The Soho Noir Series

by Mark Dawson

  “He hasn’t mentioned it?”

  “Not a word.”

  McVitie frowned. “Best you ask him about that,” he said.

  “And his mother?”

  “Nothing about her, neither?”

  “No.”

  “That ain’t surprising,” said Falco.

  “What about her?”

  He winced. “Best let him bring that up, too. It’s––what would you call it, Tommy?”

  “Delicate, Jack.”

  “That’s right. A bit delicate.”

  “Is she alive?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “Where is she, then?”

  “Honestly, Doc––best you let him talk about her.”

  Edward took the hint and didn’t pursue it any further. Whatever it was, it was something that both McVitie and Falco were awkward about discussing. They didn’t appear to be shy about anything else, and so, whatever it was about Joseph’s parents, it could wait until he was ready to talk about it himself.

  17

  THE MEAL FINISHED and, as the waiters started to clear the debris from the tables, the guests moved back to the drawing room. A gramophone had been uncovered and records were being played, a few of the younger guests dancing to the music unselfconsciously. Edward had been persuaded by the others to move onto spirits, and after two glasses of a very good––and very potent––single malt, he was feeling quite light-headed.

  He was standing by the fireplace when Violet Costello came alongside. She was with a heavy-set man who bore the scar from a razor across his right cheek.

  Violet smiled pleasantly at him. “Mr. Fabian,” she said.

  “Please––call me Edward.”

  “This is Lennie Masters,” she said, indicating the man. “He works with the family, too. Lennie––this is Edward Fabian.”

  “How do you do?” Edward said.

  The man regarded him dubiously but took his hand nonetheless.

  “This is the one who’s working with Ruby?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “And how are you finding the automobile business, Edward?”

  “I’m enjoying it,” he lied. “Thank you for your help. I’m very grateful.”

  It was a chore, and he knew he was destined for much better, but the job was serving its purpose well enough. He had made some money, at least. Most of it he had passed to his uncle, who had in turn used it to pay some of the outstanding bills for his father’s care. The risk of his being refused treatment, or removed from the sanatorium, had been deferred, and that was a relief.

  Violet waved her hand dismissively at his thanks although Edward could tell that she enjoyed it. She was, he concluded, one of those people who took pleasure not so much from being in a position to do another a favour, but from that other person knowing that they are in that position. The perception of status was clearly of importance to her, and being able to dispense favours––so that others might benefit from her munificence––was pleasing to her. Edward was very happy to let her think he was grateful, and, more importantly, impressed.

  Lennie Masters excused himself, leaning down so that she could kiss him on his scarred cheek.

  Violet explained that the garage was one of several businesses that the family owned and that she was happy to be able to help a returning soldier. “I was thinking about that,” she went on. “The family has a connection with a journalist. He’s freelance, I believe, but he often has his pieces in the national newspapers. I saw him for lunch yesterday and he said that he was interested in a piece about soldiers returning from the war––how they find things back home, that sort of thing. I think it’s disgraceful the way the government is treating you men. You, especially, with the Victoria Cross, it’s shocking that even someone like you should find themselves in such difficult circumstances. I happened to mention that to him and he thought it would be a capital idea to write a piece about your experiences.”

  Edward’s stomach turned with panic. “I don’t know, Ms Costello,” he said. “I’m not really one for publicity.”

  “Nonsense, Edward. It’s shocking that men like you, men who have fought for their country––heroes, for goodness sake––are forgotten as soon as they get home. Shocking. Someone needs to say something about it.” She smiled at him. “I’d like you to do this, please. I think it’s very important.”

  Edward knew that he was not being given a choice and he knew that this was nothing about politics or the welfare of soldiers. This was a chance for Violet to be publically lauded for her charity. A terrible, jangling fright went over his shoulders and down his legs. For a moment he felt helpless and weak, too weak to move. He imagined his picture on the front page of the Daily Graphic or the Picture Post. A puff piece article, declaiming the way he had been treated and––no doubt––heralding the charity of Violet Costello. The headline would be “Local Businesswoman Helps War Hero,” and the article would be more about her that it would about him. But the damage would be done. From there, it was not difficult to imagine what might come next: a knock on the door in the middle of the night, policemen thrusting their way inside, throwing him in the back of a Black Mariah and tossing him into a cell. Or private detectives following him in the street, assembling their cases against him, drawing the net around him until it was so tight that he couldn’t move.

  “I’ll speak to him tomorrow, then,” she said with a note of finality that said it was pointless to protest. “It’s important, isn’t it, Edward? Something needs to be said.”

  Edward said that he agreed, of course, but when he glimpsed his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece he saw the pained, frightened expression on his face. Violet patted him on the arm, enjoined him to have fun, and made her way across the room to where her brother was talking with a couple of glowering toughs.

  “Alright, old man?” Joseph put an arm around his shoulders. “What did she want?”

  “She wants me to do some press,” he replied, setting his jaw in the hope that it would erase the look of vague fright that he felt must still have been on it.

  “What for?”

  “Something about offering me a job. She says it’s a disgrace that men like us come back to nothing.”

  Joseph laughed knowingly. “That sounds just like her. Violet never misses a chance to get her name in the papers. You’ll do it?”

  “I don’t think she was giving me very much of a choice.”

  “No,” he said. “Probably not. Don’t worry, Doc, I sure it’ll be painless and she’ll be grateful for it. It’s always best to keep her happy. Fancy a breath of fresh air?”

  The blaring, grating drunken voices pressed into his ears and Edward was pleased of the chance for a little quiet. The rain was still falling as they wandered outside into the formal gardens: low box hedges, ornamental ponds, a gravel path that wound down, eventually, to the lakeshore. It was a little cold and neither had a topcoat, sheltered from the rain by two large umbrellas. Edward enjoyed the fresh air in his lungs. Behind them, golden light spilled out from the French doors, and noise as another record played from the gramophone. They reached the water’s edge and, in the shelter of the boathouse, leant against the balustrade. The water beyond shifted and shimmied in the light of the moon, a gentle breeze ruffling across it.

  Joseph took two cigars from his pocket and handed one to Edward.

  “It’s good to see you smiling.”

  Edward drew on the cigar and quickly felt even more light-headed. “Feels like I haven’t had much to smile about recently.”

  “What do you mean?

  “Life could be better.”

  “Money?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t complain,” he said, “the job at the garage has been good, it’s made a difference, but I could certainly do with more. You always can, can’t you? And your Aunt is right––I can’t help thinking the government has forgotten about us––either that or it doesn’t care.”

  Joseph looked dead straight at him. “What if I sa
id I had a way you could lay your hands on some money? Decent money? More than you could make with Ruby.”

  Edward’s interest kindled. “Then I’d say I was keen to hear it.”

  Joseph regarded him. Edward wondered if it wasn’t with something that looked like apprehension. “Do you have an open mind?”

  Edward inhaled from the cigar. “As much as the next man.”

  “You wanted to know how I could afford clobber like this.” He indicated his suit with a downwards brush of his fingers. “Nice cigars, a decent motor, a nice place in town.”

  “You said the horses––”

  “What if it was something else?”

  “Like what?”

  “If I tell you, you mustn’t rush to conclusions.”

  “What, Joseph?”

  He paused. “Me and the lads have been turning over houses.”

  “Very bloody funny,” he said, feigning disbelief, because he knew that was what Joseph would expect.

  “I’m not messing about, Doc.”

  “Come on––”

  “I’m serious. We’ve been at it since I got back.”

  Joseph stared at him: his eyes were flinty, sombre, emotionless.

  “Jesus Christ, man,” Edward exclaimed with as much indignation as he could manage.

  “Don’t be like that––all sanctimonious! No-one suffers. The places we go after, they’re all high end. Classy. Not people like us, struggling to make ends meet, it’s the big boys––bankers, lawyers, professionals––and they’re all insured up to the eyeballs. We take what we want, they make their claim, the insurance company makes sure everything gets replaced. We don’t threaten no-one, no-one loses out, no-one gets hurt.”

  “Are you mad?” he said, playing the part as realistically as he could.

  Joseph fell for Edward’s self-righteousness and pressed on, his conviction blending with anger. “What’s the alternative? Say you’re one of them poor beggars who finds a steady job. I pity them! Payments on the house, payments on the furniture, endowment policy, burial society. Burial society, Doc!––for fuck’s sake––they’re buried already.” He laughed with sudden cold derision. “Fucking burial society. I’ve got mates, blokes I know from The Hill, they’ve never had a house of their own, never had furniture of their own. They’ve got families, nippers, they can’t get credit, they get kicked out onto the street because they can’t pay their rent––a few pennies a week and they can’t even pay that. They’ve put everything in hock and now there’s nothing else, what the hell are they supposed to do?”

  “That’s not the point, Joseph. It’s stealing.”

  His tone hardened. “Fuck the law, Doc. Fuck it. We’re entitled. We gave this country years in that bloody jungle, we got eaten by leeches and shot up by the Tojos, and what do we get when we come home? A band playing God Save the bloody King, a cheap whistle that don’t even fit, a pat on the back and a quid. Thank you very much, boys, welcome home, now piss off. I ain’t having that. No, sir, I’m bloody well not––that just ain’t good enough. And if it means I have to spin a few drums to get what I reckon I deserve, that’s what I’m going to do.” He paused for a moment, the surge of annoyance subsiding. “I know you’re struggling, Doc. It’s obvious. I don’t like to see it, and there’s no need. And, to be honest, this ain’t what you’d call philanthropy. I could use your help––for planning and such like. That brain of yours––it could be a real asset. The better your plan, the less the chance that you’ll get your collar felt. What do you say?”

  Edward assessed. “Who else is involved?”

  Joseph nodded in the direction of the house. “The lads: Billy, Tommy and Jack.”

  Edward chewed a nail as he stared out at the lake, the undulation as the wind brushed waves across the water, rain lashing into it. “I don’t know,” he said, pretending to hesitate.

  Joseph took his arm urgently. “Come on, Doc,” he urged, “it’s easy––you force the door, you take what you want, you hop into a motor and you’re away. Hardly any risk if it’s done right. And we’re entitled.”

  “Alright, Joseph. Don’t go on––I know.” He needed money. Why not this way? The money was as good as if he had earned it. How long could Jimmy keep the restaurant running without his help? A month? Maybe two? No longer than that, surely. What would happen afterwards? Jimmy would have to find something in another kitchen, a job working under someone else, but the loss would cripple him. And, more to the point, what about his father? What would they do if they asked him to leave the sanatorium? How could they cope? It would be the end of him, Edward was quite sure of that. It wasn’t what he had in mind but it could be a means to an end. It could be a start. A chance to bring himself closer to Joseph, to the family, and a way to identify and develop the real opportunities. The hesitation was all for Joseph’s benefit. Of course he was interested.

  They stood there quietly, listening to the rain falling onto the water. Beneath them, a tethered rowing boat jostled against the jetty, a steady hollow thump. Edward rolled the cigar end against the balustrade.

  “I’m thinking of doing one next week––Thursday or Friday,” Joseph said. “That gives us time to have a proper think about it. Sort out a plan.”

  “I’d want to look at it. Look at the place, look at the area, make some suggestions.”

  “That’s what I want,” he said enthusiastically. “Proper planning. That’s why I asked you.”

  Edward stared into the night. He had started to think about how the job might be best carried out, how to minimise risk. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll have a look at it.”

  * * *

  THE VOICES OF PARTYGOERS who were smoking under his window drifted up distinctly as if they had been in the room with him, and the insistent, cackling laugh of one of them made Edward writhe and twitch. He imagined them talking about him, and how he had not fooled them, how he was different, how he did not fit in with the rest of the guests.

  What was he doing here? However was he going to fit in with people like this?

  He struggled out of bed, knowing he was going to be sick, the room wobbling as he negotiated it. He knelt before the toilet and brought up his dinner, spitting acrid-tasting phlegm into the bowl, his head hot and woozy. He went back to his bed and fell instantly asleep.

  18

  CHIARA COSTELLO DID NOT SLEEP WELL THAT NIGHT. She could not settle: her head throbbed from the drink, her mouth was dry and sticky and her mind spun with the memories of the party. She had known that her Aunt would insist that there was an event to mark her twenty-first birthday, and she had been dreading it. She was not an ostentatious girl and did she crave the spotlight. Quite the reverse, she would have been much happier to mark the milestone with a quiet meal with her family and a trip to the theatre. Violet would never have allowed that. She was her niece’s exact obverse. Everything was about image and appearance, and a birthday was all the excuse she needed to throw a lavish party. Chiara had protested when she learned how big the party was going to be but Violet had brushed her concerns aside. “Think of it as your coming out,” she had said, patting her on the hand. “If they do it in Chelsea, darling, we’re fucking well doing it here, too.”

  Image, status, appearance: they were all that mattered to her. That had been the way of it since the day her Aunt had assumed responsibility for Chiara and her sisters when their father had died. The girls had been bred as socialites, glittering little trophies used to proclaim the family’s respectability. What a laugh! Violet obsessed about it. She subscribed to the Tatler and lived by the social diary written by “Jennifer”, plotting the key events of the season and doing everything she could to have the girls included. Chiara had witnessed it twice before, with her sisters, and knew it was coming for her, too. The season ran from late spring through to autumn, and included Ascot, the Queen Charlotte Ball and the Dublin horse show. Most mothers put their daughters through the ordeal in the hope of landing an eligible husband. Violet didn’t care about th
at. She toted the sisters as a means to ingratiate herself with high society.

  Chiara thought about all of that until dawn broke. She gave up the pretence of sleep, pulled on a robe and went downstairs to find a glass of water. It was cold. Hargreaves always thriftily turned down the heating at night. She heard the sound of movement in the kitchen and tentatively pushed at the door. “Hello?”

  Edward Fabian was at the sink, running himself a glass of water. He was wearing pyjamas and one of Joseph’s old robes, the yellow material thick and a little worn, full of military frogs and tassels. “Oh––hello,” she said. Her face broke into a smile. “Can’t sleep?”

  “My head––it’s a little sore.”

  “Mine too,” she laughed. Edward took a second glass, filled it and handed it to her. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “Oh, yes. Very much.”

  “I’m pleased. Thank you for coming. It’s lovely to see my family, and George and Violet’s friends are very kind, of course, but it’s nice to have people my own age.”

  “That’s very kind, but I’m afraid I haven’t been twenty-one for rather a long time.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  He was standing in the light of the wide window above the sink. She looked him over: he did look rather the worse for wear, unshaven and with red-rimmed eyes, but he was tall and good-looking and he had looked rather dashing last night, even in his tired suit. The fact that he had obviously fallen upon hard times was quite romantic. She would have liked to have sat at the table with him and Joseph. They were the loudest and most raucous, and had obviously had the most fun.

  “Do you like the house?”

  “What I’ve seen of it is splendid.”

  “You haven’t had the tour?”

  “We arrived a little late for that.”

  “Would you like to see the rest? I could give you a quick look around, if you have time?”

  “That would be lovely.”