Текст книги "The Imposter"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

PART THREE

London

June – August 1945

11

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR CHARLIE MURPHY stared out of the window of the car, peering through sheets of rain. He was outside an office building on Upper Street, right in the heart of grotty Islington. There was no sign of a police station, at least not one that could be recognised as such. Charlie got out and trotted through the rain into the building, through a wide door and into a lobby. He took a flight of stairs and passed through another door. The walls were painted green, like all municipal buildings, and the paint was peeling. The windows were tall and narrow and all of them had missing panes, boards covering the gaps. The place was in a state. It looked like it was empty. It looked nothing like a police station and that was exactly what Charlie wanted. If the Ghost Squad was to be effective, it needed to be anonymous, and this was a good start.

Charlie opened a set of double doors. Beyond was an open floor, not all that big, with a couple of offices leading off on one side. The place looked like it used to be a fashion warehouse: a crowd of battered old mannequins were gathered in a corner, dusty armless corpses that had seen better days. There were large industrial windows, a wide door in the wall with a winch outside, the sort of get-up for hoisting gear straight in. Two middle-aged women were working at typewriters and one whole wall was covered with shelves, books, box files and piles of paper. Half a dozen men were working at desks.

Vernon White and Roderick Carlyle, the sergeants who made up the heart of his little team, were waiting in Charlie’s office, cups of tea steaming before them. He had hand-picked from uniform all the way back in 1940. They were his men. They had been with him since the Ripper case, the arcs of their careers following his own. There had been quick promotions from detective constable to detective sergeant and growing acclaim at the Yard, yet they were loyal and showed no interest in leaving his side. Charlie knew why: he was good, they knew it, and they also knew that they would rise faster with him than without. White was a cold-eyed hatchet-faced man, as lean as a rake and as hard as the manager of a loan office. Carlyle was a fresh-faced, a razor-sharp mind hidden beneath a naïve face. “Morning, lads,” Charlie said.

“Morning, guv,” they said together.

“Are we ready to go?”

Carlyle nodded. “The men are all here.”

“Did we get them all?”

Carlyle shook his head. “We got six. The Commissioner will double it if we can show results.”

Charlie grunted. There were hardly mob-handed, and a job like this would only work with a good deal of manpower, but it would have to do. “Get them ready,” he said. “I’ll get myself a cuppa and then I’ll give them the run-through.”

Carlyle and White went outside into the main room and Charlie heard them organise the men for the briefing. He made himself a cup of tea and went outside. The six detective constables had arranged their chairs so that they were facing the wall on which Charlie had fixed a pinboard.

“Morning, gents,” he said. “My name is detective inspector Charlie Murphy and I will be your C.O. for the next six months. Everything I am going to tell you today must stay in this room. Everything we will do in this building is secret, and nothing must leak out. Nothing.” He put his briefcase on the desk before him and popped open the clasps. “You’ll all be aware of the problem with the black market. It was bad during the war but it’s even worse today. There are shortages of everything and if there’s one thing you can say about chummy it’s this: he knows how to take advantage of a situation, and he’s taking advantage of this one. London has been flooded with criminals looking to make a quick buck. We’ve got fellows who wouldn’t normally have anything to do with crime falling to temptation. Blokes who work in factories leaving the door open so that goods and material can get nicked. Stevedores siphoning off a third of the fuel they’ve just unloaded and flogging it on. Butchers putting a little extra meat in the packets of their favourite customers for a payment on the side. And, of course, the underworld has reacted. You can’t walk down Oxford Street without seeing a spiv flogging nylons. It’s everywhere, lads. It’s an epidemic. You’ll have read some of the stuff in the papers, having a go at the Met for letting it happen. It’s got to a point where we can’t ignore it any more. The Commissioner has made this a priority. We are going to tackle the black market.”

Charlie opened his briefcase and took an envelope. He slid his finger inside and opened it, tipping out a collection of glossy prints onto the desk. He took them and, one by one, tacked them onto the pinboard in the shape of a pyramid.

“It’s not going to be an easy job,” he admitted, “and it’s so big it’s difficult to know where to start, but since we’ve got to start somewhere, we’re going to concentrate on this lot. This”–he said, gesturing to the pinboard–“is the Costello Family. They made their name on the racecourses twenty years ago and they expanded into Soho and the West End. Gambling, drinking clubs, prostitution–they have a lot of interests. They’ve had a harder time of it since the head of the family, Harry, kicked the bucket, and in the last couple of years they’ve retrenched. They’re into the dogs more than horses these days and, even though they still have plenty of other interests, it’s the black market that’s making their money. They’ve gone into it in a big way.”

He turned to the pinboard and pointed to the picture of George Costello. They had taken it yesterday, at the festival. He was scowling into the camera, frightening even at fifty feet.

“This is George Costello, otherwise known as Georgie the Bull. His real name is Salvatore but since the last person who called him that got knifed in the gut no-one uses it anymore. Early on, one of his relatives said that he reckoned Salvatore looked like his uncle George and that’s what they called him from then on. He did badly at school, was expelled at thirteen and started running with the family on the racecourses. He was conscripted in 1917, actually went, which is unusual for a wide boy like him, but managed to stay out of the way before he was discharged. There were plenty of scraps with other men and we think that’s where he got his nickname. He’s Harry Costello’s older brother. Since he got out of the army he’s done time for assault and battery, robbery and false imprisonment, and those are just the big ticket items. He quickly made a name for himself for violence and made his way up the chain. The Yard has long suspected him as being an executioner for the family, and there are at least six murders we think he did but we can’t prove. For example, it’s common knowledge on the street that George participated in the conspiracy to murder Brummy Sage in 1921. And we know that he was involved in the murder of Jock Wyatt after the White Mob murdered Michael McCausland, one of the Costello lieutenants. Those are just two of the men we know he’s murdered, but there are more. We can’t prove any of it–he’s clever enough not to leave evidence and you’d have a better chance of getting blood from a stone than anyone to finger him.”

Charlie looked around the room. The men were rapt. He pointed to the picture he had pinned next to George’s.

“This lovely is Violet Costello. Also known as Lady Violet on account of her airs and graces and the way she dresses. Also known as Bulletproof Violet on account of the fact that we’ve never been able to get her for anything and none of her rivals have ever laid a glove on her. Also known as Glorious Violet of Saffron Hill, on account of being a bit of a heart-breaker when she was younger–but she’s more likely to break bones now, or at least get her brother to do it for her.” The picture had also been taken at the festival. George was next to her, scowling at the camera, and she had a hand on his arm. “If George is the muscle, Violet is the brains. Harry Costello had everything, but since he’s been gone the planning and strategy has fallen on her shoulders and, by all accounts, she’s good at it. We don’t know very much about her save that she’s clever and ruthless.”

Charlie pointed at the photographs directly below those of George and Violet. There was a row of seven lieutenants. Charlie went through them one at a time.

Bobby “Milkbottle” Minstrel.

Pasqualina Papa.

Paddy “Onions” O’Nione.

Jimmy Brindle.

Stuttery Robinson.

“Mile Away” Johnny Richardson.

Mickey Cornwall.

They were a motley collection of men, some of them in prison, all of them with time on their records at one point or another, all of them dangerous. As Charlie went through them he started to feel a little trepidation at the scale of the task he had undertaken. These were not two-bob dipsters and hoisters, they were proper criminals. Some were clever, others were shrewd, the rest were violent. They had been under investigation for most of their adult lives and yet finding a reason to bring them in was challenging.

The moment of uncertainty did not last long. Charlie dismissed it. He knew he was the man for the job, the best man that the Commissioner had at his disposal. He did not suffer from doubt. He would bring them all down.

“Pay attention,” he said. Below the lieutenants came a further five photographs. “This is Joseph Costello. Youngest son of Harry Costello. He’s been in borstal for burglary and then he was away in Burma for six years. We don’t know much about him except that he’s back and up to no good. The chap next to him here is Billy Stavropoulos, otherwise known as Billy Bubble or Billy the Greek. He’s a tasty boxer under the name of Bert Gill, borderline professional, with form for assault and burglary. And here we have Edward Fabian. We know less about him than we do any of the others but what we do know is very interesting. He’s been away fighting but he seems to be on friendly terms with Joseph–it’s possible they met during the war. The only Edward Fabian we can find who would be of the right age was at Cambridge studying medicine until 1938. No criminal record or any suggestion that he is into anything hooky. And this is where it gets really interesting. This photograph was taken two days ago. The reason he’s in uniform is because he’s just come back from Buckingham Palace where he was given the Victoria Cross. Seems he’s a war hero, to boot.”

“And he’s caught up with this lot?”

“I know it seems unlikely that he’s our chap but until we can say for sure we’re as interested in him as we are all of the others.”

Charlie gave brief mention of Tommy Falco and Jack McVitie, the other two likely lads who were known to associate with Joseph Costello. Joseph and Billy were closest to the family and the most likely be of interest. Fabian deserved attention because he was so terribly out of place that there had to be something worth knowing.

“So who are we going after, boss?” one of the new men asked.

“There’s no point in George or Violet at this point. They’re too far from the street, and she’s much too clever to do anything that could tie her into anything criminal. The lieutenants are worth a look, but chances are that they’re too long in the tooth to make stupid mistakes.” He pointed at the lowest row of pictures again. “No. We’re more likely to have success here, with these lads. They’re young and wet behind the ears. They’re all big drinkers and chances are they won’t be discrete. Take a look at their faces. Remember them. For the next two weeks I want you to find out everything you can about them, Fabian especially. There must be something we can use: a parking ticket, an overdue library book, something. We bring them in and sweat them for a bit, and then we see what happens.”

He looked around the room. They were young and keen. He’d have to work on them, hone them, but there was potential there.

“This is a big job, lads. Important. To the man in the street, it looks like the underworld is giving us the run-around and that’s something we can’t have happen. People start to think that, they lose respect for what we do. They lose respect for what we do and they start to think, hello, maybe it’s not so bad to get a little extra on my ration. And that’s just one step away from putting a brick through a window. It can’t happen, boys. We can’t let it.” He pointed up at the rogue’s gallery behind him. “We’re going to bring these buggers down, boys. This is the Ghost Squad. You’re all going undercover. You don’t tell anyone about it. Not your wife. Not your girlfriend. Not even your priest, if you’re so inclined. We might have to bend the rules a little bit to get what we want but the ends are going the justify the means. I want to know everything there is to know about these lads. The brand of beer they drink. Where they get their clothes. The type of car they prefer. I want to know who they share their beds with. If they fart, I want to know what it smells like. That’s what you’re going to do, boys. I want these lads here to be the first thing you think about in the morning and the last thing you think about at night. We’re going to bring them down. We are. It’s just a matter of time.” They were looking up at him, avidly. “What are you waiting for? Dismissed. Go and get started.”

12

IT WAS JUST AFTER DAWN and a bank of fog was rolling in off the river and creeping, damp and wet and dense, through the streets. This part of town still used gas, and the lamplighter was slowly making his way down the street, extinguishing them one by one as the sun rose. The remaining lights glowed through the smoggy haze, fuzzy globes of gold. Edward emerged from the station and followed the Tottenham Court Road down towards Euston. The area was full of car dealerships, new and used, and the one that Joseph had directed him to was halfway down the road.

He walked onto the forecourt. The floodlights were on, bleeding through the fog. Slogans and signs were hung from the lamp-posts: “over 100 for under £100,” they proclaimed, but the fabric banners were tiny compared to the huge mural that had been painted onto the wall at the end of the terrace. There appeared to be plenty of stock: family motors that ran well but were probably on the verge of a serious breakdown; Chryslers and Buicks that had been thrashed too hard by young men who had grown out of them; a handful of sports cars, brightly painted buzz-boxes with plenty of gadgets and chromium lamps and fittings, caned half to death by tearaways with indulgent parents.

He shivered in the damp cold and closed his overcoat more tightly around his body. He passed through the showroom to the back, and followed a painted, pointing hand towards a doorway labelled ‘office.’ He took a short flight of stairs and passed through another door, this one marked as ‘general office.’ A final door had ‘Mr. Ward’ stencilled across its frosted glass panel. Edward heard voices inside. He rapped his fist against the glass and was told to come in.

There was a man sitting behind a desk and another in a chair facing him. The first man was obviously the boss. The first thing Edward noticed was his beautiful suit, and next how well his face was shaved under the faint brush of powder, and then his forehead, where the pale hair receded, which glistened. The man was wide, there could be no doubt about that, but he didn’t look like the drones who flogged packets of nylons on the pavement outside Oxford Circus tube station. He was dressed in an understated way that said he knew the value of money but wasn’t interested in flaunting it.

“Sorry,” Edward said. “I didn’t realise I was interrupting.”

“Who are you?” the first man said.

“Violet Costello sent me. About a job?”

“Ah yes,” he said, nodding with sudden vigour. “I remember. Sit down. We’re nearly finished.” His voice became harsh as he turned to address the second man. “You’ve got to pull your socks up, man. I’m fed up to the eye teeth of you and the other blokes let people get away with it. You’ve got no brains and no ability. You don’t ever admit liability, never–do you understand? Giving money to the old fool who brought the Rover back, what were you thinking?”

“But you told me yourself that the guarantee–”

“Guarantee? Nuts! That’s just talk. You’re a salesman, Ford, you sell things. You leave the business to me. Guarantee? Stone the crows! Guarantee! Unless you can get that into your thick skull you can find yourself a new job. You and all the others. There are plenty of men willing and able to take your job. Take this fellow here.” He referred to a pad on the desk. “It’s Mr.–Mr.–Mr. Fabian, isn’t it?”

Edward nodded that it was.

“Mr. Fabian is only a bona fide war hero, decorated and everything. While you were running around Salisbury Plain finding excuses not to get sent to the front, Mr. Fabian was up to his neck in bloody Japs. Only got the Victoria bleeding Cross, didn’t he?”

Edward did not know how to respond to that.

“Do you have anything else to say?”

“No, Mr. Ward.”

“No indeed. Now–clear off.”

The man stood and, apologising again, shuffled out of the room.

Ruby Ward shook his head and stood up. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Half the lads I’ve got here couldn’t sell a car if their life depended on it, and the other half give money back when some old fool complains that the one they’ve bought isn’t running right. They’d have me out of business if I didn’t keep an eye on them.”

He extended a hand and Edward took it. He noticed that he pressed a knuckle into his palm. A freemason; Edward wondered if returning the pressure would mean favourable treatment.

He smiled brightly at him, revealing two rows of beautifully white teeth. “I’m Ruby Ward. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“Now then–Violet was telling me you’re after a job. She says you’re a University man, and that you did well for yourself in the Far East. I can use a person like that. You worked in sales before?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Never mind. If you’re as clever as she says you are then you’ll pick it up.” He took his coat from the back of his chair and slipped it on. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll give you the tour.”

He went down to the garage, passing a battered old Austin-Seven that Ward said he had picked up for a song the previous afternoon. It had certainly seen better days. The motor was over the inspection pit and his man, Joe Buck, was underneath it, shining a light onto the chassis. Ward explained that Buck was his “fixer.” He had no formal qualifications as a mechanic but he was an artist when it came to taking beaten up motor cars and making them look halfway decent again. He could only do so much, and even someone with Ruby’s patter would struggle to flog a car like that on for more than twenty quid, but it didn’t matter because Ruby never bought them for more than a fiver.

“How is it?” Ruby shouted.

“It’s in a right mess, boss,” Buck called up out of the pit. “If it was a horse, I’d’ve shot it.”

“Lucky I pay you to mend ‘em, then. What are you going to do with it?”

Buck hauled himself out of the pit, scrubbing sweat off his forehead with the edge of his dirty sleeve. He looked at the Austin critically and sucked his teeth. “I’ll wind the clock a bit, take a few hundred miles off it. The engine ought to run well enough for another six months, maybe a year. The rest of it will be easy enough: the wing stay’s loose but I can anchor it with wire and insulating tape; there are rattles in the chassis, but some wet cardboard rolls will dampen them down; I’ll tie the battery box to the frame with string and change the oil. We had a delivery yesterday–very cheap. What it lacks in cleanliness it makes up for in heaviness. Perfect for what we need.”

“Good man.”

Ruby explained that he paid Buck forty-five shillings a week and a bonus of sixpence for every car he saved from the breaker’s yard. He took the cars as part-exchange, more of them than he knew what to do with. Some didn’t need that much work: a splash of paint, a squirt of oil, a new pair of tyres. The others he reserved for Buck.

They entered the main showroom. Five cars were carefully parked so that the spotlights overhead could sparkle down across their polished bodywork. Another row of similar cars was arranged on the forecourt, visible through the big plate glass windows. Prices had been written on the windshields and a sign overhead proclaimed GOOD CARS WANTED.

Ward poured two cups of tea from a pot on a small table and gave one to Edward. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “I’ll give you a quid a week. Every car you sell is worth another quid to you on top of that. Simple, right?”

“Simple.”

“You’ll pick it up in an hour or two. If I were you I’d have a look around this morning, see how things get done. Watch the other lads, that’ll get you an idea of how they work. Once you’re happy with that, you might as well get stuck in. You’ll need to pull your weight, mind–Violet’s recommendation got you the job, but it won’t keep you in it if you can’t sell. Understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Ward,” he said. “I do.”

“Now then, we can’t have you dressed like that.” Ward looked at Edward’s suit with a distasteful expression. He peeled two pound notes from a roll he kept in the pocket of his jacket. “Get down to Marks and Spencer and buy yourself a new suit, a couple of shirts and a pair of shoes. We’ll treat that as an advance on your first two weeks, alright?”

Edward took the notes. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

“Not a problem,” Ward said, turning away. “Just don’t make me look like a mug, alright?”