Текст книги "The Imposter"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

EPILOGUE

Halewell Close

June 1946

THE WEDDING OF Mr. Edward Henry Fabian and Miss Chiara Grace Costello was arranged for the last Saturday in June. It was only three months after Joseph’s wedding and yet if the cost of financing yet more festivities was difficult for the Costellos to absorb, it was not obvious from the scale and grandeur of the occasion. Expensively engraved invitations had been dispatched to six hundred guests, twice as many as had attended the wedding of Joseph and Eve. Once again, the reception would be held in the grounds of Halewell Close, with the marquee–this one much larger–erected over the etiolated markings that were still visible on the grass. The party would go on all day and into the night, the entertainment provided by the best swing band in Soho. It would be lavish and no expense would be spared. That was Violet Costello’s preference and Edward had been delighted to indulge it. After all, there was more money now. And he wanted people to remember the day. He wanted it to be more elaborate, more memorable than Joseph’s.

After all, in so many ways, the party was his coming out.

There had been rumours of an upturn in the family’s fortunes. Jack Spot’s humiliation at the racecourse had seen him in full retreat, even before the unsolved death of his four lieutenants. That bloody morning’s work had been dubbed “The Upton Park Massacre” by a wide-eyed press that had become entranced by the casual brutality of the killings. One thing was for sure: it had led to the rebalancing of power in the West End. Those businesses that Spot had taken from the Costellos had been returned to them. The flow of strong-arm money from the shebeens, spielers, pimps and prostitutes that he had diverted now flowed into the Costello’s coffers again. The death of the four men served as a stark reminder of what happened to those who crossed the family’s path, and suggestions to local businesses that it was in their best interests to ‘work’ with the family were now accepted without resistance. For the first time in months, the Costellos started to expand their sphere of influence. And for the first time in years, they were the dominant force on the racecourses once again. People were saying that they were swimming in new money.

The guests had travelled out of London in the morning and headed west into the Cotswolds. Their bridal gifts were envelopes stuffed with cash, handwritten cards inside each envelope announcing the donor so that Edward and Chiara might know who was responsible. The cards established the measure of the respect each donor felt for Edward and wished him and his beautiful bride the best for a long and happy life together. Others had provided gifts: crates of wine and magnums of champagne; gold and diamond bangles; a diamond encircled watch and wristlet; a gold fob watch; silver-plated Rhodium coated pens; a carved rosewood necklace; a pair of gold and amethyst cufflinks; three gold safety pins; an Italian cameo brooch. A distant aunt gave them a sterling silver letter opener from Aspinal of London and Edward absent-mindedly ran his finger along the edge and up to the sharpened point as they surveyed the heaving table where the gifts had been deposited.

The motivation for these kindnesses was not unsullied, and Edward knew it. Each guest hoped that he would remember them fondly and, in time, acknowledge their respect with a favour. The men and women were drawn from across Soho and the West End and they had all heard the talk. Edward Fabian had become the most influential person within the family. He taken the place of the incarcerated George Costello at Violet’s side, and it was his counsel that she took. The ceremony binding him to Chiara had simply been the public confirmation of what everybody already knew: Edward was family now. It had been him, with Joseph, who had seen off Jack Spot. It had been him who had overseen the family’s recovery and the expansion of their interests. He was not someone to cross or trifle with and, all agreed, he was destined for big things. There was no harm in trying to gain capital with him now.

Edward stood with his bride at the entrance to the marquee, shaking the hands of the men and kissing the cheeks of the women. He accepted their compliments with good grace, offered the hope that they would enjoy the evening and moved on to the next in line. He felt superb, perfectly ecstatic. He greeted everyone respectfully, with a kind and personal word to each that was calculated to encourage a sense of familiarity. He wanted his guests to think that he was someone who made an effort. He felt in control and it seemed impossible to him that anything could go wrong. Joseph was next in line and he hugged him, pounding him on the back and welcoming him into the family. Violet followed and he stooped to allow her to kiss him on the cheek. Jimmy Stern, at the wedding as his uncle but under an assumed name, took his nephew’s hand and held it.

“Look what you’ve done,” he said.

“Everything’s going to be alright now. We don’t have to worry about anything.”

“Well done, my boy. I’m proud of you. Your father would be, too.”

Jimmy squeezed his hand and, as he left him with Chiara, Edward felt moisture in the corner of his eyes.

“Are you alright?” Chiara asked him gently.

“Yes,” he said. “Just happy.”

For he was. Everything about the day had been perfect. He compared it to Joseph’s wedding; everything was simply better. The ceremony at St Mark’s had been more beautiful, the aisles bedecked with armfuls of roses and lilies and a storm of multi-coloured confetti as the couple emerged, blinking, into the sunshine. Chiara’s engagement ring was more elegant: fourteen solitaire diamonds surrounding a twelve-carat oval blue Ceylon sapphire set in eighteen-karat white gold. Edward had commissioned Crown jewellers G Collins & Sons to make it and it had cost him seven hundred pounds. It was elegantly understated and yet very obviously expensive, easily surpassing the gaudy bauble that Joseph had presented to Eve. And his wife, who looked so luminously beautiful in her dress, was superior in every way to Eve.

He squeezed her hand and leant over to kiss her. He had proposed two days after he had disposed of Billy and then gotten rid of Spot and his men. The notion had been on his mind since before then, but his decisive action to secure his own future and the family’s position in town made it the obvious next step to take. It was difficult to imagine how his stock could rise any higher, and the union would serve to preserve and deepen it. He would be family, once and for all, and all the silly talk of his leaving and returning to medicine could be finally put to rest. He had demonstrated the benefits he could bring to the business and now he would entwine it more tightly around himself. He would involve himself with every last aspect of it, enmeshing himself in it so completely that he would be impossible to disengage without causing expensive damage. It would be impossible, even when George and the others were released from jail. By that time–and he guessed he had another two years before he had to consider the problem of Georgie the Bull–he would be so deeply submerged that they would not be able to contemplate going back to the way things had been before.

He looked around. It was a boisterous and good-natured crowd, fuelled by a free bar that had been well-stocked by Ruby Ward. Topics of conversation included the police car that was ostentatiously parked at the gates of Halewell Close and the gimlet-eyed detective who regarded the guests as they turned off the road and set off along the long drive to the house. Some recognised him as detective inspector Charlie Murphy, fresh from his successful prosecution of George Costello and the other men who had been arrested at the army base.

Mention of the police inevitably led to disgusted observations that Billy Stavropoulos was still missing. This led to the presumption–which had become something more than a presumption–that he had been responsible for what had happened. He was a grass, a snake, and he would, people suggested, be dealt when he was found.

In turn, the conversation turned to the murder of four of Jack Spot’s soldiers: Frank “Hock” Gusenberg, his brother Peter “Goosy” Gusenberg, Reinhardt Schwimmer and Richie Moran. The men had been gunned down in cold blood by anonymous hitmen. The bloody executions were seen as a reprisal to the shooting of Lennie Masters and Tommy Falco, and had driven Spot out of the West End. It had led to the reinvigoration of the family’s fortunes. No-one knew whether Edward Fabian was involved, but no-one doubted the effect that he was having. Violet was relying on Edward’s counsel and everyone agreed that the results had been remarkable. The family had been at a low ebb, its influence diminishing. It had seemed as if its twenty year rule at the head of the underworld was at an end. But no-one thought that now.

* * *

VIOLET COSTELLO sat down next to him with a wide, friendly smile.

“Aunt,” Chiara said.

“Darling. Having a good day?”

“It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

She shooed away her gratitude with a wave of her hand. “Now, then, my dear–would you mind if I bent your husband’s ear for a moment?”

“No–”

“Just me and Edward, if you don’t mind? Your sisters are at the bar–I’m sure they’d like to speak to you.”

She frowned but quickly mastered it. She leant over and kissed Edward on the lips.

Violet squeezed her hand. “Thank you, darling.”

“Don’t be long with him.”

She left them alone.

Violet allowed a passing waiter to hand her a flute of champagne. She took one for Edward and, too, and handed it to him.

“Cheers,” she said.

“Your very good health.”

They touched glasses.

She placed the flute down on the table and stroked a finger around the rim. “You got what you wanted,” she said.

“As did you.”

“Yes,” she said. “Don’t think I’m not grateful for your help, Edward. I am grateful. Things would have been different without you–I’m not too proud to admit that. But let’s not pretend about any of this, alright? I know what you are. You have plenty of similarities with Spot. You were not all that different, not when it comes down to it. You’re ambitious. Greedy. You want to take the things this family has for yourself.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Violet.”

“Edward, please. You’re not talking to Joseph. A little respect.”

He sipped his drink and, without looking at her, replied in a low voice: “So why did you give me and Chiara your blessing, then?”

“The lesser of two evils, I suppose.”

“What?”

“Call it a marriage of convenience. You can help us–you have helped us–I’m not denying that.”

“You don’t think I’ll look after her?”

“I don’t really care what you do.”

It felt like the ground beneath him was slipping a little. “Why are you talking like this?”

She stared at him. Her eyes were crystal clear, as blue with cold as they had been when he had met her for the first time. “Because I want there to be no misunderstandings between us, Edward. This family’s legacy is the most important thing in the world to me. When I’m gone, I want to be sure that the family name will continue. My father worked too hard for too long to fritter it all away. I know that Joseph will never be able to take that responsibility for himself. He’s too simple–not cunning enough. The same can be said for my brother. My nieces are either disinterested or incapable and, at the end of the day, they are women–and I know better than anyone how difficult it is for a woman to make a mark in this world. So it is difficult to see how any of my brother’s children could manage all of this without help. I suspect you arrived at the same conclusions yourself.”

Edward did not answer.

“You, on the other hand are cunning and ruthless. You don’t have scruples. But remember this: you’ll always be an outsider. You might have married Chiara but you will never be family. Not real family. Not blood.”

He flushed. “Let’s see what Joseph and Chiara think about that.”

She waved that aside and took another sip from her glass. “That doesn’t really matter.” She smiled thinly at him and, again, he was put in mind of a predator addressing its prey. “There’s one other thing you should know. I had a letter from Victor last week. He’s coming home. Next month, or the month after that. He is everything my brother was, and more. He’s better than Joseph–you won’t be able to pull the wool over his eyes quite so easily. He’ll see you for precisely what you are. A parasite. A leech. And we won’t need you then. You will be of no further use. And Victor will brush you off.”

* * *

THE GUESTS SPREAD out beneath the huge marquee, some dancing on the wooden platform that had been set out as the dance-floor, others sitting at long tables piled high with food and gallon jugs of wine. The bride sat in her beautiful dress at the raised top table with both of her sisters–her maids of honour–together with her other bridesmaids. The band finished the first half of their set and broke for refreshments. A young Italian tailor from the Hill picked up a discarded violin, wedged it awkwardly beneath his chin, and began to sing a Sicilian love song. Edward walked around the perimeter of the tent, trying to forget the conversation with Violet. He managed to smile warmly at those guests who caught his eye, a few of the men reaching back from their tables to shake his hand. Joseph was sitting with Eve, his hand resting on her knee beneath the table. Jimmy was in conversation with an older woman Edward did not recognise, a smile playing on his lips. Violet, Chiara and her sisters were talking animatedly.

Edward found his way to the entrance of the tent. It was a beautiful evening, shafts of golden sunlight falling on the freshly cut lawns that rolled down to the lake. He allowed himself to daydream. He imagined their honeymoon, landing in Sicily, the first time he had returned there since the accident that had seemingly doomed him to a life without the status he cherished. He thought about the burning sun, the startlingly blue sea, the sluggishness in the air. He thought about the woman in the harbour, the furious argument after she had confronted him and then, eventually, his hands pressing down on her shoulders until her thrashing and kicking became spasmodic and, finally, stopped.

A foul memory he would try and forget.

It meant nothing now.

He turned and looked back at Halewell Close, the imposing spires rising above the ridge of the marquee. It was a marvellous place and it was such a shame that it had been allowed to fall into decrepitude. The Costellos did not really appreciate it. It was just another bauble to own for them. Edward saw it for what it was, respected all the history that it must have seen, and valued it.

Damn Violet.

Damn Victor.

Damn them both.

He would have the house, in due course, and when he did, he would look after it properly.

He caught himself. For a moment, it felt as if it were something that he must have imagined. Was it all real? Had he really done it? Perhaps he was still in the jungle; a fever dream, sweating under canvas somewhere.

He walked away from the tent, down the sloping lawns to the boathouse.

He smelt the aromas emanating from the cook tent, felt the moisture on the breeze coming off the lake.

He wasn’t imagining it. It was true. He had done it. He would have the house, and one in France, and one in Italy. He would keep his London apartment. He would have cars, all the newest models, and a new suit whenever he felt like one. He would have everything that he wanted. Everything that he deserved. He ran his fingers along the splintered balustrade that guarded the drop to the water below and thought back to the night he had stood with Joseph on the same spot, and agreed to rob a house with him. It was less than a year ago although it seemed longer than that. He looked into the gently rolling waves, stirred by the breeze, and thought of Billy Stavropoulos. There had been a week of bad dreams in the immediate aftermath of that night on the sea. Billy would appear at the foot of his bed, dripping wet, with seaweed festooned over his head and across his shoulders, limpets stuck to his face. He would stand over Edward’s sleeping body, staring down at him, his eyes a filmy white as salt water puddled around his feet. Sometimes, when the dream was at its worse, Billy would be joined by a second figure. A woman, barnacles on her fingers like rings. Occasionally, every now and again, Jack Spot would loom behind her, a bloody hole cratering the middle of his face. Edward would stir with a sudden start, sweating, wondering for that first instant of wakefulness what was real and what was the dream. After the first week, the nightmare passed. He rarely had it now.

He turned back to face the marquee. The evening sun was low; he had to shield his eyes and yet it was still getting cold. He allowed himself a final moment of peacefulness before he made his way back up the lawn and into the tent.

He was intercepted before he was halfway there.

“Jack Stern?”

His stomach plunged.

“Excuse me–Mr. Stern?”

He turned.

A man was coming towards him.

He was solidly-built, in his mid-forties, and carried a leather briefcase. He had salt-and-pepper coloured hair, cut very short on the sides, and a solid jaw covered with just a little too much flesh, like the rest of him. His face was the very picture of inscrutability. One couldn’t tell a thing from that face, Edward thought. Whoever he was, he was a professional.

“I’m sorry?” he said. “Do I know you?”

“My name is Arthur MacCauley,” he said. “I’m a private detective.”

“A private detective?”

“My client has engaged me to try and find the man in this photograph.” He reached into his briefcase and took out a newspaper. He held it up: it was the article that Henry Drake had written with Edward’s picture next to it. “This is you, isn’t it?”

“Yes. That was almost a year ago.”

“Yes, I know. It only just came to my attention. How about this?”

Edward looked at the photograph that the man held up. It was of a young man, in his early twenties, his hair cut fashionably short, his skin fresh and clear. He was well dressed in a dinner jacket, a white shirt and a black bow-tie. He was next to another man, similarly dressed, his arm around his shoulders. Both of them were smiling broadly, staring right into the camera. It was him. He could remember where the picture had been taken.

Cannes.

Eight years ago.

A world away.

Another lifetime.

“No, that’s not me.”

“Please, Mr. Stern. Really?”

“I’m sorry,” he protested, “but it isn’t.”

He lowered his voice a little. “Let’s not make a scene, Jack. Alright? What do you say? I know today’s your wedding.”

“That’s right–it is my wedding. And you’re trespassing, sir. If you don’t leave I’m afraid I’m going to have to call the police.”

He smiled at him. Completely unthreatened. “You want to do that?”

Edward almost turned away from the man, ready to leave him there on the lawn, but he stopped and, in that second, he anticipated his defeat and the consequences of it. Exposure. Disgrace. Scandal. He changed his mind. No, he thought. He wasn’t finished. He could carry this off, just as he had carried everything off before. The show wasn’t over yet. He fabricated a sigh. “Jesus Christ. But at least let me smoke a cigarette first?”

“And then we go back to London.”

He reached into the pocket where his cigarettes were and felt the sharp point of the letter opener. He turned and pointed down the lawns to the lake and the boathouse. “It’s quieter down there. We can talk about whatever you want.”

“After you,” MacCauley said.

The Soho Noir series begins with THE BLACK MILE. For a free sample of the first chapter, read on.

CHAPTER 1

MONDAY, 10^th JUNE 1940

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR FRANK MURPHY stepped away from the girl’s body and went to the window; the yelling from the crowd outside was louder. He pulled the thick black-out curtains aside. It was dusk, eight o’clock, a silvery moon rising above the rooftops. An ARP Warden walked his rounds; tarts and their johns found their alleys; tail-gunners from the Piccadilly Circus Meat Rack flounced theatrically, touting for trade. The noise was coming from the junction with Frith Street, away to the right. A large crowd had gathered outside the Vesuvio Restaurant. A dozen bobbies had formed a buffer and two mounted officers kept skittish horses in line. Frank watched as a pair of men were led out of the front door, escorted on either side by lads from Tottenham Court Road C.I.D. The crowd bayed as a couple of the woodentops stepped up to clear a path to the Black Maria parked by the kerb.

The restaurant’s large plate glass window shattered as a brick was flung through it.

“It’s getting worse,” Frank said. He watched as the two men were put into the meat wagon. Locals hammered their fists against the sides. “What a mess.”

Detective Sergeant Harry Sparks was going through the girl’s belongings. “Mussolini getting chummy with Hitler, that’s that as far as I’m concerned—we can’t take chances with ‘em. Risk of a Fifth Column, that’s what they’re saying. Best keep them out of the way for the duration.”

Frank let the curtain fall back across the window. “Maybe,” he said. He turned back into the room. It was a tart’s lumber, a cheap single room where punters would come up to get what they’d bought with their oncer: five minutes of slap and tickle and a dose of the clap so bad it’d peel the jewels right off. Cheap furniture, dirty clothes strewn about, unwashed pots and pans in the sink. Squalid. The business transacted inside was gruesome and desperate but it was hardly novel. Frank had seen plenty of rooms like this in Soho and Fitzrovia, especially in the last month.

A neighbour had noticed the door had been shut for three days and had stopped the local bobby. The woodentop had put his size twelve through the flimsy door and discovered the poor girl. Her body was spread out across the single divan. Her tongue protruded from between bluish lips and the bruises around her throat were dark and evocative, the shape of fingers from where they would have met beneath her chin. She had been stabbed a dozen times, probably more than a dozen, and her blood was on the walls, the floor, soaked into the bedding.

“What do you want me to do, guv?”

“Wake Spilsbury up—he better take a look.”

“What do you reckon?”

Frank looked at the girl: seventeen or eighteen if she was a day, a grim and brutal life cut short. He’d been working on the case like every other detective on the manor and he recognised the handiwork. “It’s him.”

He was sure. He’d only taken five days’ rest this time.

Whoever this poor doxy was, she was one of his.

Number five.

THE BLACK MILE is available at Amazon UK and Amazon US.