The Soho Noir Series

by Mark Dawson

  He snorted. “You saw how they reacted the last time you tried that. You’re not family, Edward. It wouldn’t go down well at all.”

  Edward gritted his teeth. You’re not family. He did not respond to that, even though the truth of it stung. It was a reminder that that would always stand between them, a gap he could not cross. Joseph stood with his arms folded, staring out of the window behind them. Edward fumbled for the right thing to say, unable to find the words, his attention switching from the smell of the Senior Service between Joseph’s fingertips, to the curlycued grain in the wood of the bar beneath his hand, to the tight pressure in his stomach as if someone was holding their palm against his navel. The sense of frustration and inarticulateness was agony to him and, helpless to stop himself, he said, “Jesus, man, someone has got to do something.”

  Joseph snapped. “Leave it out, Doc, alright? For God’s sake––on and on and on, every bloody day. I don’t need your advice. We don’t need it. You’re starting to be a bore.” Joseph started to say something else, his eyes flicking away as he considered better of it. He took a breath and said, instead, “Violet is sharp and she doesn’t mess about. You think she got to be where she is now by sitting around and letting things happen? She’ll have something in mind for Spot. We’re just going to have to trust her and brazen it out.”

  There was no point in pressing him and so Edward reluctantly let the matter drop. He drank quickly, his mind working. He had been presented with an opportunity to make something of himself. A chance, and he had only really scratched the surface of it so far. To be stood at the side, watching impotently as the family slowly imploded, crippled by fear or inertia or laziness at the very moment that he arrived, was torture. He felt sick at the thought of it. It was almost more than he could bear.

  46

  EDWARD WAS IN THE SAME ROOM as the last time he stayed at Halewell Close. He laid his suitcase on the bed and changed out of the comfortable clothes he had worn for the drive from London, choosing one of his new suits instead. He applied pomade to his hair, shaved, and then regarded himself in the mirror: he looked very fine. He crossed the room and opened the window, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke out into the cool night air beyond. It was eight o’clock and the light had faded, replaced by a gloaming that made strange shapes of the lines of trees and made the landscape beyond the garden murky and indistinguishable. He saw his new car, next to Violet Costello’s Packard. It was a Triumph Roadster, the lights of the house reflecting on the highly polished, blood red bodywork. It had an 1800cc engine and a four speed gearbox with synchromesh on the top three ratios. There were large headlamps at the front and the radiator was set back between large “coal scuttle” wings. He was always taking taxis or relying on Joseph to drive him around and, now that money was less of a problem, he had decided to splash out. Ruby Ward had arranged the car for him. It had been enjoyable to return to the showroom. He was not fond of the other salesmen, and he knew that they would be jealous to see how far he had travelled in so short a time. It was brand new, not second-hand, and he had paid for it in cash. It had been a pleasurable way to spend an hour. Their gawping incredulity had been worth it all on its own.

  The car was a beauty, and he loved it. He loved to own things, carefully selected items that he could cherish. He was not materialistic, but he liked the kind of things that said something about a man and his standing in the world. Excellent clothes and fine shoes, well-chosen pieces of jewellery, cultural artefacts that spoke of taste, tables at the best restaurants and seats at the opera. They gave a man a sense of self-worth. They spoke of his substance. It was more than just the impression they projected to others, although Edward was aware enough to know that that was a part of their appeal to him. They provided him with ratification. They were the proof that he had done well and that, despite the rotten cards he had been dealt so often in his life, he had still made a success of himself on anyone’s terms. They made a mockery of the self-doubt that sometimes whispered in his ear. He had owned those things before and, together with the lavish lifestyle that he had arranged for himself, they had made him as happy as he had ever been. He had had to abandon it all when he had stopped being Jack Stern. All he had taken with him into the jungle were his memories, and they had been just enough to make the worst moments bearable. It would never have been possible to make a beginning of reacquiring those things on the pitiful fifteen shillings a week that the Labour Exchange paid to him. It would have taken him a decade, even if he lived frugally, to buy the things he wanted. Joseph and his family had given him the opportunity to acquire them more quickly. The money would allow him to travel to Paris with Joseph and to do the trip properly, to fly first class, to stay in the best hotel and to enjoy the best restaurants. Paris would only be the beginning: he was already planning a trip to Athens and Rome, he wanted to return to Venice and he had heard that the Adriatic Coast was spectacular. His circumstances would allow him to begin his book collection again and, to that end, he had spoken to a dealer on the Charing Cross Road who said he would be able to source the first edition Dickens, Dostoyevskys and Conan Doyles to replace the volumes that he had had to sell. It would grant him the leisure to attend the Opera or to wander without direction through the sober halls of the Tate or the Royal Academy or even to find a struggling artist and to serve as their patron. It allowed him the opportunity to demonstrate his taste and the aesthetic discretion that set him aside from the likes of Joseph and Billy and all the others. They simply could not have been any more different to him. They were plebeians, ignorant and unappreciative of the things they were lucky enough to possess. It would allow him to support his father and uncle, too.

  He looked down from the high window onto the Triumph below, on the voluptuous curves of its bodywork with the chrome details, and he smiled happily.

  He sucked down on the Senior Service and exhaled into the darkness. Chiara had written to him and invited him to spend the weekend at the house. He was flattered, and had happily accepted. A break from London would be good for him, and it was an excellent chance to improve his relationship with the rest of Joseph’s family. He had hoped that Violet would be at the house and yet, when that was confirmed by the sight of her car as he pulled up earlier that night, the prospect had made him anxious, too. He knew that there was an opportunity to impress her, and that that was essential if he was to continue to ingratiate himself with the family, yet subjecting himself to her waspish temper filled him with apprehension. He wanted to speak to her, too, despite Joseph’s warnings. Spot was a problem and yet he was also an opportunity. If Edward could propose a solution he knew it would be good for him.

  He finished the cigarette and lit another, smoking that until he had his equilibrium properly under control. He found his way down to the drawing room. Chiara was standing before the hearth, a fire burning in the grate.

  “Hello,” she said, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek.

  “You look lovely,” Edward told her, and she did. She was wearing a pleated skirt and a contrasting jacket. The colour of her face was warm in the glow of the flames.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Is your aunt joining us?”

  “I’m afraid so. Is that alright?”

  He smiled. “Of course.”

  “I think she’s in a good mood, if that’s any help.”

  “It’s quite alright, Chiara. It’ll be good to get to know her properly.”

  They spoke for a few moments until Violet Costello entered. She was wearing a midnight blue cowl neck dress. Her hair was meticulously styled, as ever. Joseph had not considered her age before then, but, as he assessed her, he guessed that she must have been in her late fifties. She looked younger than that tonight.

  She came to the hearth and kissed him on the cheek. “Edward,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “And you, Miss Costello.”

  “Please––it’s Violet.” The butler brought over three glasses of champagne. V
iolet raised hers and proposed a toast: “To friends and family,” she said, “the only things that really matter.”

  Edward touched glasses with Violet and her niece. Friends and family. Chiara winked at him from behind the glass.

  “It’s good that we are able to do this,” she said, “during such difficult times.”

  “Very,” Edward agreed.

  “Did you know Tommy Falco very well?”

  “A little––through Joseph. He was a good chap, I thought.”

  “I knew his mother and father,” she said sadly. “I remember him as a youngster. He always was a bit of a tearaway, he used to give them both fits. His heart was in the right place, though. He was always good to his mother. He knew what was important.” She smiled a tight smile. “Never mind. We won’t worry about it tonight.”

  Chiara excused herself for a moment as the butler returned with a tray of canapés.

  Violet regarded him with carefully. “There’s one thing I have to say, Edward, while we’re alone––you should know that I’m very protective of my nieces and nephews, the girls in particular. When my brother, their father––when he died”––she paused thoughtfully––“well, there wasn’t anything else for it. I’ve treated them as my own ever since. It’s flesh and blood, isn’t it?”

  “I understand,” Edward said.

  “You said you were an orphan,” she said. “Do you mind me asking what happened to your parents?”

  The lies were at the front of his mind and came easily. “My mother died when I was a child and my father just after the Great War.”

  “How were you brought up?”

  “In an orphanage.”

  “How dreadful!”

  “It wasn’t ideal, but you manage, don’t you?––you do your best with what you have.”

  “Was your family from London?”

  “Yes,” he said, although they were not. Practice lubricated his lies. He had anticipated questions about his background and had rehearsed the story in the car until he was confident that he could deliver it as if it was the truth. He adjusted his stance, and made it more relaxed by resting his hand against the mantelpiece. Violet’s posture was open and friendly. Edward found he was able to relax.

  Chiara returned and Violet insisted that they all have another glass of champagne. Edward sipped his, careful not to finish it too quickly because he knew that she would insist he have another. He was happy to drink enough to quieten his self-consciousness but he did not want to drink so much so that he would become drunk. After half an hour Violet suggested that they should eat and led the way into the dining room. The table had been laid for three, with expensive cutlery and crockery, polished glasses and two large candlesticks with lit candles. They moved across to the table and took their seats. Violet kept returning to the subject of Edward’s childhood. “How did you manage to get to University with such a start? It’s very impressive.”

  “Hard work and a bit of good fortune, I suppose. I’ve always been rather bookish and I did well at school, well enough to sit the entrance exam and pass it. The rest took care of itself from then.”

  “And what will you do for your career––you don’t intend to knock around with Joseph forever, I’m sure? Will it be medicine?”

  He sensed that Violet wanted to hear that he was ambitious, and that his ambitions were legitimate. He was happy to oblige her. “I should think so,” he said and then, as he noticed her approval, he added, “Yes, I think, eventually, it will be medicine.”

  The conversation was dull and unchallenging, and Edward was able to navigate it without incident. Violet seemed fascinated by his background and asked what he could remember about the orphanage, and how he had managed to transport himself to the cusp of a career in medicine. She seemed especially impressed with that, and kept returning to it. Edward answered her questions with a combination of modesty and bashfulness, feigning awkwardness at being the centre of attention but, in truth, the evening could not have proceeded any better if he had planned it.

  “Did you know I have a son?” she mentioned without preamble.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Joseph’s never said anything?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she said.

  “Joseph and Victor never really got on,” Chiara explained.

  “Victor found him a little––limited. Would that be fair to say, darling?”

  “I suppose so,” Chiara replied. She rolled her eyes when Violet looked away into the fire.

  “Where is he?”

  “Italy. He was in the Army, like you. Egypt to start with, then Greece and back to Egypt again. They didn’t know what they were doing at the start of things. Victor was captured at Tobruk and then shipped to Porto St Georgio. And then when the Italians capitulated in 1943 he led the escape from the camp.”

  “And then the Germans arrived,” Edward said.

  “Of course. I don’t know all the details––lots of secrecy, obviously––but Victor has been fighting as one of the Partisans. Italy is our home and he is a very patriotic boy––to be honest, I wouldn’t have expected anything else from him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “A place called Rassa, in the Borgosesia valley. He’s been helping with the rebuilding. And I believe there has been work to do with regard to the Fascists who were left behind, too. Trials and executions.”

  “I’d like to meet him,” Edward said.

  “I’m sure you will.” Violet smiled absently and stared into the fire again. Chiara raised her eyebrows in mild amusement.

  The main course of chicken was brought out. They ate quietly for a while, just the sound of cutlery against their plates breaking the silence. “You have a beautiful house here,” Edward said eventually.

  “Thank you.”

  “The first time I saw it––my goodness, it took my breath away.”

  “We’re very lucky to have it.”

  He cast a hand around, gesturing to the room. “I can’t imagine what it must cost to maintain.”

  He had made a mistake and he realised it immediately. “What do you mean by that?” she said, her voice suddenly tight and clipped.

  He felt Chiara tense next to him. “Just that it’s so big,” he said, “the repairs, the staff––it must cost a fortune.”

  “It’s not a problem,” she said. “Why would that be a problem?”

  Chiara glanced at him, a warning in her eyes. He began to sweat. He smiled at Violet, trying to recover his poise. “I’m sure it isn’t.”

  “Then why would you say that? Do we look like we’re short of cash?”

  “No, no,” he said, backtracking furiously, although he could see it was a problem––that much was obvious from the shabbiness of the furniture, the scuffed paint, the leaks and spills that had discoloured the plaster––and he had offended her by suggesting, however obliquely, that they might not have the funds to do the house justice. Why had he said that? What had he been thinking? It was a foolish error.

  “I don’t think Edward meant that, Aunt,” Chiara said.

  “I think it’s absolutely splendid,” he followed quickly, “I’ve never been anywhere like it before. Spectacular––really quite spectacular.”

  Violet allowed herself to be placated. The embers of her temper flickered, then abated. “My brother bought it twenty years ago. Has Chiara told you about him?”

  “Yes, Aunt,” she said. “I’ve given him all the stories. I expect he’s heartily bored of all of them.”

  Edward smiled at her and said that he was not.

  Violet did not catch Chiara’s hint and seemed determined to speak about her family’s past. “Harry was quite a man. Strong and decisive––he wouldn’t stand for some of what goes on these days. He had no time for weakness.” She spoke haughtily. “I don’t know what you think of things these days, Edward. Society. Young people, they don’t have any respect for anything. Some of them seem to think they should be g
iven everything on a plate. Nothing is for free, is it? They need to get their sleeves rolled up and work for what they want. You agree, I’m sure?”

  He thought about how difficult it had been to find any money, the humiliation of the Labour Exchange, the scarcity of accommodation, the deprivations that he only managed to save himself by falling in with Joseph. He thought of it all, and decided it was better not to mention it. “I do,” he said, instead. “I think there are always opportunities if you are prepared to go out and look for them.”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Quite so. Just as you have done.”

  Wasn’t it ironic that Violet should agree with him when he was looking for opportunities right at this very moment? That was amusing, he thought, but, as he considered it, he suddenly felt vulnerable. Surely she could see his agenda? Wasn’t it obvious? The confidence rushed out of him and shivers of fear ran up and down his spine. He told himself that it was irrational. He had convinced them of his story and so there was no need to be afraid, no need at all. He was too clever for her, for all of them.

  “A penny for your thoughts?” Violet was asking him.

  “I was just thinking about my parents.” The lie slipped from his mouth without him even thinking about it.

  A tray with a bottle of brandy and three glasses was delivered to the table and Edward took it upon himself to pour. They repaired to the drawing room where they enjoyed another glass each, Violet becoming increasingly mellow as she reminisced about Little Italy, Chiara smiling contentedly to herself and Edward struggling to tamp down the fear that he had said something he ought not to have said and was about to be discovered. He wished the dinner was over and that he could get back to his room. He got up from the comfortable sofa several times, taking his drink to the fireplace, fretting with a loose button on his jacket, and, when he looked into the mirror, he watched a tic jerking in his cheek. He toyed with the button for too long and the thread snapped. He slipped the button into his pocket and undid the others to obscure the damage. He felt dreadful.