by Mark Dawson
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Why there?”
“We need to speak to your Aunt. This has gone on long enough.”
62
VIOLET COSTELLO MUST HAVE SEEN them as they loped across the fields at the back of the house. They were covered in mud, scratched from clambering through brambles and almost completely spent. They had struck out for Evesham, then followed the route of the A438 to Pershore, Upton-upon-Severn, Welland and Ledbury. They had seen several police cars, and had navigated around a road-block on the road outside Bradlow. It took them eleven hours to cover the fifty miles and they were exhausted.
The storm had gathered strength and now it lashed the countryside with wind and rain. It was dusk and the lantern that had been lit and hung under the porte cochère swung to and fro in the intensifying wind.
Violet opened the front door and came to them. “What’s happened?”
“The police––they were waiting. They arrested everyone.”
“George?”
“Everyone.”
“What about you?”
“Lucky. We were at the back.”
Violet stiffened the line of her jaw. “Get inside,” she said. She called for Hargreaves and told the butler to draw two baths. “You need to clean yourselves up.”
Joseph pointed dumbly at the candles that had been lit.
“The storm’s put the electricity out,” she explained. “It’s been on the wireless. It’s supposed to be quite fierce tonight.” She shook her head in weary resignation. “The perfect end to a perfect day.”
Joseph paused. “Is there something else?”
“It’s Chiara.”
Edward stepped forward. “Is she alright?” he said quickly.
She sighed. “It’s that bloody dog. You might as well see it now.”
“He’s come back?”
“In a manner of speaking. In the back yard.”
Joseph led Edward through the house to the rear entrance. There was a wide courtyard, catching and amplifying the wind as it swooped around the house. A crate had been placed next to the wall. It was three feet long by two feet wide. The lid had been prised free with a chisel, the wood splintered around the nails as Joseph flipped it upside-down with the toe of his shoe. Edward looked down. The body of the old dog was inside, resting on a bed of balled-up newspaper. The dog’s fur was damp in the rain. A wreath had been laid on top of him.
* * *
EDWARD WENT UPSTAIRS to his usual room. A set of Joseph’s clothes had been laid out for him––a suit, a shirt, even a new pair of shoes––and a bath was running in the bathroom. He stripped off his muddy clothes and looked at his body in the mirror: his skin was streaked with mud, and his legs had been shredded by brambles and thorns, dried blood running down from the scratches.
He reclined in the hot water, closed his eyes and listened to the rain beating against the window panes. For the first time all day, he had no audience to persuade, no performance to give. He allowed himself to relax. The day had been perfect. He had ensured that they were last into the base, and then had stalled the engine so that the other lorries could draw further ahead. There had been enough distance between them and the others for escape to be possible and then, when detective inspector Murphy had had the opportunity to renege on their deal, he had chosen not to. He must have removed Billy from the street. Those were the main strokes, but even the details had been better than he could have expected. He had expected that he would have to prompt Joseph to the conclusion that Billy might have been involved but that hadn’t been necessary. He had sown the seed himself. It would be a simple matter to help him nurture that doubt into the certainty that it was Billy who had sold them out. After all, where was he? Who was the only man who hadn’t turned up today? Yes, he thought happily, it really was perfect. He spread soapsuds luxuriously up and down his arms and across his chest, closing his eyes and sinking his head beneath the surface so that he could scrub the dirt from his hair. He emerged again, blinking water away, and chuckled at how it could not have gone any better.
He giggled again, and then sobered himself by deliberately concentrating on the one problem that he still had to solve: how to persuade Violet and Joseph to follow his advice and take the fight to Jack Spot. He had brought them to a desperate pass, removed the threat of Billy from the equation, removed George and his enmity and cynicism, and deftly manoeuvred events so that he could persuade them that Spot had orchestrated the family’s demise. Raiding the restaurant. Burning down Ruby Ward’s garage. The dog. They were hopeless. They would listen to him now. He would have what he wanted.
But was he ever tired! He allowed himself to relax and tried to concentrate on the things he had to do. He thought of Joseph, a few rooms down the corridor, bathing himself at this very moment, his legs as sore and weak as his own, his body covered with mud. He would be confused and angry. He could see the frown across his brow, the hurt in his eyes as he sat brooding about his oldest friend and what he might have done. He would still be doubtful but those doubts would become suspicions when Billy failed to show up. He imagined him tomorrow, setting off for the Hill, knocking on the door of Mrs. Stavropoulos, but she wouldn’t know where her son was, either. He pictured him in Soho, trying the Alhambra, the French, the Caves de France, the Colony, the Mandrake and the Gargoyle and finding no sign of him anywhere… what else was he to think, under the circumstances?
So tired.
A sense of grogginess overcame him and he closed his heavy eyes. The scene dissolved in a wash of greys and blacks and then it was all green and brown, the greens of bamboo and delphiniums and hostas, the browns of teak and mangrove trees, the colours of the jungle, and, overhead, the grey and black spectrum of the monsoon. The air was still and heavy, pregnant with static, and then the rains came. Big, fat, ponderous globules that grew heavier and heavier and then, as if at the press of a celestial switch, fell as a deluge, a great roar of water, thundering against the trees and the earth and river and the mountains. Edward saw himself, at the rear of his platoon, dressed in his khaki fatigues and with his Sten gun aimed out ahead of him, sweeping the vegetation on either side of the narrow road as they progressed towards the bridge across the Irrawaddy. He was scared. Rain washed across his face, blurring his vision. He watched the muzzle flashes from either side of the road, a Japanese platoon lying in ambush, hidden behind screens of bamboo and obscured by the curtain of rain, two type 92 heavy machine guns set on tripods on either side of the road, a lethal firing zone that they were already deep within. The machine guns were ‘woodpeckers’ because of the noise they made, the whirring rat-tat-tat calling out, the men at the front taking the first barrage. Their weapons splashed into muddy puddles as they staggered backwards, arms flailing. The other men got their weapons up and started to fire, shredding the bamboo as they emptied their clips. Edward threw himself into the mud, shuddering as the body of one of the privates collapsed across him, then another falling across the first. He closed his eyes and prayed, his bowels loosening as a third and then fourth soldier was picked off. The woodpeckers fired for thirty seconds straight and then stopped. Eleven soldiers were left dead on the road. The only noise was the thunder and the rain, the cycling down of the guns and the whooped celebration of the Japs. Edward lay still, feeling the thick, warm tick of another man’s blood as it dripped down onto his forehead, onto his lips, into his mouth. Four Japs approached, firing single shots into the fallen bodies, one by one, but not Edward. They missed him. The Japanese paused for a minute, sharing a prayer to their Emperor or whoever the hell it was that they worshipped, and began to fold up the machine guns. It took ten minutes, twenty minutes, then thirty, the guns dismantled and hoisted onto their backs. A banded krait slithered out of the envelope of grass at the side of the road and curled itself into the warm cavity between Edward and the dead man beside him. A snub-nosed meh nwoah monkey sneezed in the overhanging branches. Edward did not move. Finally, the Japanese turned towards the bridge. He shouldered t
he bodies aside, the snake slithering away as he burrowed out from amid the outflung arms and legs, swiping rain and blood from his eyes. He stooped to collect a Sten gun, pressed in the box magazine with shaking fingers and held the trigger, spraying the platoon with bullets. The six men were close, and too encumbered with the woodpeckers to defend themselves, and Edward fired until the magazine ran dry, replaced it with his spare and emptied that, too. Sixty-four shots. He went over to where they had fallen, took a Nambu pistol from the holster of one of the men, and shot them in the head, one after the other. Then, one bullet left in the chamber, he aimed the muzzle downwards, at his foot. He pulled the trigger.
Edward looked around the bathroom, looking for the dead bodies and the Japanese soldiers in the corners, in the laundry cupboard, beneath the bath. He felt his own eyes stretched wide, terrified, and although he knew his fear was senseless he kept looking for them, in the dusky windows and in the mirror above the sink. He lifted his leg out of the water and stared at his foot. He saw the corresponding scars where the bullet had punched its way in and out. He held his breath and dunked his head beneath the water again, letting the warmth envelop him, and then pushed himself up. His body felt leaden and slow, as if he were trying to raise himself out of deep water.
A peal of thunder brought him back to himself again. He got out of the bath and towelled himself dry. He had let his imagination run away with him. They were all dead. The grogginess was just fatigue and hunger. He just needed to manage for another hour, or maybe two, and then he could sleep. There would be more to do tomorrow and then the days that followed, much more, and he would need to be rested to do it, but, for now, he bounced on his heels with satisfaction. He was inordinately proud of himself. The day had been all he could have expected, and more.
63
EDWARD DRESSED AND, putting himself back into character again, made his way down to the study. The storm had grown bigger, and now lightning crackled overhead with thunderclaps, still distant, booming in response. The electricity was still out and it had made the house unnaturally dark, pools of darkness gathered around every corner. He paused to compose himself at the foot of the stairs, his hand on the gilt angel that formed the newel post, and then he went through into the library. Violet and Chiara were sitting in high-backed chairs next to the fire. Joseph was pacing anxiously in front of them. The room was lit with the orange and red of the flickering fire and the warm amber from candles that had been placed around the room.
Chiara got up and hurried to him. “Oh, Edward,” she sobbed. She had been crying. Her eyes were red and her face was ashen.
He held her in his arms. “I’m sorry.”
She held her hand up against her mouth. “Did you see him?”
“Yes. I’m truly sorry, Chiara. It’s horrible.”
“Poor Roger.”
“It’s Spot,” Joseph said. “All of it.”
Chiara buried her face in Edward’s neck. “Poor dog. Poor boy.”
“Are you sure, Joseph? The wreath didn’t say––”
Joseph interrupted him angrily. “Of course it’s him. He’s making it personal: what he did to me, Ruby’s garage, the dog.”
“And this morning,” Edward added.
“Yes, and this morning. It must have been him. Aunt?”
“I don’t know,” she said wearily. “I need a drink. We can talk about it over dinner.”
They repaired to the dining room. It was one of the worst dinners Edward had ever endured. The food and wine were superb, the cuisine of such excellence that would normally have provided him with satisfaction, even happiness, but the quality of the meal was lost on him today. Chiara was heartbroken, Violet’s mood was ambiguous and Joseph seethed with fury. This was all as it should be, of course, but the effort of balancing their responses and then adjusting his own––sympathy where required, then umbrage, then shocked affront––was debilitating. He straightened his back and breathed, his chest aching with tension. They sat in awkward silence as they struggled through the main course. Edward chased the last morsels of sole and butter around his plate, soaking the juice with the last slices of potato, and took a mental stock of the situation. Yes, he thought. Everything was good. He was satisfied.
Hargreaves cleared the plates away and, as if that was the signal to resume the conversation, Joseph brought the conversation straight back to Jack Spot. “You think he spoke to the police?” he said, finishing the last of his glass of wine and pouring again.
“Who else would’ve done that?”
It was all becoming such an effort. Edward recognised the fatigue very well––the languor of a player who, in the furtherance of a difficult performance, has given his all. But he was in the last Act now, and he knew he must persevere. “I agree, for what it’s worth,” he concurred.
Hargreaves returned with soufflés and coffee. Edward attempted to finish his, and failed.
Violet dabbed her spoon through the delicate crust. “But how did he know you would be there?”
Thunder boomed overhead, rattling the glass in the windows.
Edward spoke calmly and carefully. “That’s it, isn’t it? Someone has betrayed you. Someone who’s been involved. They told Spot about Honeybourne and Spot tipped off the police. He wants the family off the street, doesn’t he?––can you think of a better way to do it than this? There’s no risk to him and no more bloodshed. It gets George out of the way, too. The police have done his work for him. It’s perfect. He’ll take his chance and take all of Soho now.” He stopped to let his words register. “If you don’t act now, there won’t be another chance.”
“What about Roger?”
“That must have been someone who knew you had a dog. Someone who knew the house, too, so that they could get in, take him, and get out again. Spot wouldn’t know that without help. And you, Joseph, unless it was all a complete coincidence, he must have been told by someone who knew what you were going to do that night.”
“I feel sick,” Chiara said.
Joseph pushed his untouched soufflé to the side. “Where was Billy today?”
“I’m wondering that too,” Edward allowed. He spoke with elaborate care––the very essence of probity––he would let them draw their conclusions themselves.
“He did all this?” Violet said.
“Who else?”
Violet’s cup made three distinct clicks against the saucer as she set it down. “It can’t be him. I knew his mother and father.”
“Then where was he this morning?” Joseph’s face was redder, and a nerve in his cheek trembled. He set his empty wine glass down rather hard on the table.
Violet went across to the drinks cabinet and poured four brandies. Chiara sipped hers and then, putting it down, pushed away from the table and stood. “This is just pointless talk!” she said indignantly, walking towards the fire. “Talk got us into this mess. There’s no more time for talk. We need to do something.” Her alabaster cheeks had turned to a pale olive colour and her dark eyes flashed at Violet. “Who cares if it was Billy? I don’t. We can deal with that later. Whoever betrayed us, that damage has already been done. It’s what comes next that is important. Look at us, sitting here, eating a pleasant meal, talking about it, doing nothing. Spot has had his way with us for too long. He’s gone too far. Do I need to spell it out? He came to our house. He killed my dog. Father would have had him shot for that!”
Edward was surprised, and secretly gratified, by this burst of vehemence. It was Joseph’s quick trigger that he had hoped to tease into activity. That was why he had spared him from the police and why he had humiliated him before his fiancée. His sister had never shown any interest in the family business before, and, although he had witnessed the Italian side to her personality––the temper, the sudden eruptions of fervour––he had never seen it in this context. She had always been ambivalent––or perhaps even slightly embarrassed––about the family business, or so he had thought. He saw now that he had misread her. It was a mistake that
he was pleased to have made.
Joseph nodded avidly. “She’s right. Edward and I talked about it while we were walking here. He has an idea of what we need to do. You should listen to him.”
Violet sipped her brandy, her eyes glittering over the rim of the tumbler. “Very well.” She turned her cool gaze onto him. Her lips had a firm line, like lips that seldom smiled or spoke. “Tell us, then, Edward––what would you do?”
There was a portentous crack from the woods nearby and they automatically looked out of the window. The tops of the pines and the fir still flexed, but if any tree had fallen, it was too dark for them to see it.
“Well?”
Edward got up and walked to the window just as the wind threw a hard spray of rain against the panes. He winced at it, and then, his back to them all, took a breath and picked his words very deliberately. He had anticipated this, readied himself for it, and, after coming so far, he did not want to fluff his lines. “You can’t just ignore him any more,” he said, his tone calm and even. He spoke as if he were addressing a classroom of children who were not listening very well. “Spot isn’t going to settle for Soho, he wants everything. There’s no other choice––you have to fight back now. If you don’t, he’ll finish you off and then there’ll be nothing left for the family. No business. No income. No position. Nothing. He’ll take it all––this house, even, if he wants it. You don’t have anything to lose and it still isn’t too late. But you need to make a statement.”
She regarded him coolly. “What kind of statement?”
“Something he can’t ignore.”
PART SIX
London
April 1946
64
ST MARK’S WAS THE PARISH CHURCH nearest to Halewell Close. It was a Norman building, laid out in cruciform shape and with seating for three hundred. Violet had hired a London florist to dress the building for the wedding and it had taken three days until she was satisfied: armfuls of flowers had been arranged in vases and tied to the ends of the pews and the altar was lit with twenty large candles that spat and sputtered, throwing dancing shadows across the walls. It was cool and crisp behind the thick stone walls. Plenty of the seats were taken but there were spaces. George Costello and Jack McVitie and the other men who had been arrested at Honeybourne were all absent. Billy Stavropoulos was absent.