by Mark Dawson
They climbed the steps to the members’ bar. Major Herbert Butler was waiting for them at a table. Butler was a man of considerable girth. His hairline had retreated to the top of his crown and what wispy remnants of hair were left he kept plastered to his scalp with handfuls of Brylcream. His eyes were porcine nuggets, his nose a fleshy button and his jowls so pendulous that they spilled over the collar of his shirt, dragging the corners of his mouth with them so that he wore a permanent expression of sour distaste. He was dressed in clothes that would once have been expensive but had not been cared for properly, the jacket and corduroy trousers frayed at the cuffs, the fabric with a dull shine. A packet of cheap cigarettes sat before him. It looked like he was on his uppers.
Joseph approached. “Major Butler.”
The man swung around anxiously at the salutation. “Costello?” He was nervous: his nails were bitten to the quick and he swept regular glances around the room as if he expected to be observed. “You’re late,” he said with the attitude of a man used to giving orders.
“Traffic was murder,” Joseph said with a cool smile.
“You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”
Joseph held his smile patiently. “Well, we’re here now––what do you say we have a chat?”
“Yes, yes.”
They sat down at the table and Joseph began. “My uncle says you have a way to pay back the debt you owe.” His choice of words was deliberate. It would do Butler no good at all to think that his age, experience or rank gave him any kind of authority over them. He needed to remember that he was in hock to them.
“It’ll do more than pay him back.”
“So you say. You better tell me about it.”
“Aren’t you a little young? I thought it’d be George Costello I was dealing with?”
“You’ve been given a chance, Major, and you’re dealing with us. You’d do well to take us seriously. We can leave if you like, but you won’t get another chance.”
He ground his teeth. “Fine. I’m sorry, it’s just––it’s just––”
“It’s just what?”
He paused. Edward could almost see his mind turning. “No, it’s fine,” he said eventually. “I’m based at Honeybourne. Do you know it?”
“The big base near Evesham? I passed through it briefly during my training.”
“You’re Army?”
“We both are.”
“Where?”
“Burma.”
That helped the man to relax. “I was there, too. Bloody place. Took a Jap bullet in the shoulder when we pulled out of Rangoon and that was the bloody war over for me. They transferred me to logistics when I got out of hospital.”
“To Honeybourne?”
“Eventually. The Americans took it over during the war but when they left they handed it back to us. Ministry of Supply runs it now, and we look after it for them. It’ll be bigger now than when you were there––a thousand huts over five hundred acres. Small town, really. They had shops, playing fields, everything.”
“And there’s an opportunity there?”
He laughed dryly. “Bloody right there is. Biggest opportunity I’ve ever seen in my life. When the Yanks went they left all their gear behind. All sorts––you can’t imagine it unless you see it: cars, jeeps, trucks, radios, medical supplies, refrigerators, washing machines. Then there’s gear that’s still on the ration: tinned food, fuel, bedding, towels. They even left half a dozen Sherman tanks. Two bloody Dakotas, for Christ’s sake. Dakotas! Everything’s brand spanking new. A fellow from the Ministry came down to try and put a value on it all. He took one look at the stores and gave up––there’s too much to inventory. But he reckoned it was worth hundreds of thousands.”
“And there’s no record of what’s there?”
“Nothing precise. I doubt even the Yanks know, but even if they did it wouldn’t matter––they’re gone, and they’re not interested in any of it. They wouldn’t care if we dropped it in the sea.”
“Is it guarded?”
“They’ve got chaps on the gate, like at any camp. You couldn’t just walk in off the street and help yourself.”
“But?
“But it’s lightly guarded and they’ve all been bought off. Between us, we’ve already disposed of a few lorry loads.”
“So why do you need us? Why not take it all yourself?”
“That’s the problem––we can manage small loads but that’s missing the opportunity. It’s scale. We don’t have the means to get enough of the stuff off the base and even if we did we wouldn’t have a clue how to sell it. We need someone who knows the black market. George Costello said––”
“Fine,” Joseph interrupted him. “What’s your plan?”
“It’s all worked out. I can get you onto the base, that’s easy, but it’s too risky to take the gear straight to a warehouse or to customers. If it got traced back to us we’d all be buggered. But a captain who used to work with me has just been transferred to an OS Depot at Barry. And we can write transfer orders to move anything we want. We load the gear up at Honeybourne, consign it to the Barry depot and then we move it where it needs to go. The chaps at Barry won’t miss it because they weren’t expecting it in the first place. My mate supervises the arrival and departure of the goods in Wales. And if they ever get trouble at Honeybourne, they’ll have the paperwork to show where the goods went. It’ll all look above board. We’ll just say that it must have gone missing there. Call it bureaucratic mismanagement––Christ knows there’s enough of that going on. By the time the Ministry tracks the goods to Wales, the trail will have gone cold. It’s foolproof.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“There are four of us. The lieutenant colonel, me, my mate and a lieutenant. “
“The C.O.’s involved?”
“It’s his idea.”
They sat in silence. Edward could tell at once that the scheme had enormous potential but he knew better than to say anything. Better to let Butler think they were hesitant. Joseph had evidently reached the same conclusion and sat silently. He almost looked bored.
“What do you say?” Butler asked anxiously.
Joseph spoke speculatively. “Let’s say for the sake of this discussion that we could be interested. What do you expect to get out of it?”
“To pay off what I owe and then a share of the profits.”
“What kind of share?”
“Half.”
“Don’t be daft, mate. We’re doing all the work.”
“You can’t do it without me.”
“No, but you owe my uncle a small bloody fortune and he’s been generous with you so far. I wouldn’t recommend trying to drive too hard a bargain. Being greedy won’t end well for you.”
“Forty per cent.”
Joseph shook his head firmly. “More like twenty.”
“Twenty? Christ, man––that’s ridiculous.”
Joseph got up. “Come on, Edward,” he said. “We’re finished here.”
“Thirty.”
“Good night, Major. Enjoy the races.”
“Damn it all,” he spluttered. “Alright. Twenty. Twenty.”
“Good. My uncle will be pleased.”
He spluttered something about daylight robbery and Edward noticed, for the first time, that Butler’s hands were trembling. He saw Edward looking at them and slid them beneath the table. “So what do we do next?” he said, aiming for brusqueness but coming up short.
“We’ll come and have a look.”
“When?”
“No time like the present. How’s tomorrow?”
“Fine.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
They bid him farewell and made their way back to the table for a drink.
“What do you think?” Edward said. “Sounds good?”
“I’ll say,” Joseph grinned. “I think this sounds very bloody good indeed.”
38
EDWARD DECIDED TO treat himself to a meal out. Joseph
was going out to see Eve and so it would have to be alone, but, he thought, that suited him best. He enjoyed his own company and it would be an opportunity to assess how far he had travelled in achieving his objectives. He went home and shaved, changed his suit for an understated grey pinstripe that he matched with a white shirt and black tie and brown brogues. There were plenty of new establishments opening up all around Soho but he was in the mood for something with a little more history and class. He had enjoyed Claridges when he and Joseph had taken Chiara and Eve but the foolishness that had followed that night––despite the nimble extrication that he had orchestrated––had soured the memory a little. If he was going to fix a trip there in his memory, it would have to be one without blemish. He would return, just by himself, and do things properly. It would be a pure experience, as it should have been before.
The maitre d’ recognised him and showed him to an excellent table in the corner of the restaurant. He sat and ordered a gin and tonic, looking around, enjoying the almost palpable sense of tradition and the ambience. These were normal people; people of a particular class, certainly, but people who led normal lives. Bankers and salesmen and their wives and lovers. Most would never have been stolen from and most would never steal. Most would never have experienced physical violence, or the raw, visceral thrill of a robbery. They would live out their lives, one day after the other with the predictability of a fine, Swiss watch. All as regular as clockwork: home, the train, the office, the train, home. All the money in the world was no compensation for a life like that. Edward would have the money but he would not sacrifice the joy in his life to get it.
He was lost in a dreamy reverie when he became aware of a man standing next to the table, looking down at him.
He looked up. The man was medium height and medium build, salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of wire-framed glasses that made him look ascetic and studious. He was reasonably well dressed although not, Edward concluded with a note of satisfaction, anywhere nearly as well as him. He recognised him from somewhere, too, although he couldn’t place where.
“Good evening, Edward. Do you mind if I call you Edward?”
He was a little wrong-footed. “Do I know you?”
“We met.”
“We did?
“The boxing––your friend Billy Stavropoulos was fighting.”
Edward recalled him and their brief encounter at the bout in Bethnal Green. “Kipps? We laid a bet together?”
“I’m afraid I was a little duplicitous. My name isn’t Kipps.”
“No? Then what is it?”
“It’s detective inspector Murphy.”
Edward felt his own face pass from the friendly smile that was always ready and available to a frowning wariness that was one step removed from panic. “I see.”
“But call me Charlie, please.”
“I think I’d rather call you detective inspector, if that’s alright.”
“Really? That’d be a shame. I’d like us to be friends, Edward. The kind of friends that can dispense with formality.”
“I don’t think so, detective inspector.”
He smiled and shrugged. “Whatever you prefer.”
Edward worked on recovering his composure. He sipped his gin, the ice cubes bumping against his top lip. The policeman regarded him sharply, his cold eyes articulate with intelligence. Policeman, individually, did not tend to concern Edward. They were typically dull and stupid, unthinking automatons who followed protocol without question. This man did not seem to fit the pattern and Edward was suddenly quite sure that he was on dangerous ground. He had no idea what Murphy was doing here. He had no idea what he knew and what he didn’t know.
“I’m guessing this isn’t a coincidence,” he said, a gentle gambit that he hoped might have him tip his hand a little.
“I don’t believe in coincidences in my business, Edward.”
“And what is your business?”
“Closing down the black market.”
He set the glass down on the table. “How could I possibly help you with that?”
He pointed at the empty chair opposite him. “Do you mind?”
“It’s a free country.”
Murphy sat down. He took out a box of Senior Service and handed it to him. Edward tapped out a cigarette and lit up. He sucked down on it greedily, feeling the nicotine hit his lungs, exhaled and gazed through the fuzzy smoke at Murphy.
“You’re a mysterious one, Edward, I don’t mind admitting it. Let me tell you what I know about you––and don’t worry about stepping in and correcting me if I’ve got any of this wrong. Alright?” He put his cigarette to his lips and took a long drag. “We know you enlisted in 1938. We know you had two tours in Burma and that you have an enviable record: cited for valour six times and then you top that with the Victoria Cross. A bona fide, gold-plated war hero. Very impressive. You’re given your demob papers in 1945, you land at Portsmouth and then it’s up to London where you can’t seem to find employment. You sign on at the Labour Exchange. The next thing we know, you’re turning up with the most notorious mob in London.”
Edward said nothing. He felt a prickly sensation running down between his shoulder blades.
“Not what I would expect from a man with your record. You’re observed in Little Italy, in Soho and at Lennie Master’s funeral. We’re reasonably confident that you were the other man when Joseph was arrested on suspicion of burglary, and that makes us think that you were responsible for straightening out the witness. We know you’ve been to their place in the Cotswolds and we think you’ve been stepping out with Chiara Costello. How am I doing so far?”
“Please––this is fascinating. Go on.”
“You seem to have found your way right to the heart of the family. The problem I have, Edward, is that none of what you’ve being doing fits with what we know about you from before. I like to have as much information on the men I’m looking into as I can. I’ve had detectives going through the records with a fine-tooth comb: we’ve checked the Criminal Records Office at Scotland Yard, and Edward Fabian has never been in trouble––you’ve never so much as stolen a bon-bon from a sweetshop. You studied medicine at Cambridge. You did well and when we asked them your tutors seemed to think you’ll have a fine career as a doctor. Your parents are both dead, but they were both respectable members of the community––Rotary Club, Women’s Institute, et cetera. Getting yourself involved with the Costellos is about as far from what you’d expect for a man like you as it’s possible to get.”
Edward tapped the dead cigarette into the ashtray, trying to hide his nervousness. The knowledge that the police had been looking into his background made him tense. He had no idea that Edward Fabian’s parents were dead. That was a lucky break; what if they had been alive? What if the police spoke to friends that they might track down? They would tell them that they hadn’t seen him since the start of the Blitz, and that would have raised more questions than he would have been able to answer.
“I’m really nothing special, inspector,” he said off-handedly. “I doubt there’s very much to find. Give me another, would you?” Murphy offered the packet and Edward tapped a cigarette out. He put it to his lips and allowed Murphy to light it for him. “The attention is all very flattering but I don’t see how any of it is relevant and I’m afraid I am rather hungry.”
Murphy grinned. “Not relevant?”
The waiter paused at the table and Edward held his tongue. The man smiled at them both with an attitude of perfect servility. “Will you be dining with us tonight, sir?”
“No,” Edward said before Murphy could answer. “My friend is just leaving.”
“Very good, sir.”
Edward waited until the waiter moved away and then said, “No, it’s not relevant. None of what you are saying makes any sense. I met Joseph Costello while I was in Burma. We saw action together and we became good friends––but that’s as far as it goes. Really, inspector, I’d like to eat and none of this has anything to do with me. It
’s a flight of fantasy, at best, and outright harassment at worst. I don’t see any way that I can help you. I mean, do I look like the kind of chump you’d normally be chasing?”
“You mean men like Joseph?”
“If you like.”
“You’ve got the money and the clothes. But apart from that? No. You’re not like him at all.”
“Right.”
“But criminals come in all shapes and sizes.” He screwed his cigarette into the ashtray and stared at him, his eyes steeled and humourless. “You might not see it now but I’m trying to do you a good turn. This might be the only chance you get to save your neck. I don’t know who you are but I do know that a man like you has no place with the Costellos. I can understand some of it: you come home from the fighting and everything seems tame by comparison. The excitement in your life has suddenly been taken away. You don’t have any money, either, and the idea of getting involved in something illicit has a certain charm. Really, Edward, it’s not an original reaction. You’re not the first serviceman I’ve met who’s felt that way.”
Edward fixed him in a cold, magisterial gaze. “Did you serve, detective?”
“No. The police was a reserved––”
“Yes,” he interrupted impatiently, “a reserved occupation, I know. As far as I’m concerned, that’s just one step removed from wearing a white feather. Very convenient if you don’t want to do your duty. If you want me to take you seriously it would be better if you didn’t presume to talk about something of which you have no knowledge. I find that offensive.”
