed up to the eye teeth of you and the other blokes let people get away with it. You’ve got no brains and no ability. You don’t ever admit liability, never––do you understand? Giving money to the old fool who brought the Rover back, what were you thinking?”

  “But you told me yourself that the guarantee––”

  “Guarantee? Nuts! That’s just talk. You’re a salesman, Ford, you sell things. You leave the business to me. Guarantee? Stone the crows! Guarantee! Unless you can get that into your thick skull you can find yourself a new job. You and all the others. There are plenty of men willing and able to take your job. Take this fellow here.” He referred to a pad on the desk. “It’s Mr.––Mr.––Mr. Fabian, isn’t it?”

  Edward nodded that it was.

  “Mr. Fabian is only a bona fide war hero, decorated and everything. While you were running around Salisbury Plain finding excuses not to get sent to the front, Mr. Fabian was up to his neck in bloody Japs. Only got the Victoria bleeding Cross, didn’t he?”

  Edward did not know how to respond to that.

  “Do you have anything else to say?”

  “No, Mr. Ward.”

  “No indeed. Now––clear off.”

  The man stood and, apologising again, shuffled out of the room.