Текст книги "The Imposter"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

29

WHEN EDWARD SET OFF AT SEVEN O’CLOCK the sun was climbing into a powder blue sky. He arranged to borrow Joseph’s Humber Super Snipe and as he settled himself behind the wheel he couldn’t help but appreciate what a fine motor it was. It was the drophead coupé version and, since the morning was pleasant, he lowered and stowed the canopy. The breeze was pleasantly warm and Edward couldn’t stifle the smile as he drove west. The roads were quiet and he was able to put his foot down. He allowed his attention to drift. New billboards bore witness to the flourishing shoots of economic life: Guinness is Good For You, Keep That Schoolgirl Complexion, Try a Worthington. He drove quickly, darting out to overtake slower moving traffic. As he headed further west he passed through slumbering commuter towns, new bungalows springing up on their outskirts like crops of mushrooms.

A gardener’s van was parked outside the entrance to Halewell Close, the man painting the gates. He doffed his cap to Edward as he turned off the road and onto the drive. Edward returned the gesture, rattling across the cattle grid and accelerating away. The house appeared as he crested the final hill and he found himself thinking with something like wistfulness of the poor neglected property, quietly sliding into decay. A place like that needed an owner who would cherish it, who would lavish the kind of attention on it that it deserved, and he could not help but think that the Costellos had allowed it to go to seed.

He pulled up and a large black dog trotted from the porte cochère and started to sniff around the car. Chiara followed after it. “Good morning,” she called.

Edward stepped out of the car and kissed her on the cheek. She was wearing a simple cotton frock and a pair of leather sandals. The dog ambled over and sniffed his proffered hand. It was an old Labrador, black with grey tufts on its chin. “Who’s this fine fellow?” he asked.

“This is Roger,” she said. “My old dog. He’d like to come with us on our walk. Is that alright?”

“Of course,” he said.

“How was your drive?”

“Lovely. Your brother has a very fine motor.”

“He loves it,” she said, dismissing the car with a flick of her wrist. “Shall we set off straight away?”

“Where are we going?”

“This way,” she said, linking her arm through his.

They made their way through the gardens to the north of the house. There was a wide lawn, then a copse of fir and ash, and then a wild meadow that stretched away over gently undulating hills. There was a rough path trodden into the grass at the edge of the meadow and they followed it, brambles on one side and the open space of the field on the other. The landscape was open for several miles, fringed in the distance by a thick wood. Edward became aware of the treacly weight and torpor of the air. The last few days had heralded the start of an Indian summer, unseasonably hot for October. From across the fields, dulled by heat and distance, there came the grind and crunch of farm machinery, and calling voices.

They walked in companionable silence for half a mile. Roger trotted alongside them, occasionally picking up his pace to scout ahead. He would disappear around a corner and then wait for them, his tongue draping from his wet muzzle.

“How much do you know about the girl Joseph met at the restaurant?” he asked. “Do you know her?”

“I don’t know her at all. I believe they were seeing each other before he was conscripted.”

“Joseph said they were sweet on each.”

She laughed happily. “That poor girl is going to be completely bombarded. My brother can be very single-minded when he thinks he wants something–women especially. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he really goes after this one. He’s very keen. It won’t matter if she’s cool on him. He won’t accept no for an answer. He’ll try and try and try until she gives in.”

“What a coincidence, to see her again after all that time!”

She shook her head. “He won’t see it that way. It will be ‘providence.’ You know how superstitious he is?”

“Is he really?”

“My goodness, yes! It’s all nonsense, of course, but he doesn’t see it like that. You know he’s religious, for example?”

“Religion?” he said as they crossed a stile. “Joseph?”

“Oh yes. Catholic. Well–most of the family are, one way or another. Violet is especially keen, but it’s only because she thinks it’s the right thing for an Italian family to do. Appearances, you know, same as always. Joseph went through a period when he was younger when he was mad about it. It’s not so bad since he came back again. I suppose the things that you see and do in war are enough to make anyone doubt that sort of thing.”

“Or embrace it more,” Edward suggested. “You’d be surprised.”

“Well, quite.”

She turned her head, as Roger let out two or three sharp yelps. While they had been talking he had been nosing his way through the hedge at the side of the field, but now there was an agitated flapping on the other side of the hedge and he disappeared into a gap in the brambles.

“He’s going after a bird,” Chiara said. “These used to be our birds once; they’re Mr. Austin’s now, after we sold the fields and the woods to him. He won’t like it if Roger gets hold of a partridge. Roger! Come back! Come here, you idiot dog!”

The dog returned, his head dipped bashfully, his prey uncaught, and they walked on. Edward found that he had relaxed completely into Chiara’s company. She was nine years younger than him but there was a quiet, reserved wisdom about her that made her seem older. Her serenity was contagious. Edward typically felt a buzz of nervous anticipation when he was with other people, a constant background stress that derived, he knew, from the need to remember the all lies that he had told or would tell, the continual effort of recalling the correct lie for the appropriate person. He did not feel that way with her. He almost felt as if he could be himself, or at least insofar as that could ever be possible with anyone.

“Can I ask about your parents?” he said. “Joseph has never really spoken about them to me. I was wondering, since they weren’t at your party.”

She shook her head. “I suppose it’s not surprising. Father’s dead. It makes him upset–it’s upsetting for all of us, of course, but he takes it the worst. It happened while he was away.”

“Oh,” Edward said awkwardly. “I’m sorry.”

“No, really,” she said, reassuringly. “It’s quite alright.” They walked on a little as she worked out how to say what she wanted to say. “Father was killed two years ago. One of Hitler’s rockets fell on the house he was in. Rotten luck, really–it was one of the last ones they fired.”

“It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”

She dismissed his apology with a shake of the head. “It’s fine,” she said. “Father was with one of his mistresses at the time. It was her house that he was in. They both died. It was too much for my mother. She left us, not that I can really blame her. Father was a bad husband and she stayed with him longer than he had any right to expect. All the other women–he always had one on the go, more than one, usually. The business, he was always out, all hours of the day and night, we never knew where he was most of the time. He tried to keep it secret but mother was always too clever for him. She knew everything. But she never left–I think she got used to the idea that he would always have more than one woman and she accepted it. They argued–she hated that other people knew about what he was getting up to but she still loved him. She knew he’d always come home to her. And I suppose, if I’m being honest, my mother got used to a certain way of life living with my father. He was generous–jewellery, fancy meals, clothes.” She pointed towards the house, the chimneys of which had just appeared over the branches of a stand of nearby trees. “She loved it here, too. He knew he treated her badly, and the presents he bought for her were his way of saying sorry. They would have stayed together for ever.”

“Joseph’s said nothing to me about any of this.”

“He’s angry with her. He thinks she abandoned us. I don’t think he’s seen her since he got back. You mustn’t bring it up. He’ll be furious I mentioned it. Do you promise?”

“Yes, of course.”

They idled onwards. “He idolised father,” Chiara went on after a short pause. “It’s why he joined the army. He could easily have gotten out of it–all of his friends did. Look at Billy and Jack, faking medical conditions. Joseph was desperate for father’s approval. The attention was always on my other brothers when we were growing up. Has he mentioned them?”

“No.”

“Stan works for the family in Manchester, John is trying to go straight and Paulie is in prison.”

“For what?”

“Oh, assault.” She relayed this dismissively, as if reporting that he had a nice, safe office job. “They were the ones father thought would follow him into the family business. He groomed them for it–he had them on the races with him early on, they were both up to their necks in it right from the off. But he never wanted it for Joseph–he told my mother once he thought he was too sensitive. There’s some truth in that. Father wanted him to go to school, get an education and a proper career–something legitimate. It drove Joseph mad. I can remember the rows they had about it like they were yesterday–Joseph’s temper, when he gets going, my goodness, you don’t want to be around when he goes off.”

“Really?”

“Awful. Frightening, actually. Father was just the same. They were alike in lots of ways.” They followed the path into the copse of fir and ash that had grown up at the foot of the house’s long gardens. “Father fought in the Great War, got a medal, too, for bravery. Then this last one came around and Joseph said he was going to enlist. Father wouldn’t have it. He said he was throwing his life away. They had the biggest argument I can remember–father ended up hitting him and I thought Joseph was going to hit him back. It took Stan and John to keep them apart. After that, the first chance he got to sign up, he took it. You know he lied about his age?”

Edward said that he did not.

“He was sixteen when he went away. He’s always been a big lad, I’m not surprised he managed to fool them. He didn’t tell any of us about it. He just went.”

They walked on in silence, the house appearing as they passed through the last trees.

“And then when he got back father was dead. I can’t imagine how badly he must feel about it now–the last time they saw each other–the argument they had–and then to come back and the first thing you find out is that your father has died and you never had the chance to make it all up. It’s all horrible. This nonsense he’s got himself into now, with Billy and Jack, whatever it is they’re doing–it’s because of father.”

“Trying to prove him wrong.”

“Yes, indeed,” she nodded. “And trying too hard. His judgment… my brother is not an idiot, Edward, he’s cleverer than you’d think, I just think that in certain instances his judgment is wanting.” They crossed the scruffy ornamental lawn and stepped over the low hedge onto the gravel drive. “Well, here we are again.”

“That was very pleasant,” Edward said. “Thank you.”

She smiled, a broad and happy smile that showed her perfectly white teeth. It made Edward smile, too. “You must stay for lunch,” she insisted, her eyes glowing with an optimism that Edward thought made her look even more attractive. “I told the cook to prepare a picnic. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous of me? We could have it on the lawn?”

“That would be lovely,” he said, and he could see from her little smile that she had been hoping that he would say yes, that she had been looking forward to lunching with him.

Chiara fetched a picnic blanket from the house and went back inside to speak to the chef. Edward took the blanket and spread it out across the lawn. He sat down and stretched his legs. He was satisfied with himself. The morning had been a complete success. He felt that he had gathered important information about the family and that he had brought himself into Chiara’s confidence. That pleased Edward most of all. He knew how useful it would be to have her as an ally. It would be another source of information and, if he developed their relationship with the right amount of care, then it would offer other ways of improving his influence within the family.

Yes, he thought. His satisfaction was justified for he really was making great progress. This talent of his was the only thing that he had ever been good at, but he knew that he was very good at it. He wanted to make himself part of the family and he knew now, for sure, that that was a realistic goal, if he kept working hard at it.

30

THEY ROBBED TWO HOUSES THE WEEK AFTER Edward’s visit to the country and both yielded an excellent return. Edward had invited Chiara to dinner in the city on the evening of the second job, booking a table for them at Rules in Covent Garden. He found himself relaxing more and more into her company. She was intelligent, witty and disarmingly honest about her family. She was also often indiscrete, especially when she had enjoyed a drink or two, and that made her an excellent source of information. He listened to her stories, prompting her in the direction that he wanted, and filed the details away. They would all prove useful, later.

This particular evening was no different. As they enjoyed a reasonable meal she told him more about her father and uncle. George Costello was born in 1889 and his brother, Harry, five years later. The boys’ father had been a respectable watchmaker from Piedmont. The old man had emigrated to England several years previously. There was a market for his talent and, once he had settled, he sent for the rest of his family. The two boys had quickly taken to Little Italy’s natural vocation–crime–and had proven to be very good at it. Petty theft turned to burglary and extortion and, despite their father’s best efforts to rein them in, they started to make money. Both brothers grew to be large and intimidating men, with George in particular marked by a cruel streak and a lack of conscience when it came to doling out pain. The two rapidly earned a reputation, frightening men twice their age into doing their bidding. The Great War provided a brief interregnum–Harry fought, George did not–but with the armistice came a renewed onslaught that saw them wage vicious battles across the racecourses of the south. Their opponents were the Brummagem Boys of Birmingham, a motley band of thugs and bullies infamous for their cruelty.

“My father became a bit of a local celebrity,” Chiara explained. “Him and George were both tearaways, but he had something extra about him. Some of the stories I heard when I was growing up–there was one time, I think it was just after the War, that everyone started on about him. They were in a pub on the Hill and they saw this chap, Thomas Benneworth–they called him the Trimmer because he was handy with his razor–they saw him bothering one of the barmaids. Benneworth was the leader of the Elephant Boys from the Elephant and Castle, a nasty type with a big reputation. This girl wouldn’t have anything to do with him and so he went around the bar and tore her dress off. Just tore it off. My father saw what happened, dragged him outside, beat him black and blue then took his own razor off him and slashed him across his backside–one, two, three, four–noughts and crosses, they called it, you couldn’t sit down for weeks afterwards. Anyway, after that, people wanted to work with him–the Elephant Gang ditched Benneworth and joined them, then there was a Jewish gang from the East End, plenty of others.”

The skirmishes with the Brummagem Boys became worse. A final confrontation was planned after the Derby, on the outskirts of Epsom. Harry Costello learnt of a plan to ambush them on the way back from the course. He filled their charabanc with stooges and alerted the police. The Birmingham gang set about the stooges, killing two men and injuring others. The police arrested everyone and, in the trials that followed, the leaders of the gang were imprisoned. The Costellos won out, the remnants of their rivals seen off to the Midland tracks that had always been their redoubt. The south was clear and ripe for the picking.

Harry led the family through prosperous times for the next twenty years. George had always deferred to his younger brother and was ill-equipped to take his place when he was killed. Rival factions within the family that Harry had glued together by the force of his will now sensed the opportunity to break away, and George, despite the threat entailed by his ominous physical presence, was unable to do anything to stem the losses. The racecourses were lost to a police crackdown and ex-allies who changed allegiance, the Alf White gang from King’s Cross especially. The in-fighting worsened. Two men were shot and killed and the police–no longer in Harry’s pocket–had to act.

As circumstances spun out of control, Violet took a more prominent role in the family’s affairs. Under her stewardship, their position was consolidated. The factions were brought into line. Chiara did not elaborate, but Edward was left in no doubt that violent retaliation had been the reward for their presumption. She began a programme of retrenchment. The racecourses might have been lost to them, but they consolidated with the lesser prize of the dogs. Other existing businesses–betting, extortion, spielers, drinking dens, robbery and blackmail–were continued, although times were not nearly as good. Chiara explained the extent of the Costello family empire dispassionately, without varnish or embarrassment. Edward listened intently. She related how business was not what it used to be. The loss of the income from the horses, so long the bedrock of the family finances, had been a crushing blow. The other activities could only go so far to paper over the cracks. The flow of money was stemmed, and Violet had to cut her cloth accordingly. Men were laid off, hired muscle no longer economic, but that meant that they were vulnerable to other gangs who were jostling for position. Tame policemen could no longer be bought off, and so men started to have their collars felt.

“Rationing has been the saving of us,” she suggested. The burgeoning black market had bought them a reprieve. As austerity continued, with rationing eventually cutting even deeper than during the war, a voracious appetite for goods had developed that the family was well-placed to exploit. They controlled or intimidated dozens of petty thieves, taxing their profits when they sold their booty to spivs like Ruby Ward and then taxing the spivs when they sold on to the public. The drones were making the real money but the family were able to cream a decent profit from the top. The glory days had gone, but there was enough business so that they could afford to retain a modicum of the lifestyle that they had enjoyed before. The prospect of having to sell Halewell Close–very real at one point–had receded, although they were short of the money to maintain it. They could keep it, but unless there was a significant change in their fortunes, Edward knew they would be just presiding over its slow, crumbling decline.

The evening drew to a pleasant conclusion. As Chiara’s cab pulled up to the kerb she put a hand on Edward’s elbow, moved in close and angled her face towards his. Edward leant down, and her lips found his. The kiss was brief but the cool confidence in her eyes flickered, just for a moment, occluded by a streak of passion. With her kiss still warm and moist on his lips, Edward watched as she waved to him from the back of the departing taxi. He looked up into the moonlit sky, and watched the silhouette of a couple as they embraced in the lit window of a third floor room. He was trying to decide if there was any way he might have improved on his courtship. He didn’t think so. He was controlling the pace, and Chiara’s expectations, with an expert touch. He turned and started the walk back towards Hyde Park. He began to plan the next steps. Things were going so well. He wondered whether he might even accelerate a little.