Текст книги "The Imposter"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

34

EDWARD TOOK THE UNDERGROUND and emerged at Embankment. By the time he had reached Victoria Gardens he was as confident as he could be that he was safe. He went across the road, past the fruit-hawkers, and into the park. Not many people were sitting on the benches at that time of the morning and he sat down, joining the anonymous and the dispossessed: the old man feeding sparrows; the woman with a brown-paper parcel marked Swan & Edgar’s; the down-and-out blowing a tuneless ditty on a penny whistle. He sat among them with his head bent, staring at his shoes, shivering in cold sweat and trying to regain his breath. He stayed there for ten minutes, watching the grey cumulus passing over the south bank, the eddying throng of people accumulating around the entrance to the underground station. The gulls flew low over the barges and the shot-tower stood black in the cold light among blitzed and ruined warehouses. He thought about what had happened. Their long string of successes had inured him to the prospect of failure, and what that meant, but the consequences were real now.

Joseph had been caught and he had barely escaped. And, if he had been caught, everything would surely have been unravelled. Burglary would be the least of his concerns.

No, he chided himself. No. You’re too smart. Clever and resourceful. You can get out of this, and you can get Joseph out of it, too. He told himself to calm down, and, eventually, he did. He stayed there until the man who had fed the sparrows had gone and then, his confidence returning, he retraced his steps, passed the fruit-sellers and went back down into the Underground.

He caught a train towards Holborn, emerged into the sunlight and walked the short distance to the Hill. Billy Stavropoulos still lived with his mother in a two-up, two-down on one of the better streets in the area, but it was still a stone’s throw from The Rookery and far from pleasant. He walked down the terrace to number seventeen and rapped on the door.

A raddled woman from whose face dried paint and powder were falling in little flakes opened it. “Yes?” she said, uncovering teeth like mildewed fragments of cheese.

“Is Billy here?”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “No-one called Billy here.”

“Please.” Edward put his foot between the door and the jamb before she could close it. “I’m not the police.”

“No? Who are you, then?”

“I’m a friend. It’s about Joseph Costello. It’s important.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You sure? Our Billy hasn’t been up to no good again?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. I just need to see him.”

She turned, leaving the door open. Edward followed her inside.

“Wait in there.”

He followed her instructions, went through into the sitting room and sat on the dusty, unsprung sofa. A goods train rattled and gasped out of a nearby junction and in the distance an engine blew its whistle three times, deliberately. From the street outside came a sudden concert of horns, angry drivers setting off a lugubrious honking that put him in mind of geese. A man shouted. A motorcycle screeched to a stop, its engine turning over impatiently. Edward took the moment’s peace to run over what he meant to do.

He knew perfectly well how he would fix the mess.

Billy stood in the door, a cigarette in his mouth. “What do you want?”

“Hello, Billy.”

“What is it?”

“Joseph’s in trouble.”

“What kind?”

“Police. He’s been nicked.”

Billy shut the door quietly. “Alright–just keep it down, don’t want the old dear to overhear. She’ll just worry. What happened?”

“We were out last night. We both had a bit too much to drink. There’s a place Joseph’s had his eye on, we thought it’d be a good idea to do it over.”

“Without me?”

“We were drunk. And you weren’t there.”

“I know I wasn’t.”

“Well, you couldn’t very well–”

“So?”

“You would still have had your cut.”

“Too bloody right I would.” His hostility fizzed and spat.

Edward didn’t have the energy to argue with him. “We were spotted. We crashed the car getting away. Joseph hurt his leg and he couldn’t run. They’ve caught him.”

“But not you. You made it off?”

“There was no point both of us getting caught, was there?”

Billy considered the situation.

“What you doing here, then?”

“I need your help.”

“Why me? Why not Jack or Tommy?”

“I don’t know where they live.” The answer was brutal, and any thought Billy might have had that he was suddenly more important was quickly snuffed out. “Look, stop sulking. Are you going to help or not?”

“What do you want me to do?”

35

THE OXFORD EXPRESS DAIRIES operated from premises at 26 Frith Street, Soho. It had been there for more than sixty years, and, during that time, the Welsh had become the cow keepers and dairy suppliers of West London. The business was owned by the Pugh Family, who originally hailed from the county of Cardiganshire. Milk was delivered before dawn every morning on the milk train that collected its freight from farmers on the West Coast of Wales. The milk was excellent, and business was brisk.

Arthur Pugh, oldest of the Pugh boys and presumptive heir to his father’s business, cracked the reins and the big dray horse jerked forwards. The dray was loaded with milk bottles, metal cream pitchers and little packets of butter wrapped in greaseproof paper. Larger blocks, forty pounds’ worth, were destined for the local restaurant trade. A large blue and white glazed milk crock had been screwed to the front of the dray. It said PURE MILK, and OXFORD EXPRESS DAIRIES, and had been attached there for the purposes of marketing. The bottles were slotted into wooden crates and they rattled loudly as the dray trundled across the cobbles. It was a touch after six and Arthur was just beginning his rounds.

Edward Fabian watched him from the shelter of a parked car.

Pugh was turning onto Old Compton Street when he noticed Edward and Billy idling by the side of the road. Edward knew he would think nothing of them. The streets were always quiet at this time of the day but, even so, it was not unusual to see the odd reveller from the night before still aboard. There were plenty of places where you could enjoy an all-night drink if your face was right and you had money in your pocket. Edward watched as Pugh touched the crop to the dray’s flanks and the big horse continued on.

The first stop was at Kettners: the daily delivery of milk and butter. Pugh pulled back on the reins until the horse stopped, then slid down from his seat to the pavement.

Edward grabbed him roughly by the lapels and shoved him hard against the side of the dray. Billy moved in and pressed the edge of the knife he was holding against his throat. Pugh swallowed hard, the bristles above his Adam’s apple catching against the blade.

“We’re only going to say this once,” Edward said, his voice low and even and full of menace. “You saw something yesterday–two chaps being chased by the police. Have you spoken to the police yet?”

“Yes.”

“What did they want?”

“Would I recognise them if I saw them again?”

“And?”

“I said I would.”

“No,” Edward said, slamming him against the wall. “Try again. And?”

“I won’t,” Pugh said, panicking a little. “I don’t.”

“They’re going to ask you to give evidence at a trial, and they’ll ask you to identify the man in the dock, but you won’t be able to do it. You’ll say you’ve never seen him before. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“And you won’t mention this to the police, will you?”

“No.”

“Because if you do, you’ll have a visit from us again. We know where you work. We know where you live. We know about your wife and your daughter. Everything. If you want to make sure nothing happens to your family, or your business, that’s all you have to do–you never saw him before. Alright?”

“Yes, yes.”

Billy took the knife away and Edward released him. He slumped forward, his knees clashing against the kerb. His head drooped beneath his shoulders and he vomited, his breakfast coming up in chunks. He spat the phlegm from his mouth and turned his head to watch the two men walking briskly away.

36

THE NEON BULBS OF THE ALHAMBRA flickered on and off as they hissed and fizzed in the rain. Red and green light slashed against the damp pavement and low, angry peals of thunder rumbled across the rooftops and through the streets. Clubland’s punters scurried from doorway to doorway, umbrellas aloft and hats clasped to heads. It was a Friday evening and, despite the weather, Soho was filled with a humming energy. Drunks reeled across the road, tarts touted for trade and transacted their business in alleyways, couples embraced in doorways, groups of young men hooted and hollered. Edward stopped the cab on Dean Street and paid the driver with a pound note. He opened the door and he hurried beneath the awning of the club.

Billy, Jack, Tommy and Joseph were already at the bar.

“Alright, Doc,” Joseph said with a huge grin.

“About time,” Billy said.

Joseph clipped him on the top of the head. “Shut it, Billy.”

Edward took off his dripping coat. “Sorry I’m late. There was some business I had to attend to.”

He had been to see Jimmy. He had given his uncle twenty pounds, more than enough to buy supplies for the next week. He had been making the same payment every Friday for the last two months. The old man had prepared a meal for them both and they had eaten it in silence while the staff prepared the restaurant for the evening service. Edward had felt a moment of warm satisfaction. He knew that, without him, the restaurant would have closed and his uncle would have been on the street. The knowledge that he was able to help him and his father was the icing on the cake. He was having such fun, and there were such great possibilities, but it was a small practical consequence like that that made it really worthwhile.

He draped his coat on the back of his chair and took off his hat. Joseph had five whiskys lined up on the bar before him and he passed one across.

“Alright then,” Tommy said expansively. “We’ve got some drinking to do.” He held up his glass. “Here’s to putting one over on Old Bill.”

“To milkmen with dodgy memories.”

“To friends,” Joseph added, smiling broadly at Edward as they touched glasses.

They drank and ordered again.

“Two weeks in Pentonville,” Jack said, shaking his head. “What a bloody pain in the arse.”

“How was it?” Tommy asked. “I’ve never been locked up before.”

“Bloody horrible, but that’s all done with now. I ain’t going back there again in a hurry, that’s for sure.”

They all toasted the sentiment and drank.

He turned to Edward. “You spoke to the milkman, didn’t you? Straightened him out?”

“Me and Billy.”

“I appreciate it, lads.”

“Don’t be daft. You would’ve done the same for us.”

“Well, it worked. And you’ve made an impression on my aunt and uncle.”

“Really?”

“They want to see both of us.”

“What for?” Edward said.

“Think they’ve got a bit of business for us.”

“And me?” Billy asked with abject hopefulness.

“Just me and Doc for now.”

Billy’s face clouded angrily. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“If there’s work to be had, you don’t need to worry–we’ll split it between us, like always.”

“That’s not fair,” Billy said.

“Relax. You’ll be involved.”

Billy didn’t look as if he was ready to relax. He smouldered at the snub.

Edward had to suppress his wide grin.

He had been noticed.

Here was a chance to move up.

“When?” he asked.

“Tonight, actually. They’re in the back. Shall we?”

“What about these drinks we’re supposed to be having?” Tommy said.

“We won’t be long. Order another round. We’ll catch up when we get back.”

* * *

THE CLUB WAS BUSY: the house band was playing on the small stage at the far end of the room, a crowd of dancing couples swaying across the dancefloor, clubbers gathering around the tables and in the secluded booths that were set around the edge. There was a wall of noise and damp warmth, the smell of alcohol, perfume and pomade. Joseph nodded towards the back and shouldered his way through the heaving crowd. Edward followed him through a door, guarded by a huge man in a dinner jacket, and then up a flight of stairs to another, smaller room on the first floor.

Edward was nervous at the prospect of meeting George and Violet Costello. He had gleaned enough to know that Georgie the Bull was not the sort of fellow that you wanted to cross and Violet, too, was a daunting prospect. The thought of meeting the two of them together was enough to set his nerves on edge. They were at a table in the corner of the room. George looked at home in clubland but his sister was not so easily associated with it. Her expensive wardrobe and air of supercilious disdain suggested other locales: the opera, or tea at the Ritz. Edward suspected that she enjoyed the misapprehension. She had the air of someone who liked to prove people wrong.

Joseph led the way across the room, leant down and kissed his aunt on the cheek. Her hair had been freshly styled, luxuriously bouffant. She offered Edward her hand and he took it. He looked to George but he ignored them, leaning back in the chair and languidly extending his legs. A whiff of cigar smoke wafted across to them. There were two spare chairs on either side of them. Joseph took the one next to George and Edward lowered himself into the one next to Violet. He regarded the two of them. They certainly made for an uncanny couple: Violet was tiny, almost doll-like in her delicacy; George loomed over them all like a Gollum, heavy with muscle and his brows lowered in a seemingly perpetual frown.

“Boys,” Violet began. “Do you want a drink?”

“I’ll take a whisky,” Edward said. Joseph concurred.

The barman delivered two whiskys. Edward took his and sipped, prolonging it. Violet was watching him carefully. “I understand you helped Joseph with his recent situation?

“I had a word with a witness.”

“You must have been very persuasive.”

“I suppose I was.”

“I’m grateful,” she said.

Edward’s hand was trembling a little: a mixture of excitement undercut by nerves. Violet held her up her vodka and the others reciprocated. He put the glass to his lips and sipped. The liquid burned his throat.

“Now then, Edward,” Violet began. “I want you to know that we appreciated your advice with our friend Mr. Spot. I know that might not have been obvious at the time, but we did. You might also be wondering why we haven’t done anything yet. You may rest assured that we will. It’s simply a matter of picking the right moment.”

“I understand,” Edward said. It sounded awfully like an excuse to him but there was no profit for him in pushing the point any further. He had made his point.

“You must be wondering why we want to speak to you?”

“I am.”

“Something has come up. A piece of business. It’s an interesting proposition and will require significant effort. It’s also–potentially–extremely lucrative. It is something the two of you are very well qualified for. You were a corporal in the Army, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Edward said.

“And your decoration will stand you in good stead, too.”

“I don’t understand. How can I help?”

Violet regarded him over the lip of her glass. He was being appraised. “What I’m about to tell you must stay between us,” she said, her affability now backed by a warning that didn’t have to be said.

“Of course,” he said.

“A man has come to our attention. An Army man who works for the government now–a bureaucrat, in the civil service. He comes into one of our spielers now and again. He’s a serious betting man, and he has a problem with it. The cards haven’t fallen for him recently and he’s ended up owing the family a large amount of money. George has had a chat with him.” She said that in such a way which left Edward in no doubt as to what she meant: a room out the back, a razor blade held against the throat, a hammer held over splayed fingers. “He says he can’t pay but he’s been persuaded that he needs to sort out his obligations. He’s made a proposal to do that. Business. I’d like you and Joseph to look into it.”

“Why me?”

“You have the background and Joseph says you have the brains for it. You showed initiative in helping Joseph out of his recent situation, too. I like that. It shows initiative. I’d like you both to be involved.”

“What do we have to do?”

Violet had finished her vodka. She fitted a cigarette into a holder and allowed George to light it for her. “You’ll need to meet him.”

37

EDWARD SPENT THE DRIVE INTO THE EAST END wondering how far he could go with the Costellos. Life had been monotonous after demobilisation and now it was thrilling, a series of hair-raising exploits that he found irresistibly addictive. It was about the exhilaration as they sped away from another ransacked house, the excitement that shivered between them in the car, the sheer, undiluted, ineluctable thrill. It was about money. He was being brought closer to the heart of the family. He had proved his mettle with the robberies and then straightening out the milkman and now he was on the way towards being trusted. He had been given an opportunity. He thought of George and Violet, of their money and power, and he wanted all of that for himself. There were other ways to get it, for sure–other scams and tricks–but those would have to be started from scratch and, he knew, none could ever be as promising as this.

Walthamstow was a large track with two large silver-coloured corrugated-iron stands flanking it. Two further banked kops were at either end where you could stand for a penny. The track thronged with people, queues snaking this way and that, and flat-fare taxis formed a single, unbroken, black line. Racegoers made for the wide entrance gates: some ran, the first race due off in ten minutes, desperate punters scrambling before the odds on their favourites shortened. A brass band played at the entrance to the course, drums and trumpets, all the old standards reprised, the crowd joining in. A preacher called for repentance through a loud-speaker. Hawkers sold programmes and form guides. The murmur of excitement grew as dogs paraded before the eight-thirty.

“This place,” Joseph said, gesturing around. “It reminds me of being at the horses when I was a boy. I remember it like yesterday. They gave me a bucket of water and a sponge. My dad sent me to rub the odds off the boards of the bookies who wouldn’t pay up. My dad and my uncle were like kings. Men tipped their hats to them, no-one wanted to offend them. Everyone knew their reputation–it was enough to guarantee they got what they wanted. A bloke wouldn’t play ball and you’d overturn his stall, scare his punters away. That was usually enough.”

They passed alongside the track. The overhanging floodlights, glaring down on the track, made the grass unnaturally green, the white paint of the starting traps unnaturally white. A long line of bookies called out for bets and advertised odds like fairground barkers. Tic-tac men fluttered their hands, passing messages around the course. “Marshall Plan, ten to one, ten to one for Marshall Plan.” Losing tickets lay scattered around, trampled underfoot. Teenagers stood on wooden stools and paid out money. Men jostled for space, elbowing each other in their haste to give away their cash, notes held out in proffered fists. The bugle went and the kennel men shoved their dogs into the traps. The lights in the stands went out, the grass still more brilliant under the floodlights. The hare rumbled around the circuit, rounded the corner, the traps flew up, the dogs exploded away in a blur of colour. They sped by, feet thudding like drumbeats on the dry ground, cheers rising from the half-crown enclosure, forming a tight pack as the commentator called the race over the course’s loud-speakers, the pitch of the crowd winding up as they turned onto the final straight, cheers mixed with groans as the favourite was overhauled, a long-odds chancer winning by a nose.

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.”