Текст книги "The Imposter"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

65

FIERCE APRIL RAIN WAS LASHING down outside the tent. It was a little before two and the party was still going on, the band striking up again and the sound of happy laughter followed Edward as he left the tent. Time to go. He put on his overcoat and regretted not bringing his umbrella. He had spent a couple of pounds on his hair this morning and the rain was going to make a terrible mess of it. He waited beneath the canvas awning and stared out into the empty gardens, the rain falling so hard that the driveway was running like a river.

He collected his car and set off back to London. The drive was easy, with no traffic to delay him. He allowed himself to think. Billy wasn’t what you’d consider clever, but he was cunning. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that, if he could, Billy would use the advantage he had over him for as long as he stayed in Soho. He was full of hate and jealousy, and he had been given a dreadful weapon to use against him. He would hold it over him for as long as he needed, using the prospect of it to have him do whatever he wanted. The money? That was just the start. Edward knew he had no other choice but he reminded himself that it was all Billy’s fault. It could all have ended up very differently.

Edward collected Jimmy and then set off for Southend. They reached the garage at the edge of the town just before three. There was a Humber parked next to the closed café. Detective inspector Charlie Murphy was smoking out of the open window. Edward slowed and parked alongside. Rain ran off the brim of his trilby as he left the shelter of the car and skipped around the deeper puddles. He opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. Jimmy got into the back.

“Evening, inspector.”

“He’s in the boot,” Murphy said. “We’ve had him in a cell for a week. Fair to say he’s not happy.”

“Thank you.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Probably best you don’t know.”

“Yes,” he said, sucking down on the cigarette. “Probably.” He flicked the dog-end out of the window.

“What’s going to happen to the men you arrested?”

“They’ll be weighed off. I’m guessing they’ll get a two-stretch. With good behaviour, they’ll be away for eighteen months.” He looked across the car at him shrewdly for a moment. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? George and his thugs out of the way for a bit.”

“It’s like you said–things have been running away with themselves. It was all unnecessary, all that aggravation. Something had to be done.”

“And you’re going to do it?”

“Someone has to.” Edward smiled at him. “It’s for the best.”

“What about Spot? You said–”

“That’s in hand.”

Murphy indicated the back of the car with a jerk of his head. “What did he do?”

“Made a very serious misjudgement.”

Murphy took another cigarette from the packet and lit it. His face looked jaundiced as the lights of a passing lorry raked through the car. “You and me are square, then,” he said.

Edward gave him the keys to his car. “We are.”

Murphy opened the door but paused. He turned back to face him. “Just so we understand each other,” he said, “this was a one-time thing. We’re not friends and we’re not allies. You do what you do and I do what I’ve got to do. I’m still going to clear up Soho.”

“I understand.”

“You know what happens if you get in my way? There won’t be any more favours, Fabian. You’ll be nicked just as quickly as the next man.”

Edward nodded. He felt a jolt of irritation: he was powerful now, and he wanted Murphy to acknowledge it. “There’s another side to that coin, inspector. If you put me in a spot where it’s you on the one hand and my liberty on the other, if you’ve got me boxed in and out of choices, let’s be clear about one thing: you will not get in my way. We’ve done business together now and I can’t say that I’d feel good about it, but you’ve got to know: I won’t hesitate.”

“Then we understand each other.”

“Perfectly.”

“Get rid of the car when you’re finished with it.”

* * *

BILLY STRUGGLED and bucked, his heels clattering and then catching against the lip of the boot, but his shackles were secure and Edward yanked him out. Billy tried to scream, the noise muffled by the rag they had jammed into his mouth. He made himself a dead-weight, the toes of his shoes scraping muddy troughs into the grass verge as they dragged him onto the wooden jetty. Their boat was waiting for them, bobbing on the swells. Edward stepped onto the deck first and then, pulling hard, he dragged Billy after him.

Jimmy went into the wheelhouse and made the preparations for casting off. It was a small fishing skiff, fifteen feet from bow to stern, and powered by a small motor. It belonged to a friend who owed Jimmy a favour. He turned the ignition to switch on the engine and unknotted the mooring ropes. The rag must have dropped out of Billy’s mouth for he exclaimed, loudly, “What is this?” His voice was full of panic. “Who are you? Please, I ain’t done nothing to no-one. Come on, mate. Let me off.” Edward took him aft, hauling him down the shallow flight of steps into the room below where there was a tiny kitchen and store. He left him on the floor and went up on deck.

Jimmy started the engines. The noise seemed horribly loud but no-one came. They sailed out of the harbour, the engine chugging and then, when the navigation lights at the end of the harbour were at their backs, he opened the throttles and they picked up speed, cutting through the glassy water and leaving star-speckled froth behind them.

They sailed for an hour until the only evidence of the town were the pinpricks of light on the dark shoulder of land behind them.

“This is far enough,” Jimmy shouted. He cut the engines and the boat drifted, rising and falling on the swells, quiet save for the ticking of the engine and the soft slap of the waves against the hull.

Edward propped himself against the rocking of the boat and went back down to the kitchen. Billy was on his knees, his shoulders braced against the cooker. He heard his feet on the steps, his head turning in that direction. “Please,” he said, “Tell me what I’ve done. I’ll put it right, I swear I will.”

“Shut up, Billy.”

Edward went behind him and looped an arm around his waist and dragged him towards the steps.

“Fabian?”

Billy lifted his legs up and kicked against the wall, knocking Edward over and landing atop him. “Hold on,” Jimmy said, coming down to help. They took him at the shoulders and ankles and, together, they hauled him up the stairs. The sack bulged as he strained at his shackles but they were too tight. They dropped him in the middle of the deck.

“Fabian?” Billy pleaded from behind the burlap sack.

Jimmy handed him the carving knife he had brought from the kitchen. Edward pulled it back and stabbed Billy in the chest, two times. The knife cut a gash through his shirt and into the flesh beneath, filling with a line of blood as Edward watched. Billy fell back and bucked against the floor, writhing, twisting. He gave a roar that frightened Edward with its loudness and strength and he clambered atop his thrashing body, stabbing him with the knife two more times, into the neck, slashing with the edge of the blade, again and again. He stabbed downwards again, on his knees now, blood splashing from each fresh puncture, and, for an instant, he was aware of tiring as he raised and stabbed, and still Billy thrashed, his shoulders straining, his hog-tied legs jerking up and down. Edward freed himself, stabbing again and again, holding the knife in both hands, the tip pointing down, and plunged it, hard, right into Billy’s heart. Billy’s body suddenly went limp, relaxed and still. Edward shuffled backwards on his knees, straightened his back, tried to regain his breath. He looked down: Billy was motionless, and covered in blood. He stared at him, searching for a sign of life–a gasp, a bloody sputter–but there was none. He was afraid to touch him now, afraid to touch his chest or feel for a pulse, but he did, taking his wrist between his thumb and forefinger. There was a pulse, faint and indistinct, and it seemed to flutter away as he touched it, as if the pressure of his own fingers quenched it. In the next moment, it was gone.

He pushed up with his legs and stood, a little unsteady. He looked down at Billy’s wiry form on the floor and felt a sudden disgust. It was his fault that he had had to do this. Jimmy unhooked the boat’s anchor and attended to the body, feeding the rope through the space between Billy’s shackled wrists and his back, looping it three times and knotting it expertly. The rope was long, maybe fifty feet, but the sea was deep here. The anchor would drag the body down and hold it beneath the surface. It might drift, but they were far enough from shore that that wouldn’t matter. Jimmy heaved the rusting metal anchor onto the side and pushed it over. The rope unspooled rapidly until it grew taut on Billy’s body, and by that time they had manoeuvred his torso over the gunwale. Edward could tell from the buoyancy of the rope that the anchor was not yet at the bottom.

The sacking had worked free around Billy’s head and, as they hefted him up, it flapped loose. As his body balanced on the gunwale the clouds crept aside and moonlight was cast against the water. His face was lit, frozen, the lifeless eyes, the briny froth from a large wave crashing over his head. Edward thought of his leering grin, what he had seen and what he might have said. Fuck you, Bubble, he thought. Fuck you, and fuck you, and good riddance. He found a sudden surge of anger and shoved upwards, hard, flipping him at the waist so that his body inverted, his legs splashing as they slammed against the surface of the water. The body went straight down, sucked away into the blackness until there was no sign that it had ever been there at all.

It’s finished, he thought, suddenly filled with a wonderful happiness. Done. He laughed, as he had often laughed alone, with similar relief after awful moments.

Jimmy went back to the galley and returned with a bottle of spirits. He cleaned out two dirty tumblers and poured double measures. Edward drank his. He thought how stupid and unnecessary Billy’s death had been but how he only had himself to blame. He was a selfish, greedy, cruel bastard who had sneered at him and threatened his father, threatened his family, threatened his future and the rewards he had worked so hard to attain, threatened the life that he deserved. He looked out at the sea, the rain hammering a drumbeat against the roof of the boat, and he said, low and calm, the tightness in his throat gone: “Billy Bubble, it was all your fault.”

Jimmy went into the cab and the engines started again with a splutter. The boat lurched forwards and picked up speed. He spun the wheel and they carved around so that the coast was before them again. Edward went forwards and rested against the wheelhouse. He was soaked to the skin: he ignored the rain and the sprays of spume. The boat cut through the rising swells, ascending and descending, a long, easy pattern. He collected a bucket and mop and went back to start to clean up the mess.

Eventually, the buildings of Southend came into view again.

66

THE SUN HAD RISEN from behind grey, dispiriting clouds during the drive back to London but the gloom still persisted. Edward had taken Jimmy back to his flat where they had embraced quickly, arranging to meet later. Edward would have liked to have stopped, perhaps had something to eat or even to sleep for an hour or two, but there had been no time for any of that. He would have to manage without. He had been full of adrenaline during the drive and, now that things were drawing faster and faster towards the conclusion that he had engineered, he was alert with the anticipation of what was to come.

Two more tasks, he kept reminding himself.

One task for Joseph.

One task for him.

Two more things to do and then they would be done. And then, finally, he would be able to relax.

He parked outside the warehouse in Soho. A sign above the doorway announced the building as belonging to SMC Cartage & Co but he knew that the business had been appropriated by Jack Spot as a front for his own black market operations. He sat with his feet propped against the dashboard, an unlit cigarette hanging limply from between his dry lips. His eyes were black and empty. He reached into the back for the 9mm Sten submachine gun that was resting on the bench seat. Ruby Ward had provided it for him yesterday.

“Come on,” he grumbled to no-one in particular. “Come on.”

His thoughts ran to the jungle and the war. He wondered how war did strange things to a man. Every minute you were living in fear. The expectation that the next bullet would be the one that finished you. That’s got to damage you, he thought, hasn’t it? Got to change something about how you are.

There was no point in dwelling on what had to be done. It was necessary: that was enough. He had learned that lesson in Burma and he had put it into practice with Billy. Some things in life just had to be sorted out. You got on with it as best you could. You did your best not to remember the things that you had seen and done, even though those memories came back to you anyway. He had done things that men who had not served would not have credited, and certainly would not have understood: killed in cold blood, destroyed property, stolen whatever he wanted. Billy could not possibly have comprehended it. None of them would have been able to, not unless they had been there. Joseph was the exception. He had been there, and he knew. He knew that the tasks they were performing this morning were necessary, too.

He thought of how he had developed a hard shell, like being dipped in lead. He had been scared more than he had ever been scared in his life. He had done things, maybe because he was following orders, but he had done them anyway. After a while he did not even think about them anymore; they became as mundane and routine as cleaning his rifle or changing his socks. He had done them like you might scratch an itch.

And this?

Compared to those things, this was a walk in the park.

He rolled the cigarette between his fingers. He gripped the stock and the barrel of the Sten.

A private car turned the corner and headed towards him out of the gloom, blooms of sodium yellow light from its headlamps suffusing the rain-smeared glass. He watched as it parked ahead of him, next to the entrance to the warehouse.

The car’s doors opened.

He unslotted the magazine of the Sten, tapped it against his knee to clear any blockages, slotted it back home and recocked the weapon. His hands slid to the barrel and stock, closing around the gun, the metal cold against his skin. It was an excellent weapon and he knew precisely how to use it. He tightened his grip.

Four men got out of the car. They were only a little late. Edward had called Spot’s man, Eric, yesterday night. He was Dick MacCulloch and he explained that he was driving the consignment of whisky down from Scotland this morning. He said that he could deliver it to wherever Spot preferred; the man had swallowed the story without question. There was no reason for him to be suspicious. He had played the conversation out properly, even negotiating the amount that he wanted in exchange for the booze. Eric had driven a hard bargain and Edward had only acceded to his price reluctantly. He had been impressed with his own performance. The price didn’t matter a jot: this wasn’t about money. There was to be no whisky. A payment would be made but it would be by him, and not be the sort that they were expecting.

The men laughed as they unlocked the warehouse’s broad double doors, the noise of their mirth breaking the lumpen silence. Perhaps they had been out in Soho celebrating? Why not? It had been a good few days for them. The news was promising for Spot and his goons. The Costellos were out of business and the way was clear for them to dominate the West End. That was what they were all saying. London, and all the opportunities it offered, was theirs for the taking.

Edward tightened his grip around the stock of his Sten gun. He pulled his scarf up around his face, opened the car door and stepped outside. He held the submachine gun vertically, muzzle down, shielding it against his leg and torso. The morning air was cold and fresh. The sun was breaking between the chimney stacks of the hat factory at the end of the street, sparkling through the smoggy drizzle. The men had gone inside. Edward crossed the pavement and followed them. There were no windows, and the only light was the grey murk from the doorway. Boxes and crates were stacked up against the walls. The four of them had their backs to him. They were moaning that MacCulloch was late, that his tardiness risked a clip around the ear. They had things to do. Places to be.

Edward moved quickly, closing the distance, bringing the Sten gun up, aiming it at waist height.

They were ten feet away.

“Lads,” Edward shouted out.

The four men turned.

Their good humour drained away, their mouths fell open, fear washed through their faces.

He fired. The gun rattled and cracked, spitting and bucking in his cradled grip. He sprayed bullets, swivelling at the hip to bring all four men within his arc of fire. Spot’s heavies danced backwards, arms aloft, jerking like marionettes. One tripped and fell backwards against the wall. Another toppled across the bonnet of an old car that had been parked inside the warehouse, bullets thudding as they passed through his body into the sheet metal beneath, the burst windscreen crashing over him like fragments of ice. Another collapsed into a stack of boxes that fell over him, spilling bolts of cotton and silk. Edward fired for twenty seconds until the magazine ran dry and then he paused, breathless, the sudden echoing din replaced by a deep silence.

He walked back to his car and dropped the Sten gun into the open boot. He got in, started the engine, and pulled away from the kerb. He passed the open door at walking pace: the Spot men were scattered around inside like fallen ninepins, blood pooling on the concrete floor, running down into the drains. The blood ran down onto the copper shell casings, slicking across them.

Edward pressed the stick into second gear and accelerated away.

67

JOSEPH DROVE SOUTH at around about the same time, making good time until Whitehawk where the car was absorbed into a crawling queue, caught between busses that crunched through their gears as they struggled uphill and myriad other vehicles, all of them jammed tight. Impatient drivers pressed their horns and jerked their cars to within inches of their neighbours. Every spare seat was taken: battered pre-war Morrises, sporty Packards, a pair of youngsters hitching a lift on the running boards of a Humber. Queues of racegoers who had been unable to find a seat on a bus plodded alongside the road, heads down. The noise rolled over them: the distant ululation of the crowd, backfiring exhausts, snatches of distant music, babies crying in hot cars.

He had never been as nervous as this. It had taken Edward a day to persuade him that what they were intending to carry out was necessary. He had reminded him of Tommy Falco and it was that, eventually, that had made the difference. It was not their fault that it had come to this. Spot had been increasing the pressure for weeks.

Lennie Masters.

Tommy Falco and the other men at the Regal.

The violence all across the West End.

Even Chiara’s bloody dog.

Edward had explained it colourfully. You don’t pull a tiger by the tail, he said. Joseph could understand that. Spot had boxed them into a corner. He was taunting them, daring them to retaliate, daring them to do something.

Well, then. Fine. Now they would.

They would give him exactly what he was asking for.

The road finally climbed up Race Hill and as he crested it he was rewarded with a view out over the sprawl of Brighton and, beyond, the green and white of the sea. He rolled the car into the car park, locked it and set off for the track. Loud-speakers set onto the roofs of vans advised the racegoers where best to put their money. Children squabbled. A few punters were already drunk, staggering towards the gate to be parted from the rest of their funds. He paid the entrance fee and followed the tunnel under the course and came up again in the ten-shilling enclosure. He slipped through the crowd, treading discarded tickets into the mulch underfoot, crunching over the shards of a glass that someone had dropped. He concentrated on everything around him. He saw the names of the bookies set out on the blackboards propped up behind their stands: Rogerson and Taggart and Mitchell and Tavell. They stood on home-made platforms, crates and boxes, reaching out over the passing heads of their potential customers like the two-bob preachers at Speaker’s Corner. They boomed out the odds, touting for business. They tic-tacked to each other and the odds on the blackboards were rubbed out and changed. Joseph looked beyond the enclosure to where the sun lit the white Tattersall stand across the course, a few horses cantering into position at the start. One of them whinnied, the sound carrying on the breeze.

He stopped and looked more carefully.

Where was he?

The brightening sky.

The clouds of dust over the course from the thundering of the horses’ hooves.

The torn betting cards and the short grass towards the dark sea beneath the down.

Where, where, where?

And then he saw him. There, standing before Tavell’s stall, was Jack Spot. He was eating a currant bun. Joking with Tavell. Not a care in the world. Joseph pulled his trilby tightly against his head, tugging down the brim so that as much of his face was obscured as possible. The horses from the first race of the day set off, the sound of their shod feet thundering as they came around on the rail. He got closer. A young man with oiled, blond hair stood on a wooden step paying out money.

Joseph reached into his pocket and felt for the revolver.

The horses turned onto the straight and accelerated towards them.

“Jack!” he shouted.

The big man looked up. Joseph noticed all the small details: the crumbs from the bun that had stuck around Spot’s mouth, the fat knot of his tie, the faces around them that warped from jollity to fear as they saw the glint of the revolver and realised what that must mean. Spot opened his mouth as if to speak, opened and closed, the crumbs dropping from his mouth onto his coat and the floor, and Joseph fired, twice into the body, and Spot fell backwards into the stand. He slid down the blackboard, his coat rubbing off the odds. Joseph followed and stood over him.

The horses went by with a deafening drumbeat of hooves.

Spot put up his hands to ward him off.

“Please,” he mouthed.

Joseph ignored him, aimed at his face and fired.