by Mark Dawson
57
EDWARD BRACED HIS ARMS against the sides of the wooden-panelled corridor as the train rumbled around a sharp bend. He continued along the carriage, checking through the windows of the compartments on the left of the corridor. The train was on the fringes of the metropolis now, and most of the compartments had emptied out as commuters disembarked at the end of their journey home. He made his way along to the end of the corridor and the final compartment. He had checked earlier; it had been full, and he had decided to wait. Now, it had emptied out. The lone occupant was sitting facing the direction of travel, a copy of the Times held open before him. A glass of gin rested on the small table fixed to the wall of the carriage, ice clinking against the sides as it moved with the motion of the train.
Edward had done his research. Everything Charles Murphy had said to him in the dining room at Claridges had been true. He was the youngest detective chief inspector at the Metropolitan Police in living memory. Hugely ambitious and ruthless to a fault. His career had been made by the apprehension of a serial murderer during The Blitz but he had built on those strong foundations in the years that had passed. His own father had been one of his victims. The newspapers called him the “Scourge of the Underworld” and said he was spearheading the Commissioner’s public promise to root out black marketeers and put an end to gangsterism.
It was all true.
Edward wanted to speak to him somewhere quiet to reduce the chance that they would be seen together as much as possible. He paused at the door, his eyes on the man, and then on the landscape rolling past the window. The world keeps turning, Edward thought, and here I am, about to make myself a grass, the lowest of the low. But it was necessary, he told himself. There was no question about it any longer: it was what he needed to do.
The last few days had been miserable. His time with Chiara had been uncomfortable, undermined by a persistent chill of anxiety that he could not dismiss. It was the same with Joseph. Had Billy said anything about him, he wondered? Every cross word, every disagreement, and Edward convinced himself that the cause was Joseph’s knowledge that he had deceived them all. The sudden weight of guilt made Edward sweat, droplets on his forehead and on his back, his palms slick and damp. He needed to act. It would remove a dangerous threat and provide him with an opportunity to put his career with the family into its natural and proper place. He had wrestled with his decision and was happy with it. It needed to be done. Without it, he would probably have to leave, to flee, to go abroad.
He would never get what he deserved.
No. He knew he was doing the right thing. He had no choice.
He slid the door aside and stepped into the compartment.
“Detective inspector,” he said.
Murphy looked up, unable to prevent the expression of surprise that broke across his face. “Edward.”
He pointed at the bench on the opposite side of the compartment. “Do you mind?”
“It’s a free country.”
It was a knowing reference to their first meeting in the restaurant. Edward pretended a smile––he hoped that it might mask his nerves––and sat.
“How did you know this was my train?”
“I’ve been following you.”
“You didn’t think to make an appointment?”
He laughed derisively. “Really? You know what would happen to me if they found out we were talking, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course––foolish of me. George would cut you up into tiny little bits and throw you into the Thames. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said to me.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And?”
“And perhaps we can work together.” The train’s horn sounded, up and down, long and short and short again. “This situation in Soho––I’m no expert, but, the way I see it, it’s completely out of control. There are the Costellos on the one side, not as powerful as they were but still heavily involved. And then, on the other side, you’ve got Jack Spot. Ambitious, ruthless, not clever enough to be subtle but very dangerous––he has his eye on what the Costellos have managed to hang on to and he wants it all for himself. And, as you say, men have already died: Lennie Masters, Tommy Falco and the others. And they won’t be the last, will they? How am I doing so far?”
Edward wanted to make him recall their previous conversation and see how the boot was on the other foot now. Murphy knew what he was trying to do and glared at his impudence. “Not too bad,” he said, tightly. “Please––go on.”
“You know Ruby Ward?”
“Of course.”
“You know about the fire at his garage this morning?”
“Yes.”
“The whole place––burned to the ground.” He shook his head solemnly. “From what I heard, he was lucky not to have been killed. Can’t have been an accident, can it? Spot knows Ward works with the Costellos. He fences all their stuff. If you ask me, that was Jack upping the ante again.”
“Maybe.”
He leant closer. “Inspector, you’ve staked your reputation on being able to clean up the West End and, with respect, none of this is making you look very good. More bloodshed makes you look even worse. I don’t know what it’s like to be in the police, but I do know the army. Let’s say we had the Tojos causing trouble in a particular area and my commanding officer ordered me to put a lid on them, only it gets worse before it gets better. I reckon, in a case like that, odds are I’m going to get a bollocking and given something else to do. It’s definitely not the way I’m going to get myself that promotion I’ve been hankering after. Like I say, I don’t know how you work all that out in the police but I reckon it’s got to be similar.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “As you say––you don’t know.”
Murphy’s weakness was his ambition and the screw only needed to be tightened just a little more so that the bait Edward was laying down became impossible for him to resist. “Just for the sake of argument, we can agree it’ll be better for you to get on top of this, right? Before it gets worse.”
“And what can you do to make that happen?”
“How long have you been chasing George Costello?”
“Long enough.”
“What if I said I could deliver him and a dozen of the family’s men?”
“I’d wonder if you had a death wish. George Costello is not someone I’d want to cross.”
“No, he isn’t. Me neither. But I know what I’m doing.”
“Fine––then I’d say I’m interested. And I’d ask you how you could do it.”
The light disappeared as the train thundered into the mouth of a tunnel. The noise of the engine reverberated against the walls, smoke gathering against the brick, and Murphy reached up to close the window.
“The Costellos have been running a very large black market scam for the last four months. They’re stealing goods and Ruby Ward has been flooding the market with them. It’s lucrative––immensely so, worth thousands and thousands of pounds. It’ll make what you’ve been looking into look like small change in comparison. How much do you know about that?”
“A little.”
“But not enough?”
“No.”
“I can tell you everything: how it’s operated and where they’re getting the goods from. I can tell you the next time they’ll be collecting the merchandise, and I can make sure that George Costello is there. Red-handed. You’d just need to be there and mop them all up. Sentencing is stiff for black marketeering these days, isn’t it?”
“A couple of years. Maybe more.” He leant back and, regarding him shrewdly, he pursed his lips. “I’d be interested in that. In principle. But that’s only half of the problem. What about Spot?”
“What if I told you that I could make sure that he was sorted out, too? That he and his men wouldn’t be a problem in the West End any longer?”
“How?”
He shook his head. “You’d have to leave that one with me.”
> “Alright––assume for the sake of argument you can do all that. But you wouldn’t be doing it out of a sense of altruism, would you?”
“We’ll call it self-preservation. You were very persuasive.”
“What do you want? Immunity?”
“That, and something else. Just remember what you’d get in return: the Costellos and the Spot Gang out of commission. Peace on the streets that you can take the credit for. None of it at any risk to you. It’ll be my head on the block, not yours.”
“Out with it, then––what do you want, Fabian?”
The train cleared the tunnel and the moonlight returned, bathing the landscape in silvers and greys.
Edward leaned closer and looked Murphy dead in the eye. “Billy Stavropoulos.”
“You want him arrested?”
He nodded. “I tell you where and when. Arrest him, keep him out of the way for a day or two and then bring him to me.”
Murphy sucked his teeth. “And then?”
“And then you leave.”
“And then what happens to him?”
“Not your concern.”
“What’s he done?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He shook his head. “You know I can’t possibly do that.”
“Those are my terms. They aren’t negotiable.”
“Then I think we’re finished here. Good night, Fabian.”
Edward smiled at him. “Just think about it. Those things you said before––about how ruthless you are. I believe you. I recognise your character. I went back and read those newspaper reports from the Blitz, the murders you solved, what you did to catch that man. Your father, too. I read about that. You knew it in the restaurant––we both did––we’re cut from the same cloth. Ambition. I can tell––it drives you as much as it drives me. And we’re both ruthless. We don’t allow people to get in our way. I’m offering you the chance to decimate the gangs. Think of your reputation. All I want in return is Billy Stavropoulos––a nasty, murderous little crook who would cut your throat as soon as look at you. It’s a small thing in comparison and it’s not up for debate. You can take it or leave it. But if you turn it down, think of how many more men are going to die until Jack Spot finally gets what he wants. How many more Lennie Masters and Tommy Falcos will there be? Think of the bloodshed. The chaos. How will that make you look? Really, inspector, you must weigh it all up. Is Billy worth that? My terms are reasonable.”
The drinks trolley clattered along the corridor outside. Murphy was quiet, his expression opaque. “I’ll think about it,” he said at last.
“Don’t take too long. My information will only be good for another few days. If you don’t move soon, the chance will be lost.”
“Give me until tomorrow.”
“How will I know?”
“I’ll be on this train. Be on it again.”
58
FIVE IN THE EVENING AND THICK, choking smog hung over the landscape in a cloying pall. The streets huddled close, geometrically and depressingly perfect, lines of identical workers’ terraces built for the docks, a thousand chimneys sending smoke to thicken the miasma. The gardens in this particular street were, like all the others, small and prim at the front and unkempt at the back. Edward had observed the view as he drove East: row after row of barren grey streets, straggled allotments, derelict waste ground. Litter blowing in the gardens. Bomb sites and overflowing bins. Cars rusting against the kerb with no petrol to run them. Children out late in rationed clothes that had been patched and repatched until there was nothing original left. The streets were busy: men, alone and in pairs and in small groups, shuffled forwards in the wan light, all of them slouching home, away from the same location: the docks, and the unending trainloads of goods that needed to be unloaded and dispatched.
He had been busy. Spot had seen him before, albeit briefly, and he did not want to take the chance that he might be recognised. He had visited his uncle. They had drawn a bowl of water in the tiny bathroom and Jimmy had treated his hair with a rinse to make it darker. He had combed his hair across his scalp and then moved to the tray in his lap. It held what looked like barbershop floor sweepings but Jimmy shook it out and revealed it as a beard fastened to an almost invisible, flesh-coloured gauze. Jimmy fitted the moustache first and then the beard, fixing it in place with a light glue. It felt odd to have hair on his cheeks and lip but the effect was adequate. He had stuffed his cheeks with cotton wool to adapt the shape of his cheekbones, added a pair of heavy spectacles with plain glass lenses and then smiled at his reflection in the mirror, just gently so as not to disturb the still setting glue. His face was barely recognisable and he was pleased with how it looked. It would be good enough.
Edward parked the car near to the Boleyn Ground. This was deep in Jack Spot’s manor, the heartland of the criminal empire that he knew, with sombre conviction, was inexorably spreading west. Edward had made discreet enquiries and had learnt that Spot generally took his dinner in the working men’s club on Green Street, next to the Boleyn Ground where West Ham played. It was said to be his headquarters, a collection point for the mixture of East End toughs, Jewish heavies and gypsies who made up the majority of his strength. Edward got out of the car, shivering in the damp cold, and walked the few hundred yards to the club. The door was open and he went inside. The room was large, and thick with smoke. There was a bar at the opposite end, a series of tables scattered in between and two or three dozen men: some were drinking and eating, others were talking, others were playing darts or bar billiards. Edward paused at the entrance, his stomach seething with nerves. He was in unfamiliar territory and, suddenly, he felt out of his depth. The men at the nearest table had noticed him, pausing to regard him with unveiled hostility. Edward gathered his courage and went to the bar.
“I’m looking for Jack Spot.”
The barman was wiping a cloth over a dirty glass. He looked him over. “Who’s asking?”
He raised his chin and spoke firmly: “Dick MacCulloch.”
“What do you want?”
“That’s for me and Mr. Spot to talk about. Is he here? Can I speak to him?”
The barman put down the glass and stared at Edward for a long moment. Edward held his eye, the nerves still fluttering in his stomach. “Wait here,” the man said.
Edward stood at the bar and started to fret with the edges of a towel that had been spread over a spillage. He knew that he was taking a risk by coming here, a big one, but there had been no alternative. There was Spot’s reputation for violence, for one thing, but he was less concerned about that than he was about the Costellos. If he was spotted, and the news got back to them… well, that didn’t bear thinking about. He would have preferred to send someone else but who was there? Jimmy would have been a possibility, but he was still black and blue from the beating that Billy had dished out, and who else was there after him? No-one. It had to be him.
The barman returned. “This way,” he said. He led the way to a room at the back of the club. It was plain, furnished with a table and two chairs and a filing cabinet. Crates of beer were stacked against the wall. Edward recognised Jack Spot. He was alone at the table, eating a plate of liver and onions and drinking from a cup of tea.
“Sit down,” he said to Edward pointing to the empty chair opposite him.
Edward did as he was told. Spot was dressed impeccably, in an expensive suit with a bright red handkerchief folded in the pocket. A crombie had been hung from a hook on the wall and a trilby rested on the crates of ale. Spot himself was an impressive figure. Although he was sitting, Edward estimated that he must have been well over six feet tall. His face was ponderous and heavy, full of flesh, somewhat ruddy––his face might have been stone to Edward. He had large grey-green eyes that flicked and darted, or perhaps he was one of those people who never looked at anyone they were talking to. His shoulders were wide and his hands enormous.
He picked up the tea and sipped at it.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr.
Spot.”
“Eric says you have something you would like to discuss?”
He flinched and touched his moustache with his finger. “I do. Business.”
He replaced the cup in its saucer. “I’ll let you have a minute. I don’t normally appreciate my dinner being interrupted, so you better make it interesting.”
“Thank you.”
“Fifty seconds. Get to it.”
“I work for a freight company.”
“Doing what?”
“Driving trucks.”
“I see. Freight?”
“That’s right.”
“Valuable?”
“Sometimes.”
“And the opportunity?”
“There’s a consignment of whisky being delivered to the depot in the next couple of days. Very good stuff, Mr. Spot––it’s worth hundreds of quid, especially with the way things are.”
Spot stabbed a piece of liver and inserted it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “And what does that have to do with me?”