Authors: Mark Dawson
The night was set for the following Friday. Edward spent an hour preparing himself, shaving and brilliantining his hair until it was neatly slicked. He hadn’t seen Chiara for a couple of days and he wanted to make a good impression. He dressed in a new suit that he had purchased earlier that day, matching it with an icy white shirt and a narrow black tie. He was polishing his shoes when Joseph emerged from his room.
“What do you think?” Joseph said.
Edward thought he looked like a prince, and told him so. His suit was sharp and his shoes were from Belgrave. The genuine Vicuna-hair overcoat over his arm cost sixteen guineas. He was wearing a tie-pin that they had seen in a Mayfair shop-window. It was set with a large pearl as big as his little fingernail, shaped like an onion, that looked like it had been blown out of a tiny bubble-pipe. The ticket had said thirty-five pounds and twelve shillings. He had put a brick through the window and had away with it.
It was a gloomy night, the fog thick and damp. Edward drove them into the East End to collect Eve from the small house she rented with a friend. She was waiting behind the door and opened it before Joseph could knock. As she carefully slid into the back of the car, Edward noticed the curtains flicking back and the face of another girl, framed in the gaslight, staring out with a mixture of anxiety and jealousy.
“Where’s your sister?” she said to Joseph, a little alarmed.
“Don’t worry,” Joseph told her.
“You said––”
“You’ll still have your virtue. She’s meeting us at the restaurant.”
They arrived at Claridges at a little after eight. The restaurant was full, with the first seating of diners coming to the end of their meals and their replacements enjoying aperitifs at the bar. Chiara was waiting for them. She kissed Edward and then her brother on the cheek.
“Goodness me,” she said. “Look at the two of you.”
There was a single empty table and it had been reserved for them. They took their seats and Edward relaxed, looking around the room at the tables full of contented diners. He turned to smile at Chiara. He noticed that her eyes were rimmed with red. And did she look a little pensive?
“Are you alright, Chiara?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been crying.”
“I’m probably worrying about nothing but––”
“Worrying about what?”
“Oh, it’s Roger. The silly old dog. He’s missing.”
“How do you mean?” Joseph said.
“Exactly that. It was bright yesterday afternoon so I let him out––he loves to lie in the sun. I watched him trot out to the lawn and settle down and thought nothing else of it. I was distracted, I can’t even remember what about, but then I realised I hadn’t heard him bark to come back in. I went outside to look. This was six by then, maybe even seven. I looked through the grounds but I couldn’t find him anywhere. I went straight across to Mr. Austin––you know how he chases his birds sometimes––but he hadn’t seen him. I got back home at ten and he still wasn’t there. And I couldn’t find him this morning, either.”
Joseph was ordering a bottle of Médoc from the waiter. “He’ll turn up,” he said when he was done.
“But what if he doesn’t? He’s an old boy now. He never stays outside on his own any more. What if something has happened to him? Maybe he was hit by a car?”
She started to cry. Eve looked worried and confused. Joseph––who could foresee the end of the evening if urgent steps were not made to rescue it––looked pleadingly across the table at Edward.
He took her hand. “It’s alright,” he said soothingly. “He doesn’t strike me as the kind of dog who’d go far. Is that right?”
“No––he never does.”
“Exactly. And so maybe he’s been shut into a shed or a barn. If you ask me, he’ll be home when you get back. And if he isn’t, I’ll drive straight down to you and we can have a proper look around. How’s that?”
“Would you?”
He smiled at her. “Of
course
I would.”
She squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Edward. I know it’s silly but that dog’s been with me since I was a little girl. I’ve always doted on him a little, haven’t I, Joseph?”
“You certainly have,” Joseph said, rolling his eyes.
“Don’t tease me,” she said, managing a smile of her own.
Not wishing to miss the improvement in her mood, Joseph quickly seized his moment, filled their glasses and raised his. “Cheers,” he toasted. “To good friends. Let’s have a splendid night.”
* * *
A LIGHT FALL of rain had slicked the streets as they emerged outside. The fog had lifted and the clouds had moved away. A clear, open sky spread out overhead. Edward was lightly drunk. It had been a delightful evening. Joseph had been in riotous good form, dominating the table with stories from his childhood, from the war, about the host of characters he knew from The Hill. Chiara had painted the detail inside the lines of her brother’s broad strokes. They spoke about some of the characters from their childhood, friends of their father: Angelo Ginicoli, Pasquale Papa, a bookmaker called Silvio Massardo whom they called ‘shonk’ on account of the size of his nose. Joseph recounted a story of how Harry and George were trapped one night in the Fratellanza Club in Clerkenwell, and were saved from being shot by the manager’s daughter, a poor girl who was in love with Harry.
Edward was content to sit and listen, enjoying the stories, his friend’s high spirits and Chiara’s furtive glances in his direction.
The foursome made their way to Piccadilly Circus, the reflections from the advertisements stretching out across the wet pavements in long, neon stripes. A coster offered chrysanthemums at sixpence a punch and Joseph bought five shilling’s worth––practically an armful––and gave them all to Eve. She stammered out her thanks but Joseph didn’t allow her the chance to finish. He pulled her in close so that the blooms were flattened between their bodies and kissed her on the mouth, the two of them framed for a moment in the light that slanted from the window of a Cypriot café.
Chiara slipped her hand inside Edward’s and gave it a squeeze.
“Who wants another drink?” Joseph said.
Eve looked torn, keen to accede yet reluctant at the same time. The hesitation won out. “No, I’d better not,” she said. “I’m working tomorrow.”
“Then take the day off,” he said. “I’ll pay you what you would have earned.”
“No, that’s alright––it’s getting late, I’m tired and my friend will be expecting me. And I’d be letting the restaurant down, and that’s not fair. Do you mind awfully?”
“What’s the matter with you?” Joseph scowled, irritation flickering darkly. “It’s been a nice evening. Why would you want to spoil it?”
Eve could see the change in his tone, the stirring of his anger. Perhaps she remembered it from when they were younger? Chiara noticed it, too. “Leave her alone, Joseph,” she said. “I’m tired as well, it’s past midnight. Do you mind, Edward?”
“No, of course not.”
Chiara took Eve’s hand. “We can share a cab. Look––here’s one now.” She flagged the driver and he swung in to park alongside them.
Joseph had no time to react. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” Eve said. “Perhaps we could do something together another time?” She added, quietly, but not so quiet that Edward could not hear her, “Just us?”
Joseph was caught between thwarted desire and anticipation. Edward knew that he was not used to being defied, especially when it came to women. Chiara had said as much: he always got his own way. Yet Eve was special and frustrating him just made him even more determined to get what he wanted. “Of course,” he said, banishing his scowl with a gorgeous smile as easily as flicking a switch. “We’ll go for dinner. Me and you. That sounds lovely. Alright?”
Eve smiled in response, relieved that she had not, after all, offended him.
They bid them farewell and got into the cab. Edward and Joseph watched until it had turned the corner.
Joseph shook his head. “What was that all about, Doc?”
Edward clapped him on the back. “She’s shy.”
“She never used to be.”
“She’s older now. Perhaps it means more.”
“That was what you and my sister were there to sort out.”
“You’re going to have to be patient.”
“Not one of my strengths.” He sighed but then, just as quickly, perked up. “Women! I need a proper drink. You aren’t going to turn me down, are you?”
“Certainly not,” Edward said. “Lead on.”
32
CHARLIE MURPHY tailed the taxi all the way across London. He could hardly believe what he had seen in Piccadilly Circus. He had followed Edward and Joseph to the restaurant but he hadn’t noticed the two girls until they all emerged together at the end of the night. He recognised Chiara Costello. She and Fabian had been together several times recently and it seemed likely––if a little improbable––that they were stepping out together.
It was the sight of the other girl that had knocked him for six.
He had had to check and double check and even then it had taken him a little while to be sure that it was Eve. He hadn’t seen her for five years. She had been fifteen, then, and now she had grown into a beautiful young woman. The coltish innocence of youth had been replaced by a knowingness that he found difficult to match with his memories of her but there was no question about it.
He was sure.
It was definitely her.
Five years. As he followed the taxi into the East End he thought of the effect that her sudden disappearance had had on his brother. Poor Frank. It had almost destroyed him. It had been at the same time as the murders in the West End and he had been convinced that she had been one of poor doxies who ended up as victims. His single-minded obsession with the case had been driven by his fear. They had cleared that case up and still there had been no sign of her and so he had kept searching. He left the police soon afterwards and set up as a private investigator so that he would have more time to look and less protocol to observe. He had continued the search for five long years but he had found nothing. Frank was not a man prone to speaking about his feelings––and the brothers were not close––but Charlie had spoken to Frank’s wife and she had told him how it had torn him apart. Their marriage had failed, he had turned to the bottle and the loss was still tormenting him, even today.
And now this. Charlie thought about it, peering through the smeared rain on his windscreen at the taillights of the taxi in front. He had found her. Here she was, fresh from dinner with Joseph Costello, the presumptive heir of London’s most notorious criminal family.
He already knew what he was going to do.
The taxi turned into the Old Ford Road and stopped beside a terrace halfway down. Charlie pulled over too and switched off the engine and the lights. The taxi’s door opened and Eve got out, pausing to say something to Chiara Costello before closing it, waving as the cab set off again. She turned and disappeared into one of the houses.
Charlie got out of the car and followed her to the door.
He knocked.
Eve was still in her overcoat.
Her mouth dropped open.
“Eve,” Charlie said.
“Oh, God.”
“Can I come in?”
She thought about that, her mouth opening and closing, and, for a moment, Charlie wondered if she was about to shut the door on him.
“Uncle––”
“I think we’d better talk, don’t you?”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“I’m not going away, Eve.”
She stepped aside and he entered the hallway. It was a simple two-up, two-down. The door ahead of him led to the kitchen. A flight of stairs ascended to the first floor where, he guessed, he would find two bedrooms. The toilet was probably in the yard. She led the way through the door to the left. It was a sitting room: neat and tidy, a table and two chairs and a reasonable sofa arranged in front of the wireless. A bookshelf full of books. A few feminine trinkets here and there: a vase of daffodils on the table; a crocheted blanket folded neatly over the arm of the chair. He trailed his finger over the mantelpiece: no dust. These were the signs of a house-proud occupier. Charlie wondered whether she lived here on her own.
She sat quietly in the armchair, her legs pressed together and her hands clasped tightly on her knees. There was no colour in her face. She seemed unable to speak.
“Eve,” he said gently. “Where have you been?”
“Manchester.”
“For all this time?”
“Until last Christmas. I was working as a waitress. Then I came back.”
“Your father––”
“Please,” she said, the mere mention of him seeming to unblock dammed emotions. The entreaty was freighted with desperation. “Please, Uncle Charlie. I don’t want to see him.”
“He’s your father, Eve. You know what this has done to him?”
She looked down at her hands. “I––”
“Eve?”
She looked up, her eyes suddenly fierce with life. “I don’t care. I don’t want to talk to him. You mustn’t tell him you’ve seen me.”
“Why?”
“Because I hate him.”
“You don’t hate him.”
“No, I do.”
He sighed. “How can I not tell him? He’s my brother.”
“Because I’m an adult now. It’s my choice whether I see him or not. And I’m asking you to respect that.”
He crossed to the bookshelf and ran his finger along the spines of a series of penny-dreadfuls. He knew he had to proceed with a delicate touch if he was going to nudge the situation the way he wanted. “Why did you run away?”
“I was seeing a boy. He told me I couldn’t.”
“Are you seeing him again now?”
She regarded him suspiciously. “How did you find me?”
“Is it Joseph Costello?”
She looked at him with undisguised panic. “How did you know?”
“You were with him tonight.”
“You were following me?”
“No––I was following him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a criminal.”
“He’s a rogue. That doesn’t make him a bad person.”
Charlie shook his head. The girl was blinded by emotion. He sat down and took out his cigarettes.
“Give me one of those,” she said.
Look at her, all grown up. He shook two out of the packet and handed one over. There was a matchbook on the mantelpiece; she struck a match and lit hers. Charlie lit his own with his lighter.