Текст книги "The Imposter"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

43

TOMMY FALCO ROLLED THE AUSTIN A40 to the kerb and killed the engine. Two in the morning and it was still busy out. Drunks, poofs and perverts: par for the course. Tommy gave it a swift East to West. Nothing out of the ordinary. He sat back in the seat and relaxed. The car was only a month old and still smelled new. It was the Sports model, a four seater coupé with the 1200cc engine. Joseph had promised him a new motor and he had been true to his word. His parents wouldn’t have believed it. Wouldn’t have approved of his line of work, but that didn’t matter now, both of them long since dead and gone. The wheels, the fancy clobber, the gelt. The old man would have choked: thirty years in the rag trade hadn’t got him the kind of dough Tommy was making now. The last thing he’d said to him before he died was that he needed to get a job, to get ink on his fingers, but the old bastard had been boracic when he went so what kind of example was that? Tommy looked in the mirror and stroked his pomaded hair. Wasn’t going to happen to him, no fear. Twenty-seven years old and he felt like a prince, driving a car worth more than his parents’ house. No doubt about it. He was on the up.

They had made another run with the trucks yesterday. They had stopped at Honeybourne and loaded up with silk parachutes, delivered them to Barry and returned with the refrigerators. Ruby Ward had nearly fallen off his chair when he had seen them. He had said they would be worth more than he had originally thought, the condition and quality of them, quite a bit more than he had thought. Joseph had promised him a tidy sum from the job in any event and now it looked like there was going to be more. Tommy wouldn’t complain at that, not at all.

He clicked off the headlights and opened the door. It was chilly out. He draped his coat over the Remington .12 bore, reached down for the bag, got out of the car and walked across the pavement to the club. REGAL BRIDGE AND BILLIARDS said the long vertical sign stretching between the second and third floors. That always made him chuckle. One battered old table, the baize ripped to buggery and the balls rolled up against one cushion because of the sloping floor. It hadn’t seen a game for donkey’s years. It was all just for show. The Regal was a spieler, the jewel in what was left of the Costello crown. George Costello ran it like a military operation together with the rest of the betting clubs, drinking dens and whorehouses they’d managed to keep since Jack Spot had been coming around.

Tommy knocked on the door.

No answer. He knocked again.

The peephole opened.

“What are you–deaf? It’s me, cloth ears. Open the bloody door.”

The bolts slid back.

“Alright, Tommy?” Alfredo DeNina said, opening the door.

“Everyone back?”

“Upstairs.”

“Any trouble?”

“They never said so.”

Tommy was relieved. The last few weeks had been difficult. The trouble with Spot was common knowledge on the street now, and so was the fact that George and Violet had sat on their hands and done nothing. He had been knocking off their businesses and they hadn’t lifted a finger. People were starting to think that they were soft touches. Reckoned that gave them licence to have a bit of a go. There’d been an example of that tonight: a bolshie barrow boy was into them for thirty quid, debts piled up at their faro tables. The bloke had asked for an extension, demanded it almost, and then got lippy when Tommy told him where to get off. There was nothing else for it: he pistol-whipped the mouthy bugger, knocked out a couple of teeth and put him to the floor, gave him a shoeing while he was at it. An example to the others. You couldn’t afford to show weakness. Give them an inch and they’d take a bloody mile. You had to be strong. One of the rules of the game. George Costello had taught him that himself. Tommy didn’t understand why he had stopped following his own advice.

He went inside, DeNina double-locking the door behind him. He took the stairs to the first floor. Four members of the Costello gang were drinking and smoking. They were the collectors. Their job was to fan out around the family’s interests and bring the takings back to be counted. George had put him on the strength at Chiara’s birthday party. Tommy had been well chuffed to be asked. It meant they were taking him seriously, that the reputation he’d been working on was starting to have the right effect. He wanted them to see him as trustworthy, reliable and hard, able to cut up rough when that was required. George had told him that he knew he was good for the job and that meant a lot.

The others were older. Bert Thomas was nursing a whisky sour. Eddie Bennett and Paulie Spano were at the table working on the cut-up, sorting a pile of money into neat stacks. George Taylor was peering between old black-out curtains into the street.

“Alright, Tommy,” he said, letting the curtains fall back into place.

He nodded. They were all tense and tired. The only things he could think about were a couple of whiskys and his bed. He dropped the bag of money at Bennett’s feet.

Eddie hefted it. “Full?”

He nodded. “Punters everywhere. Turning them away.”

Eddie gestured to the money on the table. “Same for everyone.”

Spano riffled a stack of notes. “Been a good week. Can’t remember a better one.”

Tommy undid his jacket and fixed himself a drink. He was all done in. He’d driven the Austin across north London all night, visiting the spielers and liquor dens. He’d had the Jimmies all the way, the old nerves on edge: keeping an eye out for Jack Spot’s lads, the bagful of cash under the seat and the shotgun across his lap. George Costello had warned them about the rumours that Spot was plotting something, and you couldn’t be too careful, not with that devious Jew.

He checked the time: half past two. He picked up the tumbler, the ice jangling against the glass, and drained it. He poured another double measure, shook a cigarette from a pack and lit up. No need to worry, he reminded himself. The club was locked tighter than a nun’s knickers. The street door was two-inches thick and Alfredo DeNina was behind it with a sawn-off and a machete like the stevedores at the docks used. The windows were two storeys up, impossible to reach without ladders. The fire escape was chained and bolted shut. The place was nigh-on impregnable. Tommy got up, twitched the curtain aside and looked down into Wardour Street. Nothing. He stood and watched. Nothing out of the ordinary. He a glass of whisky that he didn’t really want and went back to the window. He folded his hands across his chest. Ten minutes passed. He shook a cigarette from a pack and lit up. Georgie the Bull would be along soon enough to collect the takings.

Two men in overcoats walked to the outside door. He squinted down at them. Trilbys covered their faces.

One of the men knocked on the door.

Tommy cradled the shotgun.

“Who is it?” he called down.

The sound of a muffled conversation came from downstairs.

“It’s alright,” Alfredo shouted up. “Punters. Sent them away.”

A shotgun blast, loud, close range. Tommy spun around. Bert Thomas staggered towards him, half of his head gone. Tommy turned his head at the blow-back as he went down, spun the shotgun around and ducked. A puff of blue smoke from the stairs. DeNina pushed the curtain aside, ejected shells and reloaded. Damned turncoat! The sound of feet taking the stairs two at a time. DeNina aimed, fired again. George Taylor took one in the face, an arc of white bone and grey-green brain splattering the black-outs. Bastards! Tommy swung the shotgun around, triggered a spread. DeNina caught buckshot, staggered back against the wall, slid behind a table. Tommy dived for cover as two other men came up the stairs. He pressed himself behind a stack of chairs, recognised the thin one: Archie Eyebrows, Jack Spot’s first lieutenant.

Eddie Bennett got a shot off, missed, pellets perforating the black-out, smashing windows. Archie fired back and Bennett blew up, thrown backwards onto the billiard table. Balls rumbled across the floor. How many were there? Paulie Spano ran for the fire exit. He didn’t get far. A buckshot spread peppered him across the neck and shoulders. He slammed into the wall, not moving. Tommy popped up, fired again.

He wiped something warm from his cheek, pumped the shotgun and stayed low, scrambling for the fire exit. The only way out. He dived out, another shot rang out–shit shit shit–and pain lit him up, his knees buckling inside-out as he landed chin-first. He saw lights, reached out for a chair leg, yanked. A few inches. Reached for Paulie Spano’s ankle, yanked. Half a foot closer to a locked door, crawling through a stew of blood and brain.

A kick to the ribs, hard. A foot slid beneath his chest and flipped him up and over on his back.

Jack Spot stood over him in a vicuna coat and trilby, a smoking .12-guage pointing down at his face.

Tommy tried to shuffle away, got nothing but useless scuffles. He looked down: his right leg was wrecked, gone from the knee down.

“Evening, lad,” Spot said.

“My leg…”

“I warned your boss.”

The pain was unbelievable. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I told him–you Ice Creamers aren’t welcome around here no more. All of this is mine now.”

“How much do you want? The takings are over there–take it all.”

Spot laughed. “Don’t worry, lad. I’m going to.”

“Please.”

“It too late for please and thank you. Should’ve buggered off home when you had the chance.”

Tommy went for his .38 as Spot pulled the trigger. He took both barrels in the chest from twelve inches away. Spot slotted extra shells and finished him off, his patent leather loafers–bloody and gore-streaked–the last things that Tommy Falco ever saw.

PART FIVE

London

January – March 1946

CALENDAR

– 1946–

The Star, 25^th January:

GANG WARFARE IN SOHO

MAN DIES VIOLENTLY IN SUSPECTED FEUD

A murder investigation has begun after the bodies of four men were discovered in a property in Soho, W1. Thomas Falco, Albert Thomas, George Taylor, Edward Bennett and Paul Spano were found in the Regal Bridge and Billiards Club, a well-known gambling den, on Friday. While police were not prepared to be drawn on the motives for the mens’ deaths, this reporter has been informed that it is the latest in the escalating blood feud between rival gangs in London’s West End.

STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL

To: Commissioner

I.O: D.I. Charles Murphy

Submitted at request of: D.A.C. Clarke

Re: Gang Activity in Soho, W.1.

Sir,

You asked me to provide up-to-date information on the spate of killings in the West End. I can confirm the speculation in the press: these murders are certainly inspired by the increasing violence that has erupted between the Spot and Costello gangs. The recent victims were all Costello men, and it is a curiosity to both my men and myself as to why there have been no reprisals. Of course, we must assume that retaliation will be forthcoming and the delay makes it more likely that, when it does finally come, it will amount to a serious escalation.

Our investigations to date have concentrated on the Costello Family. While we have made some progress with that, it is not as fast as I would have liked. With that in mind, I am considering novel approaches to the enquiry. The methods I am considering might be considered radical, or perhaps even dangerous. I will, of course, keep you abreast with developments.

Sincerely,

D.I. C. Murphy

2^nd February 1946

44

THE COMMISSIONER’S OFFICE was the grandest in the whole of Scotland Yard: a large bookcase against one wall carried law reports and criminal treatises; a chandelier hung down from the high ceiling; a framed portrait of Lord Trenchard hung over the fireplace; wide windows offered a view of the Embankment and Waterloo Bridge. The Commissioner, Harold Scott, was behind his desk and Deputy Assistant Commissioner Stanley Clarke was sat in the armchair against the left wall. The atmosphere was tense, freighted with a dull foreboding that did not augur well. Charlie thought it felt like an inquest. He stepped forward, removed his hat and hung it, together with his coat, on the oak hatstand next to the door. The Commissioner invited him to sit and he did so.

Charlie had never been particularly impressed with Scott. The man was a civil servant. His background was in the Civil Defence Administration and something to do with aircraft production–nothing to do with policing or police. His face was long and sombre, marked by the deep lines that ran from his nose to the edges of his mouth, and he rarely smiled. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that made him look like an accountant. He did not suit his uniform.

“Good morning, detective inspector.”

“Morning, sir.”

“You know what this is about, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I believe I do–the murders in Soho.”

“Five men. A massacre would be a more appropriate way to describe it.”

“I think that’s fair.”

“Yes, inspector, quite fair. What can you tell me about it?”

“The five were all Costello men. It is a safe assumption, therefore, that the shooters were from the Spot Gang.”

“You’re just assuming?”

“They left no evidence and no witnesses, sir. I can’t offer any more certainty than that at the moment.”

“This isn’t good enough, inspector. It really isn’t. There was the murder in August, too, I believe.”

“That’s right. Leonard Masters.”

“We’ve got nowhere with that case, either?”

“We know it was Spot–”

“–then bloody well arrest him!”

“I could bring him in, sir, but it would be a waste of time. No-one will go on the record against him. We don’t have a case yet.”

“Do you understand the pressure this is putting me under, detective inspector? A massacre, right on our doorstep? This isn’t America, for God’s sake. It’s bloody London! And the black market, too.” He held up a report. “This is from the government. Home Office. They say the black market is totally out of control. Rampant, they say. Getting that sorted was the whole reason behind your investigation. You said you could do it and, yet, all I can conclude is that things are worse now than before you started.”

Charlie took a deep breath. “I understand your frustration, sir. It’s frustrating for us, too. These gangs are well organised and professional. They are held together by the promise of significant reward and the threat of violence. It might not look like it from your position”–from behind your comfortable desk, he felt like adding–“but we are making progress. We’re developing our understanding of how these groups are comprised and how they function. We are gathering intelligence. We’re probing for weaknesses, and for potential informants.”

“Do you have any?”

“Potentially.”

“‘Potentially?’ What does that mean, inspector?”

Charlie felt a flash of anger but he smothered it. “It means, sir, that we are developing two particular ways into the Costello family that could be very fruitful for us.”

“Details, man!”

He took a deep breath before he spoke again. “There’s an ex-soldier who’s working with them,” he said. “He doesn’t fit the usual type. I’ve spoken with him. Put the screws to him a little. There’s something that makes me think he could be a weakness for them.”

“And the other one?”

He thought of Eve. How could he mention her to them? His brother was not a policeman any longer but he was still a liked and respected man, well connected, and everyone knew about Eve’s disappearance during the war. Charlie knew that they were aware of his ruthlessness–he had to believe it was one of the reasons why he had been promoted so quickly–but withholding the information that his brother’s daughter was alive and well and, what was more, consorting with a known criminal in the hope that he could turn her into an informant? They would see that as a step too far, even for him? Frank would find out, they would clash again, Eve would be pulled back from the brink and he would lose one of the two levers he had worked so hard to find. No. That wouldn’t do at all.

“And,” he said, “The other one I’d rather keep to myself for the moment, sir.”

There was grumbling and shaking of heads but they did not press him.

“I’ll admit that progress is slow,” Charlie said, “slower than I would have liked, but I remain completely confident that I’m the best man for the job and that if given sufficient time I’ll deliver the results that you want.”

“Yes,” Scott said. “Time. That comes down to the nub of it.”

“We have to set a deadline on this, Charles,” Clarke offered from the side. “If you can’t present us with tangible progress–and by that we mean reliable arrests–then we’ve decided that we are going to have to close the investigation down and try something else.”

“I see, sir. How much longer do I have?”

“Three months,” Scott said. “Not a day longer.”

“Very well, sir. I understand.” Charlie stood. “Will there be anything else?”

Scott steepled his fingers and looked over them at Charlie, his eyes cold and blank. “Sit down, Murphy. I’m not finished yet.”

Charlie sat. He felt his heart hammering in his chest.

“The press is bad enough, detective inspector, but it’s more than that. The Minister was in here yesterday. Two hours. He was complaining that we’re not doing enough to get our house in order. And he can make ultimatums, too. He can assign blame. Just think about it for a minute: there are thousands of hard young men who have just returned home after fighting in the war. Many of these men have been unable to find work. After five or six years of service abroad, some of them might think that they have been abandoned by their government. Many of them will be tempted by the quick cash they might think they can make outside of the legitimate economy. Those men are not likely to be dissuaded from that course by a police force that is trumpeted as inept all the way across the national press. It was made very clear to me that something will be done unless we start to bring things under control.” He paused. “I know your reputation, Murphy. My predecessor and the deputy assistant commissioner here speak very highly about what you did during the war and, I’ll admit, your record is particularly impressive. But none of us can live on past glories. This is a results business and, to put it simply, you are not getting results. Your reputation and your career depend upon you doing your job and bringing these animals to justice. You understand me?”

“Yes sir,” Charlie said. “Perfectly well.”

“See that you do. Dismissed.”

45

EDWARD CROSSED PICCADILLY AT THE RITZ and headed west, then north, following Hyde Park up. They still had searchlights from the war hidden amongst copper-beeches and sycamores. St Johns was on Hyde Park Crescent. An empty hearse was already parked at the kerb. Edward parked behind it, checking his reflection in the hearse’s window before going around to the cemetery, a narrow space bounded by fir trees and box-cut hedges. Twenty-five men were gathered around the freshly dug grave. He slid through the throng until he was between Joseph and Jack. They each acknowledged him with a silent nod. They were dressed in black suits, white shirts and black ties, just as he was.

The atmosphere was palpable: sadness and anger in equal measure.

Tommy’s girlfriend stood alone on the other side of the grave. The chaplain delivered the sermon and she started to weep. Violet Costello put her arm around her shoulders. They sang a hymn before the eulogy, sang another hymn afterwards. Edward stared at the coffin. The vicar recited the committal as Tommy was lowered into the ground, the family and a few of the men casting flowers and handfuls of dirt down onto his coffin.

* * *

THE WAKE WAS IN THE ALHAMBRA. The club looked tattered and worn in the daylight, the imperfections that could be hidden in the darkness now more easily displayed. George and Violet Costello stayed for a drink, paid their respects to Tommy’s girlfriend, then quietly left. Edward necked a couple of jars then went up onto the roof to smoke and get a lungful of fresh air. When he went down again, the women were all gone. The chaps were gathered at the bar, talking. Edward went over.

“Something’s got to be done,” Jack McVitie said. “Another bloody funeral. My mate was shot dead by that bastard, and what are we doing about it?”

“Nothing.”

“That evil Jew must be laughing his bloody socks off at us.”

“You heard what happened in Soho last night? Fucking liberty! They hit three restaurants that have been paying up to us for donkey’s years. You know Da Vinci’s on Brewer Street? I went in there this morning, and they’re sweeping the glass up from all the windows they smashed, and I ask him for the weekly payment and he says he ain’t going to pay it no more. He says what kind of protection am I getting for my money when this kind of thing can happen? I gave him a thick lip, fair enough, I ain’t having him talking to me like that, but then I got thinking and you have to admit–end of the day, he’s got a bloody point.”

“And I can’t get the bookies on my patch to pay me my points. They’re more scared of Spot than they are of us. He’s nabbing all of them.”

“What’s happened to George’s bollocks? If this was a couple of years ago, he would’ve strung the greasy kike up on the nearest lamp-post weeks ago. He’s making us look like a bloody laughing stock, that’s what he’s doing. I used to be able to walk around the manor and people would treat me with respect. Blokes would either tip their hat to me or cross over to the other side. That don’t happen no more. They don’t give two shits about us. They all think he’s going soft.”

Joseph had been listening with a deepening scowl. He had no answer to that. Edward could see the colour rising above his collar and into his cheeks and decided it was better to intervene. He stood everyone a round. “To Tommy,” he said. “A good mate.”

“To Tommy.”

He drained his glass and ordered two more. He took Joseph by the arm and turned him away from the others.

He handed Joseph one of the fresh pints. “You can see the way this is going, can’t you?”

“I know,” Joseph said, fixing his stare into the bottom of his glass.

“If George and Violet don’t do something, they’ll start to lose the men.”

“Thank you, Doc,” Joseph said, his voice a tight slap. “I know that.”

Edward realised that Joseph didn’t want to pursue the conversation, but he there were things that had to be said and, he thought, he was the best man to say them. “Maybe I could speak to them? Your sister has invited me down to the house at the weekend. I could have a word with Violet?”

He snorted. “You saw how they reacted the last time you tried that. You’re not family, Edward. It wouldn’t go down well at all.”

Edward gritted his teeth. You’re not family. He did not respond to that, even though the truth of it stung. It was a reminder that that would always stand between them, a gap he could not cross. Joseph stood with his arms folded, staring out of the window behind them. Edward fumbled for the right thing to say, unable to find the words, his attention switching from the smell of the Senior Service between Joseph’s fingertips, to the curlycued grain in the wood of the bar beneath his hand, to the tight pressure in his stomach as if someone was holding their palm against his navel. The sense of frustration and inarticulateness was agony to him and, helpless to stop himself, he said, “Jesus, man, someone has got to do something.”

Joseph snapped. “Leave it out, Doc, alright? For God’s sake–on and on and on, every bloody day. I don’t need your advice. We don’t need it. You’re starting to be a bore.” Joseph started to say something else, his eyes flicking away as he considered better of it. He took a breath and said, instead, “Violet is sharp and she doesn’t mess about. You think she got to be where she is now by sitting around and letting things happen? She’ll have something in mind for Spot. We’re just going to have to trust her and brazen it out.”

There was no point in pressing him and so Edward reluctantly let the matter drop. He drank quickly, his mind working. He had been presented with an opportunity to make something of himself. A chance, and he had only really scratched the surface of it so far. To be stood at the side, watching impotently as the family slowly imploded, crippled by fear or inertia or laziness at the very moment that he arrived, was torture. He felt sick at the thought of it. It was almost more than he could bear.