Authors: Mark Dawson
“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 the 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.
Billy went back to the sitting room and opened the only door that had been left closed. It gave onto a small study: a desk and a single chair, a standard lamp, a gramophone, neat piles of stationery. He turned on the lamp and sat in the chair. He opened the desk drawers, one by one, reading through the papers inside and tossing them behind him when he was done. There was nothing of interest. The final drawer was locked. He took a metal ruler from the desk and inserted it between drawer and pedestal. A solid yank: the lock shattered and the drawer slid open. An unsealed envelope was inside. He took it out. It was fat and heavy. He slipped his fingers inside and withdrew a wad of pound notes, fifty or sixty of them. There was a letter attached to the envelope with a paper clip. Billy unfolded it and read:
Dear Jack,
Your father’s account at the hospital is overdrawn and I do not have the ready funds to meet it. I realise that it was only the other day that you made your last remittance, but there any possibility that you could make another? I would gladly pay myself, but I have paid the money you gave me to the builders so that they can begin work on the restaurant and I am not sure how easy it would be to get it back.
Regards,
Jimmy
And the unsent reply, marked with today’s date.
Dear Jimmy,
I’m afraid this might be the last payment, at least for a little while. I trust it is sufficient to put father’s account back into credit. Things are not going quite as well as I had expected, although I am taking steps to rectify them. In the meantime, I hope that the refurbishment is proceeding to plan. I will be in touch.
Jack
Billy turned took the envelope and turned it over.
It was addressed to the Shangri-La Restaurant, Dean Street, London.
He went through the rest of the drawer. He found three passports and flicked through them with a growing sense of disbelief. The first was for Edward Fabian, the second was for Jack Stern and the third was for Roger Artis. The photograph in each was of Fabian. He found different Registration Cards, different Ration Books and another hundred or so pound notes. Billy laid them all out on the desk.
He had known something was wrong as soon as the man had said Fabian was his brother. The poor fellow had said that he hadn’t seen him for years, since the start of the Blitz, that they had been close up until then and that he just couldn’t understand what had happened so that he had just vanished into thin air. In the end, the family had assumed that he must have been killed in the bombings. But then he had seen the story in the paper and he hadn’t been able to believe it. The picture was of a different person, that was true, but everything else was exactly right: the name, his age, the university at Cambridge, the degree in medicine. Perhaps the picture was a mistake? He had wanted to speak to him and Billy had taken his details and promised to pass them on. He wouldn’t do that, of course, there would be no point. He had known, then, what Fabian must have done and, if he was right, there wouldn’t be much of anything left for the fellow after Billy was finished with him.
He pulled the drawer all the way out and turned it over, shaking everything that was left out onto the floor. A packet of cigarettes. Pens. A stapler. Some paper clips. Scraps of paper. Army documents. When the drawer was finally empty, he traced the toe of his shoe through the debris on the floor. Something glittered back up at him. He knelt down and sorted through the rubbish with his hands until he found it.
A platinum ring. A large oval diamond set in the centre. Smaller pear-shaped stones all the way around.
Billy recognised it at once. He had been there with Joseph when he bought it. Tiffany on New Bond Street. It was the same day that he had asked him to be his best man. The day after he came back from Paris.
He thought for a moment; it didn’t make sense. He sat down in the chair and thought about it some more. He cleared a way through the confusion to leave just one possible reason why Fabian would have the ring.
Fabian was working for Jack Spot.
And Fabian wasn’t really Fabian at all.
He laughed, unable to stop himself, the laughter driven by the anticipation at what he would now be able to do. He looked again at the passports and documents and the ring. It was too good to be true. He would finally be able to balance the ledger. All those frustrations, those sneers and snide remarks, so much to pay him back for. This was quite a haul. It was better than he could ever have hoped for.