Authors: Mark Dawson
A case in point: the five hundred pounds he had given George were for the lorry-load of stolen whiskey he’d bought from him the previous month. Ruby had turned the booze around the next day for a grand, so he was laughing. It wasn’t going to be so good for George; he’d have to split his gelt, passing the right amount down the line to the blokes who’d hijacked the truck; more to the geezer from the hauliers who’d passed on the inventory and shipping timetable; more to his dodgy coppers down at West End Central so they’d let him know if the Swedes were barking up the right trees. By the time he was done with settling all of that little lot the most he’d be left with was a hundred, two if he was lucky.
No, Ruby Ward was not a stupid man. He had started to hedge his bets, started to cast around for other people to work with. He didn’t want to get caught with all his eggs in one basket.
He shivered in the damp cold and closed his overcoat more tightly around his body. He went through the garage to get back to his office. This business had been his career once, but times had changed. He still made plenty from it, but the black market paid more. Ruby washed his illicit profits through the garage and the two pubs he owned south of the river; there was a lot of money to hide. He bought this place ten years ago, selling his first dealership and funding the difference with a loan he had inveigled out of the bank against trumped-up accounts they must have known were moody. He had worked hard for the first three or four years, but it hadn’t taken long for him to realise that, when it came down to it, his old man had been right: ‘only mugs work.’ There was more to be made on the fringes of things, in the margins between legal trade and the black market. The war had been the best thing that had ever happened to him.
He first saw the smoke as he passed the inspection pit. It was coming from the showroom. He reached for the door and recoiled: the doorknob was burning to the touch. He wrapped his hand in the sleeve of his coat and opened the door, a cloud of smoke billowing out, curling up against the ceiling. He covered his mouth and went inside. There was a slick of petrol all the way across the floor and he watched, in confused fascination that quickly became horror, as a blue wick of flame spread avidly across it. The flames crackled hungrily, racing across the showroom, high enough in places to start to blacken the ceiling. He was backing away when he saw the rag that had been stuffed into the fuel tank of the Packard nearest to the door. The fuel cap had been taken off and the rag was pushed all the way inside. It was alight, burnt almost all the way down, and as Ruby dumbly realised what was about to happen he also realised that it was too late to do anything about it. A moment later and the tank exploded, lifting the car off its rear wheels and then crashing it down again. The blast flung Ruby off his feet and tossed him back outside again. He landed heavily on his back, his head whiplashing back against the floor. His vision swam with woozy filters as consciousness ebbed away. He would wonder, later, if the hooded figure he saw was real or a tattered figment of his imagination, a concussion dream.
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.