Authors: Mark Dawson
Violet had finished her vodka. She fitted a cigarette into a holder and allowed George to light it for her. “You’ll need to meet him.”
37
EDWARD SPENT THE DRIVE INTO THE EAST END wondering how far he could go with the Costellos. Life had been monotonous after demobilisation and now it was thrilling, a series of hair-raising exploits that he found irresistibly addictive. It was about the exhilaration as they sped away from another ransacked house, the excitement that shivered between them in the car, the sheer, undiluted, ineluctable thrill. It was about money. He was being brought closer to the heart of the family. He had proved his mettle with the robberies and then straightening out the milkman and now he was on the way towards being trusted. He had been given an opportunity. He thought of George and Violet, of their money and power, and he wanted all of that for himself. There were other ways to get it, for sure––other scams and tricks––but those would have to be started from scratch and, he knew, none could ever be as promising as this.
Walthamstow was a large track with two large silver-coloured corrugated-iron stands flanking it. Two further banked kops were at either end where you could stand for a penny. The track thronged with people, queues snaking this way and that, and flat-fare taxis formed a single, unbroken, black line. Racegoers made for the wide entrance gates: some ran, the first race due off in ten minutes, desperate punters scrambling before the odds on their favourites shortened. A brass band played at the entrance to the course, drums and trumpets, all the old standards reprised, the crowd joining in. A preacher called for repentance through a loud-speaker. Hawkers sold programmes and form guides. The murmur of excitement grew as dogs paraded before the eight-thirty.
“This place,” Joseph said, gesturing around. “It reminds me of being at the horses when I was a boy. I remember it like yesterday. They gave me a bucket of water and a sponge. My dad sent me to rub the odds off the boards of the bookies who wouldn’t pay up. My dad and my uncle were like kings. Men tipped their hats to them, no-one wanted to offend them. Everyone knew their reputation––it was enough to guarantee they got what they wanted. A bloke wouldn’t play ball and you’d overturn his stall, scare his punters away. That was usually enough.”
They passed alongside the track. The overhanging floodlights, glaring down on the track, made the grass unnaturally green, the white paint of the starting traps unnaturally white. A long line of bookies called out for bets and advertised odds like fairground barkers. Tic-tac men fluttered their hands, passing messages around the course. “Marshall Plan, ten to one, ten to one for Marshall Plan.” Losing tickets lay scattered around, trampled underfoot. Teenagers stood on wooden stools and paid out money. Men jostled for space, elbowing each other in their haste to give away their cash, notes held out in proffered fists. The bugle went and the kennel men shoved their dogs into the traps. The lights in the stands went out, the grass still more brilliant under the floodlights. The hare rumbled around the circuit, rounded the corner, the traps flew up, the dogs exploded away in a blur of colour. They sped by, feet thudding like drumbeats on the dry ground, cheers rising from the half-crown enclosure, forming a tight pack as the commentator called the race over the course’s loud-speakers, the pitch of the crowd winding up as they turned onto the final straight, cheers mixed with groans as the favourite was overhauled, a long-odds chancer winning by a nose.
They climbed the steps to the members’ bar. Major Herbert Butler was waiting for them at a table. Butler was a man of considerable girth. His hairline had retreated to the top of his crown and what wispy remnants of hair were left he kept plastered to his scalp with handfuls of Brylcream. His eyes were porcine nuggets, his nose a fleshy button and his jowls so pendulous that they spilled over the collar of his shirt, dragging the corners of his mouth with them so that he wore a permanent expression of sour distaste. He was dressed in clothes that would once have been expensive but had not been cared for properly, the jacket and corduroy trousers frayed at the cuffs, the fabric with a dull shine. A packet of cheap cigarettes sat before him. It looked like he was on his uppers.
Joseph approached. “Major Butler.”
The man swung around anxiously at the salutation. “Costello?” He was nervous: his nails were bitten to the quick and he swept regular glances around the room as if he expected to be observed. “You’re late,” he said with the attitude of a man used to giving orders.
“Traffic was murder,” Joseph said with a cool smile.
“You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”
Joseph held his smile patiently. “Well, we’re here now––what do you say we have a chat?”
“Yes, yes.”
They sat down at the table and Joseph began. “My uncle says you have a way to pay back the debt you owe.” His choice of words was deliberate. It would do Butler no good at all to think that his age, experience or rank gave him any kind of authority over them. He needed to remember that he was in hock to them.
“It’ll do more than pay him back.”
“So you say. You better tell me about it.”
“Aren’t you a little young? I thought it’d be George Costello I was dealing with?”
“You’ve been given a chance, Major, and you’re dealing with us. You’d do well to take us seriously. We can leave if you like, but you won’t get another chance.”
He ground his teeth. “Fine. I’m sorry, it’s just––it’s just––”
“It’s just what?”
He paused. Edward could almost see his mind turning. “No, it’s fine,” he said eventually. “I’m based at Honeybourne. Do you know it?”
“The big base near Evesham? I passed through it briefly during my training.”
“You’re Army?”
“We both are.”
“Where?”
“Burma.”
That helped the man to relax. “I was there, too. Bloody place. Took a Jap bullet in the shoulder when we pulled out of Rangoon and that was the bloody war over for me. They transferred me to logistics when I got out of hospital.”
“To Honeybourne?”
“Eventually. The Americans took it over during the war but when they left they handed it back to us. Ministry of Supply runs it now, and we look after it for them. It’ll be bigger now than when you were there––a thousand huts over five hundred acres. Small town, really. They had shops, playing fields, everything.”
“And there’s an opportunity there?”
He laughed dryly. “Bloody right there is. Biggest opportunity I’ve ever seen in my life. When the Yanks went they left all their gear behind. All sorts––you can’t imagine it unless you see it: cars, jeeps, trucks, radios, medical supplies, refrigerators, washing machines. Then there’s gear that’s still on the ration: tinned food, fuel, bedding, towels. They even left half a dozen Sherman tanks. Two bloody Dakotas, for Christ’s sake. Dakotas! Everything’s brand spanking new. A fellow from the Ministry came down to try and put a value on it all. He took one look at the stores and gave up––there’s too much to inventory. But he reckoned it was worth hundreds of thousands.”
“And there’s no record of what’s there?”
“Nothing precise. I doubt even the Yanks know, but even if they did it wouldn’t matter––they’re gone, and they’re not interested in any of it. They wouldn’t care if we dropped it in the sea.”
“Is it guarded?”
“They’ve got chaps on the gate, like at any camp. You couldn’t just walk in off the street and help yourself.”
“But?
“But it’s lightly guarded and they’ve all been bought off. Between us, we’ve already disposed of a few lorry loads.”
“So why do you need us? Why not take it all yourself?”
“That’s the problem––we can manage small loads but that’s missing the opportunity. It’s scale. We don’t have the means to get enough of the stuff off the base and even if we did we wouldn’t have a clue how to sell it. We need someone who knows the black market. George Costello said––”
“Fine,” Joseph interrupted him. “What’s your plan?”
“It’s all worked out. I can get you onto the base, that’s easy, but it’s too risky to take the gear straight to a warehouse or to customers. If it got traced back to us we’d all be buggered. But a captain who used to work with me has just been transferred to an OS Depot at Barry. And we can write transfer orders to move anything we want. We load the gear up at Honeybourne, consign it to the Barry depot and
then
we move it where it needs to go. The chaps at Barry won’t miss it because they weren’t expecting it in the first place. My mate supervises the arrival and departure of the goods in Wales. And if they ever get trouble at Honeybourne, they’ll have the paperwork to show where the goods went. It’ll all look above board. We’ll just say that it must have gone missing there. Call it bureaucratic mismanagement––Christ knows there’s enough of that going on. By the time the Ministry tracks the goods to Wales, the trail will have gone cold. It’s foolproof.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“There are four of us. The lieutenant colonel, me, my mate and a lieutenant. “
“The C.O.’s involved?”
“It’s his idea.”
They sat in silence. Edward could tell at once that the scheme had enormous potential but he knew better than to say anything. Better to let Butler think they were hesitant. Joseph had evidently reached the same conclusion and sat silently. He almost looked bored.
“What do you say?” Butler asked anxiously.
Joseph spoke speculatively. “Let’s say for the sake of this discussion that we could be interested. What do you expect to get out of it?”
“To pay off what I owe and then a share of the profits.”
“What kind of share?”
“Half.”
“Don’t be daft, mate. We’re doing all the work.”
“You can’t do it without me.”
“No, but you owe my uncle a small bloody fortune and he’s been generous with you so far. I wouldn’t recommend trying to drive too hard a bargain. Being greedy won’t end well for you.”
“Forty per cent.”
Joseph shook his head firmly. “More like twenty.”
“Twenty? Christ, man––that’s ridiculous.”
Joseph got up. “Come on, Edward,” he said. “We’re finished here.”
“Thirty.”
“Good night, Major. Enjoy the races.”
“Damn it all,” he spluttered. “Alright. Twenty. Twenty.”
“Good. My uncle will be pleased.”
He spluttered something about daylight robbery and Edward noticed, for the first time, that Butler’s hands were trembling. He saw Edward looking at them and slid them beneath the table. “So what do we do next?” he said, aiming for brusqueness but coming up short.
“We’ll come and have a look.”
“When?”
“No time like the present. How’s tomorrow?”
“Fine.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
They bid him farewell and made their way back to the table for a drink.
“What do you think?” Edward said. “Sounds good?”
“I’ll say,” Joseph grinned. “I think this sounds very bloody good indeed.”
38
EDWARD DECIDED TO treat himself to a meal out. Joseph was going out to see Eve and so it would have to be alone, but, he thought, that suited him best. He enjoyed his own company and it would be an opportunity to assess how far he had travelled in achieving his objectives. He went home and shaved, changed his suit for an understated grey pinstripe that he matched with a white shirt and black tie and brown brogues. There were plenty of new establishments opening up all around Soho but he was in the mood for something with a little more history and class. He had enjoyed Claridges when he and Joseph had taken Chiara and Eve but the foolishness that had followed that night––despite the nimble extrication that he had orchestrated––had soured the memory a little. If he was going to fix a trip there in his memory, it would have to be one without blemish. He would return, just by himself, and do things properly. It would be a pure experience, as it should have been before.
The maitre d’ recognised him and showed him to an excellent table in the corner of the restaurant. He sat and ordered a gin and tonic, looking around, enjoying the almost palpable sense of tradition and the ambience. These were normal people; people of a particular class, certainly, but people who led normal lives. Bankers and salesmen and their wives and lovers. Most would never have been stolen from and most would never steal. Most would never have experienced physical violence, or the raw, visceral thrill of a robbery. They would live out their lives, one day after the other with the predictability of a fine, Swiss watch. All as regular as clockwork: home, the train, the office, the train, home. All the money in the world was no compensation for a life like that. Edward would have the money but he would not sacrifice the joy in his life to get it.
He was lost in a dreamy reverie when he became aware of a man standing next to the table, looking down at him.
He looked up. The man was medium height and medium build, salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of wire-framed glasses that made him look ascetic and studious. He was reasonably well dressed although not, Edward concluded with a note of satisfaction, anywhere nearly as well as him. He recognised him from somewhere, too, although he couldn’t place where.
“Good evening, Edward. Do you mind if I call you Edward?”
He was a little wrong-footed. “Do I know you?”
“We met.”
“We did?
“The boxing––your friend Billy Stavropoulos was fighting.”
Edward recalled him and their brief encounter at the bout in Bethnal Green. “Kipps? We laid a bet together?”
“I’m afraid I was a little duplicitous. My name isn’t Kipps.”
“No? Then what is it?”
“It’s detective inspector Murphy.”
Edward felt his own face pass from the friendly smile that was always ready and available to a frowning wariness that was one step removed from panic. “I see.”
“But call me Charlie, please.”
“I think I’d rather call you detective inspector, if that’s alright.”
“Really? That’d be a shame. I’d like us to be friends, Edward. The kind of friends that can dispense with formality.”