The Soho Noir Series

by Mark Dawson

  Edward touched glasses with the others and sipped the champagne. His anxiety about the evening looked silly now. Joseph was a natural when it came to directing the mood of a gathering. When he was in this kind of garrulous, easy-going form, it was possible to watch others as they became infected with his good temper. He had an easy charisma and could be completely beguiling when he wanted to be.

  Bottles of spirits appeared and the drinking picked up pace. Joseph excused himself from the table and went across to the bar. He poured Eve a drink and they started to talk. It was quickly obvious that they knew each other. There was an easy familiarity to their body language, Joseph resting his fingers on her forearm and Eve touching the back of his hand. She was too shy and he was too garrulous for their conversation to be anything other than one-sided, but it was obvious that he was putting everything into an attempt to impress her and, inevitably, he was meeting with success. It wasn’t long before she was laughing freely at his jokes.

  Edward was still smiling at it as Chiara Costello came to his side.

  “Have you had fun?” she asked him.

  “Oh, yes. It was a wonderful evening. And you?”

  “I’ve had a lovely time.” Her eyelids lowered elaborately and then rose again languorously, her electric eyes sparkling.

  “It was nice of you to come.”

  “You came to my birthday, didn’t you? I had to reciprocate. Only polite.” Edward felt himself relaxing into her company. “What have you been getting up to?”

  He looked at her sharply, wondering what she knew, but her expression was open and guileless. “This and that,” he said.

  “Have you thought what you’re going to do now you’ve settled back into things?”

  She must have known that he was busy with her brother. It was obvious: the clothes, the fact that they were living together, none of that could possibly be funded by the job with Ruby Ward, no matter how good he might be at it. Of course, he had stopped going to the garage. He had handed in his cards. There didn’t seem to be any point now that they were doing so well. Surely she would have been made aware of that? And, yet, despite it all, he did not feel comfortable acknowledging any of that to her. He didn’t want her to disapprove and he knew that she would. “I don’t really know,” he said.

  “Medicine, surely?” she said, continuing her wilful blindness. “Could you continue with your studies?”

  “I suppose I could.”

  “But you don’t want to?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose”––he fished for the right words––“I suppose I’m enjoying myself at the moment. Working with your brother.”

  Working? That was a poor choice of word. Edward realised at once that Chiara would know what kind of “work” Joseph was involved in and pretending it was something else must have been insulting to her. She had warned him against it, too, but if she was offended she didn’t show it. She nodded thoughtfully, and said, “I know I mentioned this before, but please do be careful. What Joseph does––it doesn’t have a future. It’s dangerous. The police might seem hopeless, but they’re not. They watch us all the time. They’ll get there in the end. They always do. There’s nothing I can do about him. He’s too set in his ways. You just accept that he’ll be caught eventually, and then he’ll go away. But I’d hate to see that happen to you. It would be such a shame. You’ve got so much going for you.”

  Edward wanted to say something but he felt uncomfortable discussing their criminal exploits with her. Despite her knowledge, it didn’t feel right. A question of manners, he supposed. Something as foolish as simple decorum. But that wasn’t it, or at least not all of it. There was something else, too: he was feeling the tiniest flicker of guilt. Chiara had been blinded by the false image of himself that he had been peddling and he felt guilty at that. He was surprised. Guilt was not something with which he was familiar.

  She saw that he was abashed although she did not realise why. “Goodness, I’m sorry. I hope you don’t think I’m lecturing you. I don’t mean to.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “It’s just––well, I wouldn’t anything bad to happen to you.”

  Edward didn’t know what to say to that. They both sat, fiddling with their glasses.

  “I’ve put my foot in it again, haven’t I?” she said.

  “No, no––not at all.”

  “I was wondering, perhaps we could talk some more––properly, you know, without any distractions. Perhaps you might like a trip up to the house? There’s so much I haven’t shown you yet. There’s plenty of lovely countryside––perhaps we could go for a walk?”

  He was a little thrown by her forthrightness, but he was flattered. “That would be lovely.”

  “Only if you’d like to,” she added tentatively.

  “I would. Of course. That would be charming, I’m sure.”

  “Next weekend? Are you available then?”

  “I believe I am.”

  “Well then, that’s settled. I’ll see you on Saturday?”

  They talked for a while longer, Edward listening politely and complimenting her opinions whenever she paused to take a drink. He saw that she was a little drunk and she talked freely, ranging easily across a range of subjects: her schooling, Halewell Close, her family, Joseph and the others, the best shows to see in London, her favourite restaurants. There was very little effort required on his part to keep up and, so, as he sipped the excellent champagne, he allowed himself to daydream about his future. The guilt was easily subsumed within the anticipation of his improved prospects as he planned where he went from here.

  29

  WHEN EDWARD SET OFF AT SEVEN O’CLOCK the sun was climbing into a powder blue sky. He arranged to borrow Joseph’s Humber Super Snipe and as he settled himself behind the wheel he couldn’t help but appreciate what a fine motor it was. It was the drophead coupé version and, since the morning was pleasant, he lowered and stowed the canopy. The breeze was pleasantly warm and Edward couldn’t stifle the smile as he drove west. The roads were quiet and he was able to put his foot down. He allowed his attention to drift. New billboards bore witness to the flourishing shoots of economic life: Guinness is Good For You, Keep That Schoolgirl Complexion, Try a Worthington. He drove quickly, darting out to overtake slower moving traffic. As he headed further west he passed through slumbering commuter towns, new bungalows springing up on their outskirts like crops of mushrooms.

  A gardener’s van was parked outside the entrance to Halewell Close, the man painting the gates. He doffed his cap to Edward as he turned off the road and onto the drive. Edward returned the gesture, rattling across the cattle grid and accelerating away. The house appeared as he crested the final hill and he found himself thinking with something like wistfulness of the poor neglected property, quietly sliding into decay. A place like that needed an owner who would cherish it, who would lavish the kind of attention on it that it deserved, and he could not help but think that the Costellos had allowed it to go to seed.

  He pulled up and a large black dog trotted from the porte cochère and started to sniff around the car. Chiara followed after it. “Good morning,” she called.

  Edward stepped out of the car and kissed her on the cheek. She was wearing a simple cotton frock and a pair of leather sandals. The dog ambled over and sniffed his proffered hand. It was an old Labrador, black with grey tufts on its chin. “Who’s this fine fellow?” he asked.

  “This is Roger,” she said. “My old dog. He’d like to come with us on our walk. Is that alright?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “How was your drive?”

  “Lovely. Your brother has a very fine motor.”

  “He loves it,” she said, dismissing the car with a flick of her wrist. “Shall we set off straight away?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “This way,” she said, linking her arm through his.

  They made their way through the gardens to the north of the house. There was a wide lawn, then a
copse of fir and ash, and then a wild meadow that stretched away over gently undulating hills. There was a rough path trodden into the grass at the edge of the meadow and they followed it, brambles on one side and the open space of the field on the other. The landscape was open for several miles, fringed in the distance by a thick wood. Edward became aware of the treacly weight and torpor of the air. The last few days had heralded the start of an Indian summer, unseasonably hot for October. From across the fields, dulled by heat and distance, there came the grind and crunch of farm machinery, and calling voices.

  They walked in companionable silence for half a mile. Roger trotted alongside them, occasionally picking up his pace to scout ahead. He would disappear around a corner and then wait for them, his tongue draping from his wet muzzle.

  “How much do you know about the girl Joseph met at the restaurant?” he asked. “Do you know her?”

  “I don’t know her at all. I believe they were seeing each other before he was conscripted.”

  “Joseph said they were sweet on each.”

  She laughed happily. “That poor girl is going to be completely bombarded. My brother can be very single-minded when he thinks he wants something––women especially. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he really goes after this one. He’s very keen. It won’t matter if she’s cool on him. He won’t accept no for an answer. He’ll try and try and try until she gives in.”

  “What a coincidence, to see her again after all that time!”

  She shook her head. “He won’t see it that way. It will be ‘providence.’ You know how superstitious he is?”

  “Is he really?”

  “My goodness, yes! It’s all nonsense, of course, but he doesn’t see it like that. You know he’s religious, for example?”

  “Religion?” he said as they crossed a stile. “Joseph?”

  “Oh yes. Catholic. Well––most of the family are, one way or another. Violet is especially keen, but it’s only because she thinks it’s the right thing for an Italian family to do. Appearances, you know, same as always. Joseph went through a period when he was younger when he was mad about it. It’s not so bad since he came back again. I suppose the things that you see and do in war are enough to make anyone doubt that sort of thing.”

  “Or embrace it more,” Edward suggested. “You’d be surprised.”

  “Well, quite.”

  She turned her head, as Roger let out two or three sharp yelps. While they had been talking he had been nosing his way through the hedge at the side of the field, but now there was an agitated flapping on the other side of the hedge and he disappeared into a gap in the brambles.

  “He’s going after a bird,” Chiara said. “These used to be our birds once; they’re Mr. Austin’s now, after we sold the fields and the woods to him. He won’t like it if Roger gets hold of a partridge. Roger! Come back! Come here, you idiot dog!”

  The dog returned, his head dipped bashfully, his prey uncaught, and they walked on. Edward found that he had relaxed completely into Chiara’s company. She was nine years younger than him but there was a quiet, reserved wisdom about her that made her seem older. Her serenity was contagious. Edward typically felt a buzz of nervous anticipation when he was with other people, a constant background stress that derived, he knew, from the need to remember the all lies that he had told or would tell, the continual effort of recalling the correct lie for the appropriate person. He did not feel that way with her. He almost felt as if he could be himself, or at least insofar as that could ever be possible with anyone.

  “Can I ask about your parents?” he said. “Joseph has never really spoken about them to me. I was wondering, since they weren’t at your party.”

  She shook her head. “I suppose it’s not surprising. Father’s dead. It makes him upset––it’s upsetting for all of us, of course, but he takes it the worst. It happened while he was away.”

  “Oh,” Edward said awkwardly. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, really,” she said, reassuringly. “It’s quite alright.” They walked on a little as she worked out how to say what she wanted to say. “Father was killed two years ago. One of Hitler’s rockets fell on the house he was in. Rotten luck, really––it was one of the last ones they fired.”

  “It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  She dismissed his apology with a shake of the head. “It’s fine,” she said. “Father was with one of his mistresses at the time. It was her house that he was in. They both died. It was too much for my mother. She left us, not that I can really blame her. Father was a bad husband and she stayed with him longer than he had any right to expect. All the other women––he always had one on the go, more than one, usually. The business, he was always out, all hours of the day and night, we never knew where he was most of the time. He tried to keep it secret but mother was always too clever for him. She knew everything. But she never left––I think she got used to the idea that he would always have more than one woman and she accepted it. They argued––she hated that other people knew about what he was getting up to but she still loved him. She knew he’d always come home to her. And I suppose, if I’m being honest, my mother got used to a certain way of life living with my father. He was generous––jewellery, fancy meals, clothes.” She pointed towards the house, the chimneys of which had just appeared over the branches of a stand of nearby trees. “She loved it here, too. He knew he treated her badly, and the presents he bought for her were his way of saying sorry. They would have stayed together for ever.”

  “Joseph’s said nothing to me about any of this.”

  “He’s angry with her. He thinks she abandoned us. I don’t think he’s seen her since he got back. You mustn’t bring it up. He’ll be furious I mentioned it. Do you promise?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  They idled onwards. “He idolised father,” Chiara went on after a short pause. “It’s why he joined the army. He could easily have gotten out of it––all of his friends did. Look at Billy and Jack, faking medical conditions. Joseph was desperate for father’s approval. The attention was always on my other brothers when we were growing up. Has he mentioned them?”

  “No.”

  “Stan works for the family in Manchester, John is trying to go straight and Paulie is in prison.”

  “For what?”

  “Oh, assault.” She relayed this dismissively, as if reporting that he had a nice, safe office job. “They were the ones father thought would follow him into the family business. He groomed them for it––he had them on the races with him early on, they were both up to their necks in it right from the off. But he never wanted it for Joseph––he told my mother once he thought he was too sensitive. There’s some truth in that. Father wanted him to go to school, get an education and a proper career––something legitimate. It drove Joseph mad. I can remember the rows they had about it like they were yesterday––Joseph’s temper, when he gets going, my goodness, you don’t want to be around when he goes off.”

  “Really?”

  “Awful. Frightening, actually. Father was just the same. They were alike in lots of ways.” They followed the path into the copse of fir and ash that had grown up at the foot of the house’s long gardens. “Father fought in the Great War, got a medal, too, for bravery. Then this last one came around and Joseph said he was going to enlist. Father wouldn’t have it. He said he was throwing his life away. They had the biggest argument I can remember––father ended up hitting him and I thought Joseph was going to hit him back. It took Stan and John to keep them apart. After that, the first chance he got to sign up, he took it. You know he lied about his age?”

  Edward said that he did not.

  “He was sixteen when he went away. He’s always been a big lad, I’m not surprised he managed to fool them. He didn’t tell any of us about it. He just went.”

  They walked on in silence, the house appearing as they passed through the last trees.

  “And then when he got back father was dead. I c
an’t imagine how badly he must feel about it now––the last time they saw each other––the argument they had––and then to come back and the first thing you find out is that your father has died and you never had the chance to make it all up. It’s all horrible. This nonsense he’s got himself into now, with Billy and Jack, whatever it is they’re doing––it’s because of father.”

  “Trying to prove him wrong.”

  “Yes, indeed,” she nodded. “And trying too hard. His judgment… my brother is not an idiot, Edward, he’s cleverer than you’d think, I just think that in certain instances his judgment is wanting.” They crossed the scruffy ornamental lawn and stepped over the low hedge onto the gravel drive. “Well, here we are again.”

  “That was very pleasant,” Edward said. “Thank you.”

  She smiled, a broad and happy smile that showed her perfectly white teeth. It made Edward smile, too. “You must stay for lunch,” she insisted, her eyes glowing with an optimism that Edward thought made her look even more attractive. “I told the cook to prepare a picnic. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous of me? We could have it on the lawn?”

  “That would be lovely,” he said, and he could see from her little smile that she had been hoping that he would say yes, that she had been looking forward to lunching with him.

  Chiara fetched a picnic blanket from the house and went back inside to speak to the chef. Edward took the blanket and spread it out across the lawn. He sat down and stretched his legs. He was satisfied with himself. The morning had been a complete success. He felt that he had gathered important information about the family and that he had brought himself into Chiara’s confidence. That pleased Edward most of all. He knew how useful it would be to have her as an ally. It would be another source of information and, if he developed their relationship with the right amount of care, then it would offer other ways of improving his influence within the family.

  Yes, he thought. His satisfaction was justified for he really was making great progress. This talent of his was the only thing that he had ever been good at, but he knew that he was very good at it. He wanted to make himself part of the family and he knew now, for sure, that that was a realistic goal, if he kept working hard at it.