The Soho Noir Series

by Mark Dawson

  On the second day in the hotel he started to plan an escape. His luck had held for too long and now it was beginning to turn. What was to stop him making a run for it? Nothing at all. He had a decent amount of money. He could sell his car and empty his accounts and make off with it all. Where would he go? Europe seemed suddenly too hot for him but what about America? How was that? He would drive to Liverpool, sell the car there and board a transatlantic liner. What better place to make a clean break and start afresh? He had so nearly succeeded with the Costellos. Who was to say he would not be more successful the second time?

  Something stopped him. He could not abandon his father again. There was also a sense of unfinished business. He did not want to run. The realisation helped him to settle his thoughts. In the end, his thoughts settled on Chiara. He wrote to invite her to London so that they might have dinner together. She replied by return, her enthusiasm obvious, saying that she would be delighted. In a postscript she admitted to feeling claustrophobic at Halewell Close and that a night out was just the tonic she needed. Edward had counted upon as much.

  He checked out of the hotel and took a lease on a furnished apartment. He planned the evening carefully. He booked a table at the Ritz, went to his barber for a shave, a trim and a vibro-massage, and then picked out his best suit, matching it with a crisp new shirt and tie that he had bought for the occasion. He dressed and regarded himself in the mirror that he had hung on his bedroom wall. There was no question about it: he looked absolutely splendid. He looked, he thought, like he had money and knew how to spend it tastefully. The years had been kind to him, he thought, lending him an air of sophistication that had not been there before. He was the kind of man who looked best when he had a little money. He had worked hard to get it. It took talent to notice the right opportunities, and then skill and great patience to exploit them. He had invested time and effort in the family and he would not allow Violet or Joseph or anyone else to prevent him from getting what he deserved.

  He met Chiara at the restaurant, the maitre d’ greeting them and showing them to a prime table. He slipped a pound note into the man’s hand as he shook it and went around the table to remove the chair for Chiara to sit down.

  “This is a rare treat,” she said. “To be honest, I couldn’t wait to get away.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You haven’t heard about what’s happening at the house?”

  “No.”

  “It’s that nonsense with Jack Spot. Violet has put two of George’s best men in the gatehouse at the end of the drive. She’s worried he’s going to try and do something. She hasn’t let me out for the last week.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “She thinks I’m with Joseph.”

  “Oh dear,” he said. “Best it stays that way––she’s not very fond of me.”

  “She won’t admit it, but this whole situation is getting to her.”

  There was a short pause as Edward decided how to start the conversation he knew that they must have. It was the reason that he had invited her to dinner and there was no point in delaying it but yet the thought of what she might tell him in response made it difficult to begin. He had the sense that this moment was important and, as it assumed more and more gravity, it became correspondingly more difficult to address. He started to speak and then, suddenly fearful, he stopped.

  Chiara noticed his awkwardness and smiled sweetly at him. “I know about you and Joseph,” she said. “Your silly tiff in Paris.”

  Edward gaped. “Have you spoken to him?” he asked anxiously.

  “I have. And he feels absolutely awful about it.”

  “So do I,” Edward confessed urgently. “What did he say?”

  “That it was a foolish argument and that he regrets it very much.”

  Edward was surprised by the sudden rush of relief that washed over him. “I wrote to him,” he said. “He didn’t reply.”

  “He was still angry when you sent it. And now that he isn’t angry, he doesn’t know what to say to fix it all up and then, on top of everything else, he’s had Eve to think about.”

  “Think about what?”

  “Oh,” she said, blushing a little. “Of course––you don’t know.” The waiter delivered the menus and Chiara was silent. Edward found that he was avid for the news, his stomach churning as the man described the specials and until he left the table. “This is probably about as foolish as your argument,” she continued, “especially since they’ve only known each other again for half a minute, but he proposed to her the other night and she said yes.”

  “My goodness!” he said.

  “They’re talking about getting married at the end of the month. The service would be in the local church and then there’ll be a big party at the house.”

  “It’s all very sudden.”

  “I know. It’s lunacy. But it will give the two of you a chance to make it up. He’s planning a thing”––she fluttered her hand as if it were something amusingly distasteful––“with his friends. Last night of freedom, I suppose, something along those lines. I suspect it will involve all the pubs and clubs in Soho. I can’t think of anything worse but, anyway, he asked me to apologise for what happened and to tell you that you have to go.”

  Edward’s mind went blank with relief. He felt the surge of his old confidence. It wasn’t too late, after all. He had made a dreadful error and yet he had not been punished for it. He had been given a second chance.

  He became aware of some people waving at them from a table on the other side of the room. Chiara noticed them too. “Who are they?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Edward replied, making a vague sign of greeting in return.

  “Well, they certainly seem to know you.” She folded her napkin, laid it on the table and stood. “I’ll just be a moment. Would you order me a drink?”

  “What will you have?”

  “A gin, please. I shan’t be a moment.”

  Edward watched her cross the restaurant to the corridor that led to the bathrooms. He caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror that hung from the opposite wall and seeing again how swell he looked helped to restore his mood. He was still gazing at himself when he noticed the man who had waved at him get up and leave his table. His stomach fell. He took up the menu and pretended to be absorbed by it but it was no use. The man approached and stopped by his table.

  “Pardon me, are you Jack Stern?”

  Edward smothered a frightened gasp. The man was next to him, crouching, his left hand resting on the table and his body turned at an angle to face him. He had him trapped against the table. Edward stared at him, paralysed. He didn’t look like a policeman but perhaps that was the point of it. He had heard of the Ghost Squad, after all, and perhaps it was their tactic to send someone who looked anonymous, to give that man the best chance of apprehending him before he could flee. Or perhaps he was a private detective. There had been others but not for many years. The man was well-dressed, like all the others in the restaurant, sporting a beautiful dinner jacket, his generous belly constrained by a scarlet cummerbund and his hair swept backwards across his head, a little grey at the edges. He smiled at him, a happy beam of greeting, and now Edward’s frantic brain groped for the right thing to say.

  “It is you,” the man said, not waiting for his reply. He looked a little tipsy. “I knew it. I saw you when we came in––I said to my wife, ‘That’s Jackie Stern or I’m a Chinaman’ and I was right, wasn’t I? I wasn’t sure but then I realised, you’re not wearing your glasses. How are you, old chap?”

  “I’m sorry, I––”

  “Goodness, my manners. It’s Bert? Albert Whitchurch? We met in Cannes. I’m not surprised you can’t remember. My God, it must’ve been thirty-eight or thirty-nine––before the war, in any event. I was down there with Clara, my wife––look, she’s over there.”

  Edward followed his gesture across the crowded room where a woman in a black dress and pearls was waving broadly at him. He cast
his mind back to the time he had spent in France and found that the name was faintly familiar. Albert and Clara Whitchurch. That’s right, he thought, he did remember them. A well-spoken chap, a polished wife, quite a bit of money. Was he an industrialist? It was something like that. They had met next to the pool at the Carlton and shared a couple of meals together. They had aroused his interest.

  “Do you remember?” he pressed. “You were going to Venice.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, speaking in a deep voice to master the quaver in it. “I’m afraid I’m not who you think I am.”

  “You’re not Jackie?”

  “I’m afraid not. My name is Fabian.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. I could’ve sworn you were someone I met in Cannes. You’re his doppelganger, old boy, his absolute spit.”

  The conversation was awkward and uncomfortable. He thought of Chiara and he turned towards the corridor that led to the bathrooms. He could not see her, but he couldn’t wait for her to come back. It was too dangerous.

  “Well,” Edward said. “I’m extremely sorry to disappoint you.”

  The man nodded, a slightly vacant expression on his face. Edward could see that he did not know what else to say. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. Enjoy your evening.”

  Edward waited for the man to wander back to his own table and then laid his napkin down and stood. Whitchurch was talking to his wife, and she looked over at him with a confused expression. He hurried to the cloakroom, collected their coats and took them to a spot where he could intercept Chiara before she returned to the restaurant.

  “Whatever are you doing?” she said.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he said breathlessly. “Let’s take a cab and look at the moon.”

  “You’re crazy! It’s freezing out there.”

  “I want to show you my new place.”

  “What––now? What about dinner?”

  “I’ll cook for you at home. Really, I can’t wait to show you. I’ll be terribly distracted all evening unless we go right now. What do you say?”

  She grinned at him. “Well, then,” she said happily. “Why not.”

  * * *

  EDWARD FUMBLED IN HIS POCKET for the key to his apartment. They had diverted to a bar on the way back and had enjoyed a bottle of champagne. Chiara swayed a little as she stood by his side. She was the worse for wear.

  “Hold on,” he said to Chiara. “It’s in here somewhere.”

  The apartment was in a large Victorian red-brick building on Wimpole Street. It was of decent size and it had been expensive. He wanted his apartment to be elegant, to be at least comparable to Joseph’s, and he intended to spend a generous sum furnishing it. The apartment had one bedroom, a sitting room with a small interconnecting study, a compact bathroom and a kitchen. The expensive furniture suited the neighbourhood, he felt, and contributed to the image that he wanted to present.

  “I’d love a smoke,” she said. “Do you have any?”

  “Certainly.” Edward took out a packet of filched Lucky Strikes and tapped out two cigarettes. Their fingertips touched, briefly, as he handed her the cigarette. He took the match and used it to light the two large candles on the table. Warm, flickering light was cast around the room.

  Chiara took a greedy pull on the cigarette. “I had a lovely evening. I enjoy spending time with you.”

  “And me with you.” He smiled at her. She sat down on the edge of the settee. She gestured that he should join her and he did, sitting next to her.

  She rested the cigarette in the ashtray, took his hand and leant towards him. She closed off the distance until her lips brushed against his.

  Slowly she pulled his head towards her.

  Edward put out a hand to her left breast and held it softly. He lifted her hand and put it round his neck. Their mouths met and clung, exploring. A small night wind rose up outside and moaned round the building, giving an extra sweetness, an extra warmth. The candles began to dance in the breeze from the open window, the golden light flickering against the ceiling and the walls. A pigeon landed on the balcony outside, its wings clattering through the air. Chiara shrieked, her closed eyes opening. She looked at the window, saw the fat-breasted bird strutting along the balustrade, and laughed. Her mouth drew away. She smoothed Edward’s hair and got up, and without saying anything, opened the window and clapped her hands. The bird flapped away. She stood away from the window and turned back to him. She undid her blouse and dropped it on the floor, then her skirt. Under the glint of moonlight from the open windows she was a pale figure, her soft pastel shadow extending forwards. She came to Edward, took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom. She undid his shirt and slowly, carefully took it off. Her hair smelt of new-mown summer grass, her mouth of champagne, and her body of baby powder. She lay down beside him. The filtering moonlight shone down on them both as he leant across, bridging the distance and touching his lips to hers.

  * * *

  THEY AWOKE AT EIGHT O’CLOCK and it was the same glorious thing again. This time she held him to her with tenderness, kissed him not only with passion but also with affection. He lay back down on the bed and rested his head beside hers on the pillow. He leaned across to kiss her, at first softly, and then more fiercely. Her body stirred. Her mouth yielded to his and when his left hand began its exploration she put her arms round him. “I’m catching cold,” she complained. Edward pulled the single sheet away from under him and covered them both with it. He lay against her and drew the fingernails of his right hand softly down her flat stomach. The velvety skin fluttered. She gave a gasp and reached down for his hand and held it still.

  She looked into his eyes. “You do love me a little bit?” she said. Her tone was playfully pleading but her vulnerability was unmistakeable, as if his answer was very important indeed.

  Edward whispered, “I think you’re the most adorable, beautiful girl. I can’t believe that you’re Joseph’s sister. I wish I’d met you as soon as I got back.” There was at least a little sincerity in his sentiment, but he amplified it for her benefit it. The stale words seemed to be enough. She removed her restraining hand.

  When it was over and they lay quietly in each other's arms, Edward knew that she was his.

  51

  BILLY STAVROPOULOS PARKED HIS CAR a little way down the road. He was close enough to observe the comings and goings from the apartment block but not so close so as to be noticed. He looked around critically. Fabian had moved to a posh area, he thought. Wimpole Street was to the north of Oxford Street, and adjacent to Harley Street. It was lined with red-brick Victorian apartment buildings, elegant four and five-storey blocks that sheltered behind the curtillage of the ash trees on either side of the street. Billy had strolled along the road twenty minutes ago, pausing at the steps that led up to the wooden front door of number two-two-one. A glass-fronted panel next to the door announced five apartments, with a neat FABIAN written alongside apartment ‘B’.

  He had returned to the car and did not have long to wait. The sun had sunk behind the building when the door opened and Edward Fabian appeared, framed in the light from the lobby behind. He paused at the top of the stairs, holding the door for a second person. Billy squinted through the gloaming. Unbelievable, he thought, shaking his head. He cursed quietly as he recognised Chiara Costello. She linked arms with Fabian and they walked down to the street together. He was wearing a dinner jacket and she was wearing an elegant dress and a fur stole. They were together? Who would have thought it. They were going for an evening out. That was good, Billy thought, putting his jealousy aside. That was perfect. He would have plenty of time. He reached across to the passenger seat and picked up his leather gloves. He put them on and picked up a small jemmy, hiding it inside a folded copy of the morning’s Times. He stepped out of the car, locked the door and strolled towards Fabian’s building.

  He trotted up the steps and made to tie his shoelace as he inspected the door. It was not substantial. He checked up and down t
he street and, satisfied that he was not observed, he inserted the tip of the jemmy into the narrow space between the door and the frame, right below the lock, and gave it a sharp backwards yank. The frame splintered and the door swung open. Billy went inside and quickly made his way up to the second floor. The door to apartment ‘B’ was off the landing. Checking again that he was alone, Billy tried the handle. To his surprise, it had been left unlocked. He opened it and went inside.

  The flat was dark. Billy took out a torch and worked quickly from room to room. There was an empty champagne bottle and two flutes in the kitchen. A dress had been neatly folded across the back of one of the dining table chairs. There were two toothbrushes in the bathroom, together with a compact, a bottle of Italian Stradivari cologne, two lipsticks and a blusher. Billy picked up the lipstick and absent-mindedly twisted it, then took the bottle of cologne, held it beneath his nose and sniffed it. He replaced it on the stand and went into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, the sheets ruffled and a pillow dislodged onto the floor. Billy shook his head. Fabian was a good-looking fellow, he supposed, but Chiara Costello was something else, and he’d been having it away with her. Lucky bastard. Another reason to stitch the lying cowson up.