Текст книги "The Imposter"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

31

JOSEPH ARRANGED FOR FLOWERS to be delivered to the restaurant every day, huge bouquets that Eve couldn’t possibly manage to take home with her. With every fresh delivery came a card inviting her to dinner, yet she turned down each invitation. Joseph spoke to Edward and between them they diagnosed the reason for her reluctance. It wasn’t a lack of interest, they ascertained, just that she was a traditional girl and her sense of propriety needed to be assuaged. The two of them had been younger when they had first courted and the time and distance since then meant that the prospect of a second romance carried with it the possibility of longer term consequences. Edward ventured that she wanted to do things properly and made the suggestion that he and Chiara could offer to accompany them to dinner. He had been correct and that made all the difference for Eve. The prospect of a chaperone gave her licence her to accede to the request and she duly did.

The night was set for the following Friday. Edward spent an hour preparing himself, shaving and brilliantining his hair until it was neatly slicked. He hadn’t seen Chiara for a couple of days and he wanted to make a good impression. He dressed in a new suit that he had purchased earlier that day, matching it with an icy white shirt and a narrow black tie. He was polishing his shoes when Joseph emerged from his room.

“What do you think?” Joseph said.

Edward thought he looked like a prince, and told him so. His suit was sharp and his shoes were from Belgrave. The genuine Vicuna-hair overcoat over his arm cost sixteen guineas. He was wearing a tie-pin that they had seen in a Mayfair shop-window. It was set with a large pearl as big as his little fingernail, shaped like an onion, that looked like it had been blown out of a tiny bubble-pipe. The ticket had said thirty-five pounds and twelve shillings. He had put a brick through the window and had away with it.

It was a gloomy night, the fog thick and damp. Edward drove them into the East End to collect Eve from the small house she rented with a friend. She was waiting behind the door and opened it before Joseph could knock. As she carefully slid into the back of the car, Edward noticed the curtains flicking back and the face of another girl, framed in the gaslight, staring out with a mixture of anxiety and jealousy.

“Where’s your sister?” she said to Joseph, a little alarmed.

“Don’t worry,” Joseph told her.

“You said–”

“You’ll still have your virtue. She’s meeting us at the restaurant.”

They arrived at Claridges at a little after eight. The restaurant was full, with the first seating of diners coming to the end of their meals and their replacements enjoying aperitifs at the bar. Chiara was waiting for them. She kissed Edward and then her brother on the cheek.

“Goodness me,” she said. “Look at the two of you.”

There was a single empty table and it had been reserved for them. They took their seats and Edward relaxed, looking around the room at the tables full of contented diners. He turned to smile at Chiara. He noticed that her eyes were rimmed with red. And did she look a little pensive?

“Are you alright, Chiara?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been crying.”

“I’m probably worrying about nothing but–”

“Worrying about what?”

“Oh, it’s Roger. The silly old dog. He’s missing.”

“How do you mean?” Joseph said.

“Exactly that. It was bright yesterday afternoon so I let him out–he loves to lie in the sun. I watched him trot out to the lawn and settle down and thought nothing else of it. I was distracted, I can’t even remember what about, but then I realised I hadn’t heard him bark to come back in. I went outside to look. This was six by then, maybe even seven. I looked through the grounds but I couldn’t find him anywhere. I went straight across to Mr. Austin–you know how he chases his birds sometimes–but he hadn’t seen him. I got back home at ten and he still wasn’t there. And I couldn’t find him this morning, either.”

Joseph was ordering a bottle of Médoc from the waiter. “He’ll turn up,” he said when he was done.

“But what if he doesn’t? He’s an old boy now. He never stays outside on his own any more. What if something has happened to him? Maybe he was hit by a car?”

She started to cry. Eve looked worried and confused. Joseph–who could foresee the end of the evening if urgent steps were not made to rescue it–looked pleadingly across the table at Edward.

He took her hand. “It’s alright,” he said soothingly. “He doesn’t strike me as the kind of dog who’d go far. Is that right?”

“No–he never does.”

“Exactly. And so maybe he’s been shut into a shed or a barn. If you ask me, he’ll be home when you get back. And if he isn’t, I’ll drive straight down to you and we can have a proper look around. How’s that?”

“Would you?”

He smiled at her. “Of course I would.”

She squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Edward. I know it’s silly but that dog’s been with me since I was a little girl. I’ve always doted on him a little, haven’t I, Joseph?”

“You certainly have,” Joseph said, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t tease me,” she said, managing a smile of her own.

Not wishing to miss the improvement in her mood, Joseph quickly seized his moment, filled their glasses and raised his. “Cheers,” he toasted. “To good friends. Let’s have a splendid night.”

* * *

A LIGHT FALL of rain had slicked the streets as they emerged outside. The fog had lifted and the clouds had moved away. A clear, open sky spread out overhead. Edward was lightly drunk. It had been a delightful evening. Joseph had been in riotous good form, dominating the table with stories from his childhood, from the war, about the host of characters he knew from The Hill. Chiara had painted the detail inside the lines of her brother’s broad strokes. They spoke about some of the characters from their childhood, friends of their father: Angelo Ginicoli, Pasquale Papa, a bookmaker called Silvio Massardo whom they called ‘shonk’ on account of the size of his nose. Joseph recounted a story of how Harry and George were trapped one night in the Fratellanza Club in Clerkenwell, and were saved from being shot by the manager’s daughter, a poor girl who was in love with Harry.

Edward was content to sit and listen, enjoying the stories, his friend’s high spirits and Chiara’s furtive glances in his direction.

The foursome made their way to Piccadilly Circus, the reflections from the advertisements stretching out across the wet pavements in long, neon stripes. A coster offered chrysanthemums at sixpence a punch and Joseph bought five shilling’s worth–practically an armful–and gave them all to Eve. She stammered out her thanks but Joseph didn’t allow her the chance to finish. He pulled her in close so that the blooms were flattened between their bodies and kissed her on the mouth, the two of them framed for a moment in the light that slanted from the window of a Cypriot café.

Chiara slipped her hand inside Edward’s and gave it a squeeze.

“Who wants another drink?” Joseph said.

Eve looked torn, keen to accede yet reluctant at the same time. The hesitation won out. “No, I’d better not,” she said. “I’m working tomorrow.”

“Then take the day off,” he said. “I’ll pay you what you would have earned.”

“No, that’s alright–it’s getting late, I’m tired and my friend will be expecting me. And I’d be letting the restaurant down, and that’s not fair. Do you mind awfully?”

“What’s the matter with you?” Joseph scowled, irritation flickering darkly. “It’s been a nice evening. Why would you want to spoil it?”

Eve could see the change in his tone, the stirring of his anger. Perhaps she remembered it from when they were younger? Chiara noticed it, too. “Leave her alone, Joseph,” she said. “I’m tired as well, it’s past midnight. Do you mind, Edward?”

“No, of course not.”

Chiara took Eve’s hand. “We can share a cab. Look–here’s one now.” She flagged the driver and he swung in to park alongside them.

Joseph had no time to react. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” Eve said. “Perhaps we could do something together another time?” She added, quietly, but not so quiet that Edward could not hear her, “Just us?”

Joseph was caught between thwarted desire and anticipation. Edward knew that he was not used to being defied, especially when it came to women. Chiara had said as much: he always got his own way. Yet Eve was special and frustrating him just made him even more determined to get what he wanted. “Of course,” he said, banishing his scowl with a gorgeous smile as easily as flicking a switch. “We’ll go for dinner. Me and you. That sounds lovely. Alright?”

Eve smiled in response, relieved that she had not, after all, offended him.

They bid them farewell and got into the cab. Edward and Joseph watched until it had turned the corner.

Joseph shook his head. “What was that all about, Doc?”

Edward clapped him on the back. “She’s shy.”

“She never used to be.”

“She’s older now. Perhaps it means more.”

“That was what you and my sister were there to sort out.”

“You’re going to have to be patient.”

“Not one of my strengths.” He sighed but then, just as quickly, perked up. “Women! I need a proper drink. You aren’t going to turn me down, are you?”

“Certainly not,” Edward said. “Lead on.”

32

CHARLIE MURPHY tailed the taxi all the way across London. He could hardly believe what he had seen in Piccadilly Circus. He had followed Edward and Joseph to the restaurant but he hadn’t noticed the two girls until they all emerged together at the end of the night. He recognised Chiara Costello. She and Fabian had been together several times recently and it seemed likely–if a little improbable–that they were stepping out together.

It was the sight of the other girl that had knocked him for six.

He had had to check and double check and even then it had taken him a little while to be sure that it was Eve. He hadn’t seen her for five years. She had been fifteen, then, and now she had grown into a beautiful young woman. The coltish innocence of youth had been replaced by a knowingness that he found difficult to match with his memories of her but there was no question about it.

He was sure.

It was definitely her.

Five years. As he followed the taxi into the East End he thought of the effect that her sudden disappearance had had on his brother. Poor Frank. It had almost destroyed him. It had been at the same time as the murders in the West End and he had been convinced that she had been one of poor doxies who ended up as victims. His single-minded obsession with the case had been driven by his fear. They had cleared that case up and still there had been no sign of her and so he had kept searching. He left the police soon afterwards and set up as a private investigator so that he would have more time to look and less protocol to observe. He had continued the search for five long years but he had found nothing. Frank was not a man prone to speaking about his feelings–and the brothers were not close–but Charlie had spoken to Frank’s wife and she had told him how it had torn him apart. Their marriage had failed, he had turned to the bottle and the loss was still tormenting him, even today.

And now this. Charlie thought about it, peering through the smeared rain on his windscreen at the taillights of the taxi in front. He had found her. Here she was, fresh from dinner with Joseph Costello, the presumptive heir of London’s most notorious criminal family.

He already knew what he was going to do.

The taxi turned into the Old Ford Road and stopped beside a terrace halfway down. Charlie pulled over too and switched off the engine and the lights. The taxi’s door opened and Eve got out, pausing to say something to Chiara Costello before closing it, waving as the cab set off again. She turned and disappeared into one of the houses.

Charlie got out of the car and followed her to the door.

He knocked.

Eve was still in her overcoat.

Her mouth dropped open.

“Eve,” Charlie said.

“Oh, God.”

“Can I come in?”

She thought about that, her mouth opening and closing, and, for a moment, Charlie wondered if she was about to shut the door on him.

“Uncle–”

“I think we’d better talk, don’t you?”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“I’m not going away, Eve.”

She stepped aside and he entered the hallway. It was a simple two-up, two-down. The door ahead of him led to the kitchen. A flight of stairs ascended to the first floor where, he guessed, he would find two bedrooms. The toilet was probably in the yard. She led the way through the door to the left. It was a sitting room: neat and tidy, a table and two chairs and a reasonable sofa arranged in front of the wireless. A bookshelf full of books. A few feminine trinkets here and there: a vase of daffodils on the table; a crocheted blanket folded neatly over the arm of the chair. He trailed his finger over the mantelpiece: no dust. These were the signs of a house-proud occupier. Charlie wondered whether she lived here on her own.

She sat quietly in the armchair, her legs pressed together and her hands clasped tightly on her knees. There was no colour in her face. She seemed unable to speak.

“Eve,” he said gently. “Where have you been?”

“Manchester.”

“For all this time?”

“Until last Christmas. I was working as a waitress. Then I came back.”

“Your father–”

“Please,” she said, the mere mention of him seeming to unblock dammed emotions. The entreaty was freighted with desperation. “Please, Uncle Charlie. I don’t want to see him.”

“He’s your father, Eve. You know what this has done to him?”

She looked down at her hands. “I–”

“Eve?”

She looked up, her eyes suddenly fierce with life. “I don’t care. I don’t want to talk to him. You mustn’t tell him you’ve seen me.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate him.”

“You don’t hate him.”

“No, I do.”

He sighed. “How can I not tell him? He’s my brother.”

“Because I’m an adult now. It’s my choice whether I see him or not. And I’m asking you to respect that.”

He crossed to the bookshelf and ran his finger along the spines of a series of penny-dreadfuls. He knew he had to proceed with a delicate touch if he was going to nudge the situation the way he wanted. “Why did you run away?”

“I was seeing a boy. He told me I couldn’t.”

“Are you seeing him again now?”

She regarded him suspiciously. “How did you find me?”

“Is it Joseph Costello?”

She looked at him with undisguised panic. “How did you know?”

“You were with him tonight.”

“You were following me?”

“No–I was following him.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a criminal.”

“He’s a rogue. That doesn’t make him a bad person.”

Charlie shook his head. The girl was blinded by emotion. He sat down and took out his cigarettes.

“Give me one of those,” she said.

Look at her, all grown up. He shook two out of the packet and handed one over. There was a matchbook on the mantelpiece; she struck a match and lit hers. Charlie lit his own with his lighter.

“You and Joseph. You better tell me what happened.”

“Originally? I was young, it was a little bit foolish, but I still loved him. Father and I argued about it. On and on and on. He told me I couldn’t see him but how was that fair? I was fifteen years old. Almost a woman. Fifteen is old enough to make your own decisions. He had no right to tell me what to do, where I could go, who I could and couldn’t see, and so I ignored him. He found out I’d defied him and we had another row, a big one. He was drunk and he slapped me. He told me I had to do what he told me while I was under his roof and so I decided I wouldn’t be under his roof any more.”

“And then?”

“I had a friend in Wigan. She used to work down here. I told her what had happened and she said I could go up and stay with her for as long as I wanted. I thought maybe I’d go for a week or two and then contact Joseph. We’d spoken about running away together. I didn’t see him before I went and when I tried to get in contact with him again he had enlisted. Burma! It broke my heart. There wasn’t any point in moving back to London without him and so I tried to make a life for myself up there.”

“Why did you come back?”

“My friend died last year. The cancer. It was different, then–I didn’t know anyone else, I was lonely and I missed the city. So I moved back again and got a job waiting on tables. Joseph came into the restaurant just after I started. I could hardly believe it. It’s like we were never away from each other. I can’t tell you how happy I am.”

“You know why your father objects to him, don’t you?”

“Yes, and he’s wrong. Joseph’s a good man. He treats me well. He loves me and I love him. That’s all that matters.”

“How long has it been going on?”

“A few weeks.”

Charlie paused. He needed to work through the angles.

“Please, Uncle Charlie. Please, you mustn’t say. He’ll ruin everything.”

Charlie paused again. He could see it clearly; it really was a simple choice. On the one hand, he could tell Frank and end five years’ of misery at a stroke. That would be the right thing to do, the fraternal thing, but then Charlie had never been constrained by morality and he rarely saw his brother, anyway. The alternative was to treat this as divine providence, a means to access the Costello family’s affairs. He thought of the difficulty of the investigation so far, the blind alleys and stalled leads, the barely coded warning from the Deputy Assistant Commissioner: bring the black market to heel or we’ll take the job away from you and give it to someone else who can. The end of his gilded reputation. It would be as good as dismissal.

And, if he needed further justification, that was a simple enough thing. Was an end to Frank’s misery worth more than the public good of bringing dangerous spivs like Joseph Costello and the rest of his family to heel?

Charlie didn’t think that it was.

Frank wouldn’t understand it like that but, then, he wouldn’t know.

He knew what he had to do. He crossed the room, crouched by the armchair and laid his hand atop hers. “You know what you’re asking me to do, don’t you? Your father is a broken man. Any brother with a heart would tell him that you had come back.”

“Please don’t–I’m begging you, Uncle.”

“If I didn’t tell him, you’d have to promise to help me.”

She looked at him with pitiful eagerness. “Anything. What do you want?”

“I want information.”

33

IT WAS VERY LATE, or, rather, it was very early. Edward and Joseph had ended up in a Costello establishment, a spieler in one of the back doubles near Holborn. A motley collection of gamblers were ranged around a bare wooden table: a couple of faces from the Costello organisation, local businessmen with too much money and too little sense. The talk was of Jack Spot and Lennie Masters, and of what the Costellos would do about it. One of the participants noticed Joseph and the conversation stalled, an awkward silence falling upon the room until a fresh subject was proposed. Edward knew what they had been debating: they had been questioning the lack of response, perhaps even doubting that there would be one. Violet and George had continued to ignore his advice, which, while foolish, need not have been calamitous. Striking back hard and fast was the alternative, but they seemed unable to do that, either. Edward had heard speculation that the Costello soldiers were afraid of Spot’s brawny gypsies and their reputation for shocking violence.

Days had passed and still they had done nothing. They had left it too long. Doubt had been allowed to fester and grow and Edward knew that the infection would metastasise and spread. Morale would be the first casualty. Cracks would start to appear. Questions would be asked, and, eventually, they would not be quashed by the appearance of a Costello in a bar. Hard-won unity would fracture and the family’s strength would dissipate. Spot would absorb the remnants or destroy them.

Joseph did not see what Edward saw. He banged his empty glass on the bar. “Another one,” he announced.

“What are you going to have?”

“Rum,” he said with conviction. “At this hour of the morning, rum is the best thing. Rum for you?”

“Whatever you like. Anything.”

“Two rums.” The barman poured. “Doubles, man, doubles,” Joseph exhorted, and the man poured again.

Joseph took out his wallet and opened it. Normally, it would have been stuffed with banknotes. It was empty.

Edward opened his own wallet. It, too, was empty.

“On the house,” the barman said.

Edward put his wallet away. “How did that happen?”

“Bloody women,” Joseph chuckled. “Cost you an arm and a leg and you don’t get nothing to show for it.”

They settled back with their drinks, sipping them as they watched the action on the table. Joseph had told Edward to watch one of the faces, a wiry brawler called Mumbles on account of a pronounced lisp. He had a deft touch when it came to fiddling the hands. His opponents were tired and had imbibed too freely on the booze, and none of them noticed the aces that had a habit of appearing in his hands. He pulled the trick for the third time, corralled the others’ banknotes and dragged them across the table.

“See here,” Joseph started, nodding at Mumbles’ pile of cash. “I could do with a little walking around money myself. What do you say we make a withdrawal?”

“Where were you thinking?”

“What time is it?”

“A little after four.”

“There’s a house in Chelsea, this businessman owns it–he got rich in the war. Munitions. He’s not there at the moment. It’s empty.”

“Where do you get all this from?”

He tapped the side of his nose and grinned. “Lot of nice stuff there, apparently–some very nice silver. It was going to be the next one I suggested, but I don’t see why we can’t just do it now, the two of us. What do you say?”

Edward’s natural caution had been replaced by drunken bravado. “Why not,” he said.

Outside, it was growing light. They were drunk, but not foolish enough to use Joseph’s Snipe. They found an MG Y-Type parked on Glasshouse Street. It was a medium saloon, beautifully finished with plenty of leather and wood in the interior. Edward knew the model, and knew that the 1,250cc engine beneath the bonnet packed quite a punch. The drag was more ostentatious than he would normally have liked but he was in drunken high spirits and it seemed perfectly natural to want something fast and swanky. While Edward kept watch, Joseph kicked in the driver’s side window, reached in and unlocked the door. Edward got in next to him as he fumbled underneath the dash. The engine started and they pulled out and away.

“That Eve,” he said as they drove away. “She’s a right cracker, ain’t she?”

“Give it a rest–it’s Eve this, Eve that, all bloody night.”

Joseph laughed. “But she is, ain’t she? She was lovely when I was with her before, but she’s grown up bloody lovely, hasn’t she?”

“She certainly has.”

“Can’t believe my luck. I’ve got you to thank. If it wasn’t for your birthday party, I’d never have met her again.”

They drove across town. Men in wide hats and thigh boots were washing the streets. Bums on the benches in Trafalgar Square shivered in the cold wind that blew up Whitehall, waiting for the parks to open. In the all-night cafés waiters nipped their cigarettes and swept the floors, their nocturnal trade gradually being replaced by men on their way to work. They reached Chelsea and Joseph parked on a grand residential street. Big houses lined both sides of the road. There was a milk float further down the road, but it was two hundred yards away and the dairyman would never be able to see them from there.

They didn’t need to say a word. The routine was second nature by now.

They got out and went down the steps at the front of the house to the basement entrance. Joseph addressed the door, and kicked hard at the spot next to the handle. The door crunched, but held. Joseph kicked it again. It still held.

The shriek of a whistle pierced the early morning quiet.

Edward spun around and climbed the steps: two policemen were sprinting towards them.

“Shit,” he cursed. “Joseph, police. Come on!”

They clambered up the steps and threw themselves into the car. Joseph fishtailed it as he stamped on the accelerator. The engine backfired loudly. Ahead of them, the dray horse was spooked by the sudden explosion of noise and pulled against its harness, yanking the milk float across the road until it was parallel to the oncoming traffic, blocking the way ahead. “Bugger!” Joseph cursed, stamping on the brake. The MG was already travelling too fast and they skidded twenty feet until their progress was finally arrested as the car smashed into the side of the float. Edward’s head bounced off the veneer panel as bottles rained down on the windscreen with a cacophonous shattering, gallons of spilt milk covering the glass until it was impossible to see out. Joseph swore again and tried to put the car into reverse.

There was an horrendous metallic screeching.

“Come on, you bitch!”

It was futile: the axle of the float was jammed into one of the wheel arches and it was impossible to separate. The MG was going nowhere.

“It’s jammed!” Edward’s nose had mashed into the dashboard and blood was running freely. He swung around and looked through the rear window: the woodentops were blowing their whistles for all they were worth. They would be there in seconds. “Run for it!”

Edward sprinted but Joseph could not keep pace. Edward stopped and turned back. He was limping badly. He must have injured his leg in the crash. He was trying to run, a pathetic hop and skip, pain written across his face. Edward paused. He could get away but to do so he would have to abandon Joseph, and how would that look? He paused, caught between two competing urges: the desire for self-preservation and the need to remain in Joseph’s good graces.

“Dammit!” Joseph spat.

The policemen were two hundred yards away.

Edward ran back to him. “Come on,” he urged. “I’ll help.” He took his elbow and started to drag him along.

“My leg–I’ve done something to it. It’s hopeless.”

“Come on!”

“No, Doc, go on. Clear off. No sense us both getting nicked, is there?”

The woodentops were almost on them. Edward started to edge backwards.

“I’ll sort it out,” Edward said.

Joseph shoved him. “Get going. It’ll be fine.”

Edward turned and ran. The bobbies shouted out for him to stop but he ignored them. He crossed the road at full pelt and reached the junction. He turned to see Joseph shoved to the pavement, both woodentops on top of him, one with his knee in his back and the other yanking his wrists up towards his shoulder-blades. His face was angled towards Edward and, through the grimace of pain, he thought for a moment that he caught a wink.