by Mark Dawson
In turn, the conversation turned to the murder of four of Jack Spot’s soldiers: Frank “Hock” Gusenberg, his brother Peter “Goosy” Gusenberg, Reinhardt Schwimmer and Richie Moran. The men had been gunned down in cold blood by anonymous hitmen. The bloody executions were seen as a reprisal to the shooting of Lennie Masters and Tommy Falco, and had driven Spot out of the West End. It had led to the reinvigoration of the family’s fortunes. No-one knew whether Edward Fabian was involved, but no-one doubted the effect that he was having. Violet was relying on Edward’s counsel and everyone agreed that the results had been remarkable. The family had been at a low ebb, its influence diminishing. It had seemed as if its twenty year rule at the head of the underworld was at an end. But no-one thought that now.
* * *
VIOLET COSTELLO sat down next to him with a wide, friendly smile.
“Aunt,” Chiara said.
“Darling. Having a good day?”
“It’s wonderful. Thank you.”
She shooed away her gratitude with a wave of her hand. “Now, then, my dear––would you mind if I bent your husband’s ear for a moment?”
“No––”
“Just me and Edward, if you don’t mind? Your sisters are at the bar––I’m sure they’d like to speak to you.”
She frowned but quickly mastered it. She leant over and kissed Edward on the lips.
Violet squeezed her hand. “Thank you, darling.”
“Don’t be long with him.”
She left them alone.
Violet allowed a passing waiter to hand her a flute of champagne. She took one for Edward and, too, and handed it to him.
“Cheers,” she said.
“Your very good health.”
They touched glasses.
She placed the flute down on the table and stroked a finger around the rim. “You got what you wanted,” she said.
“As did you.”
“Yes,” she said. “Don’t think I’m not grateful for your help, Edward. I am grateful. Things would have been different without you––I’m not too proud to admit that. But let’s not pretend about any of this, alright? I know what you are. You have plenty of similarities with Spot. You were not all that different, not when it comes down to it. You’re ambitious. Greedy. You want to take the things this family has for yourself.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Violet.”
“Edward, please. You’re not talking to Joseph. A little respect.”
He sipped his drink and, without looking at her, replied in a low voice: “So why did you give me and Chiara your blessing, then?”
“The lesser of two evils, I suppose.”
“What?”
“Call it a marriage of convenience. You can help us––you have helped us––I’m not denying that.”
“You don’t think I’ll look after her?”
“I don’t really care what you do.”
It felt like the ground beneath him was slipping a little. “Why are you talking like this?”
She stared at him. Her eyes were crystal clear, as blue with cold as they had been when he had met her for the first time. “Because I want there to be no misunderstandings between us, Edward. This family’s legacy is the most important thing in the world to me. When I’m gone, I want to be sure that the family name will continue. My father worked too hard for too long to fritter it all away. I know that Joseph will never be able to take that responsibility for himself. He’s too simple––not cunning enough. The same can be said for my brother. My nieces are either disinterested or incapable and, at the end of the day, they are women––and I know better than anyone how difficult it is for a woman to make a mark in this world. So it is difficult to see how any of my brother’s children could manage all of this without help. I suspect you arrived at the same conclusions yourself.”
Edward did not answer.
“You, on the other hand are cunning and ruthless. You don’t have scruples. But remember this: you’ll always be an outsider. You might have married Chiara but you will never be family. Not real family. Not blood.”
He flushed. “Let’s see what Joseph and Chiara think about that.”
She waved that aside and took another sip from her glass. “That doesn’t really matter.” She smiled thinly at him and, again, he was put in mind of a predator addressing its prey. “There’s one other thing you should know. I had a letter from Victor last week. He’s coming home. Next month, or the month after that. He is everything my brother was, and more. He’s better than Joseph––you won’t be able to pull the wool over his eyes quite so easily. He’ll see you for precisely what you are. A parasite. A leech. And we won’t need you then. You will be of no further use. And Victor will brush you off.”
* * *
THE GUESTS SPREAD out beneath the huge marquee, some dancing on the wooden platform that had been set out as the dance-floor, others sitting at long tables piled high with food and gallon jugs of wine. The bride sat in her beautiful dress at the raised top table with both of her sisters––her maids of honour––together with her other bridesmaids. The band finished the first half of their set and broke for refreshments. A young Italian tailor from the Hill picked up a discarded violin, wedged it awkwardly beneath his chin, and began to sing a Sicilian love song. Edward walked around the perimeter of the tent, trying to forget the conversation with Violet. He managed to smile warmly at those guests who caught his eye, a few of the men reaching back from their tables to shake his hand. Joseph was sitting with Eve, his hand resting on her knee beneath the table. Jimmy was in conversation with an older woman Edward did not recognise, a smile playing on his lips. Violet, Chiara and her sisters were talking animatedly.
Edward found his way to the entrance of the tent. It was a beautiful evening, shafts of golden sunlight falling on the freshly cut lawns that rolled down to the lake. He allowed himself to daydream. He imagined their honeymoon, landing in Sicily, the first time he had returned there since the accident that had seemingly doomed him to a life without the status he cherished. He thought about the burning sun, the startlingly blue sea, the sluggishness in the air. He thought about the woman in the harbour, the furious argument after she had confronted him and then, eventually, his hands pressing down on her shoulders until her thrashing and kicking became spasmodic and, finally, stopped.
A foul memory he would try and forget.
It meant nothing now.
He turned and looked back at Halewell Close, the imposing spires rising above the ridge of the marquee. It was a marvellous place and it was such a shame that it had been allowed to fall into decrepitude. The Costellos did not really appreciate it. It was just another bauble to own for them. Edward saw it for what it was, respected all the history that it must have seen, and valued it.
Damn Violet.
Damn Victor.
Damn them both.
He would have the house, in due course, and when he did, he would look after it properly.
He caught himself. For a moment, it felt as if it were something that he must have imagined. Was it all real? Had he really done it? Perhaps he was still in the jungle; a fever dream, sweating under canvas somewhere.
He walked away from the tent, down the sloping lawns to the boathouse.
He smelt the aromas emanating from the cook tent, felt the moisture on the breeze coming off the lake.
He wasn’t imagining it. It was true. He had done it. He would have the house, and one in France, and one in Italy. He would keep his London apartment. He would have cars, all the newest models, and a new suit whenever he felt like one. He would have everything that he wanted. Everything that he deserved. He ran his fingers along the splintered balustrade that guarded the drop to the water below and thought back to the night he had stood with Joseph on the same spot, and agreed to rob a house with him. It was less than a year ago although it seemed longer than that. He looked into the gently rolling waves, stirred by the breeze, and thought of Billy Stavropoulos. There had been a week
of bad dreams in the immediate aftermath of that night on the sea. Billy would appear at the foot of his bed, dripping wet, with seaweed festooned over his head and across his shoulders, limpets stuck to his face. He would stand over Edward’s sleeping body, staring down at him, his eyes a filmy white as salt water puddled around his feet. Sometimes, when the dream was at its worse, Billy would be joined by a second figure. A woman, barnacles on her fingers like rings. Occasionally, every now and again, Jack Spot would loom behind her, a bloody hole cratering the middle of his face. Edward would stir with a sudden start, sweating, wondering for that first instant of wakefulness what was real and what was the dream. After the first week, the nightmare passed. He rarely had it now.
He turned back to face the marquee. The evening sun was low; he had to shield his eyes and yet it was still getting cold. He allowed himself a final moment of peacefulness before he made his way back up the lawn and into the tent.
He was intercepted before he was halfway there.
“Jack Stern?”
His stomach plunged.
“Excuse me––Mr. Stern?”
He turned.
A man was coming towards him.
He was solidly-built, in his mid-forties, and carried a leather briefcase. He had salt-and-pepper coloured hair, cut very short on the sides, and a solid jaw covered with just a little too much flesh, like the rest of him. His face was the very picture of inscrutability. One couldn’t tell a thing from that face, Edward thought. Whoever he was, he was a professional.
“I’m sorry?” he said. “Do I know you?”
“My name is Arthur MacCauley,” he said. “I’m a private detective.”
“A private detective?”
“My client has engaged me to try and find the man in this photograph.” He reached into his briefcase and took out a newspaper. He held it up: it was the article that Henry Drake had written with Edward’s picture next to it. “This is you, isn’t it?”
“Yes. That was almost a year ago.”
“Yes, I know. It only just came to my attention. How about this?”
Edward looked at the photograph that the man held up. It was of a young man, in his early twenties, his hair cut fashionably short, his skin fresh and clear. He was well dressed in a dinner jacket, a white shirt and a black bow-tie. He was next to another man, similarly dressed, his arm around his shoulders. Both of them were smiling broadly, staring right into the camera. It was him. He could remember where the picture had been taken.
Cannes.
Eight years ago.
A world away.
Another lifetime.
“No, that’s not me.”
“Please, Mr. Stern. Really?”
“I’m sorry,” he protested, “but it isn’t.”
He lowered his voice a little. “Let’s not make a scene, Jack. Alright? What do you say? I know today’s your wedding.”
“That’s right––it is my wedding. And you’re trespassing, sir. If you don’t leave I’m afraid I’m going to have to call the police.”
He smiled at him. Completely unthreatened. “You want to do that?”
Edward almost turned away from the man, ready to leave him there on the lawn, but he stopped and, in that second, he anticipated his defeat and the consequences of it. Exposure. Disgrace. Scandal. He changed his mind. No, he thought. He wasn’t finished. He could carry this off, just as he had carried everything off before. The show wasn’t over yet. He fabricated a sigh. “Jesus Christ. But at least let me smoke a cigarette first?”
“And then we go back to London.”
He reached into the pocket where his cigarettes were and felt the sharp point of the letter opener. He turned and pointed down the lawns to the lake and the boathouse. “It’s quieter down there. We can talk about whatever you want.”
“After you,” MacCauley said.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark Dawson is the author of the breakout John Milton and Soho Noir series. He makes his online home at www.markjdawson.com. You can connect with Mark on Twitter at @pbackwriter, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/markdawsonauthor and you should totally send him an email at [email protected] if the mood strikes you.
ALSO BY MARK DAWSON
The Art of Falling Apart
Subpoena Colada
In the Soho Noir Series
Gaslight
The Black Mile
The Imposter
In the John Milton Series
One Thousand Yards
The Cleaner
Saint Death
The Driver
Ghosts
You can buy these books in the USA and in the UK.
COPYRIGHT
A BLACK DOG PUBLISHING ebook.
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Black Dog
Ebook first published in 2014 by Black Dog
This ebook published in 2014 by Black Dog
Copyright © Mark Dawson 2014
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
The moral right of Mark Dawson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Table of Contents
THE BLACK MILE PART ONE “BLACKOUT” — June 1940 — CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
PART TWO “HE’S COMING” — September 1940 — CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
PART THREE “BLACK SATURDAY” — September & November 1940— CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
/> CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
PART FOUR “DIRTY PICTURES” — January 1941 — CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
EPILOGUE — May 1941 — CHAPTER 69
GASLIGHT 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
THE IMPOSTER PROLOGUE
PART ONE 1
PART TWO 2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
PART THREE 11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
