Authors: Mark Dawson
This went on for three rounds. They didn’t talk. They just worked. By the end of the fourth Edward’s arm was heavy and his legs were starting to go bad. Sweat ran freely across Joseph’s face. Eventually, Edward tied Joseph up, got his right hand loose, turned it, and came up with an uppercut that got his nose with the heel of the glove. Joseph started to bleed instantly. He tried to get away but Edward had him tied up tight, but then, his blood splashing onto both of them, Joseph measured him and then socked a right into his body as hard as he could, as low as he could get it, five inches below the belt. Edward’s mouth fell open and his gum shield dropped out. He staggered around as if his insides were going to fall out. He tried to protest, his guard dropping to his waist automatically, and that was that: Joseph feinted with his left and then stepped into a right cross that caught him flush on the jaw.
Edward was out cold for a couple of seconds. When he came around his nose was streaming with blood.
“You alright, Doc?”
Joseph’s face swam above him as if heat haze separated them. He couldn’t speak. It felt like he was going to be sick.
“Sorry––think I fouled you.”
Still he couldn’t speak. The ring was spinning.
Joseph helped him through the ropes and into the changing room. Edward undressed and stood under the hot shower for five minutes, letting the water soothe his muscles and, gradually, the sawdust in his head started to slip away. Joseph used the shower next to him.
“Caught you pretty good there.”
“Below the belt,” he said, still groggy.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry about that. Still, think I had you anyway.”
Edward opened his mouth to let the blood run out. “You what?”
“Had you anyway,” he grinned.
Edward looked across at him: his body was muscular and hard, his chest solid. He squeezed the faucet closed and limped back towards the lockers. They rubbed themselves down. Edward put on his shirt and trousers. He took a moment, gathering his strength again. It had been a hard workout.
“You’re hobbling,” Joseph said. “is it bad?”
“It gets a little sore if I’m standing for too long, but it’s much better than it was. Another month or so, it’ll be good as new.”
“How did it happen?”
“Long story,” he said. The time wasn’t right for that story, not yet. He needed to work on the details a little, to freshen them up in his mind.
The reference to Edward’s injury seemed to prompt Joseph’s memories of the jungle. “Be honest, Doc. You’ve been back a while now. How’ve you found it?”
He thought of the restaurant and Jimmy, his father and the hospital bills, and the awful situation that they found themselves in. “It’s not quite what I was expecting,” he admitted.
“It’s not having the excitement, that’s what I reckon it is. I’m not stupid enough to think that it was all peachy when we were out there, God knows it was boring as sin most of the time, but I can’t help thinking that I had scrapes and adventures in the jungle that I’ll never get to have again. And part of me misses all that. Does that sound crazy, Doc?”
Edward left a pause and thought about it. It did sound crazy and, yet, he knew exactly what Joseph meant. “I don’t know,” he mused. “It’d take a lot of money for me to go back there again but I wouldn’t mind a bit of that excitement in my life, too.”
Joseph towelled off his hair and started to dress. “Got a bit to talk about, haven’t we? Why don’t you come to Billy’s fight tonight?”
“I don’t know that I can.”
“It’ll be well worth it––a few beers, a proper chat. There are some decent fighters on the bill.”
“I’m supposed to be working.”
Joseph chucked him on the shoulder. “Come on. One night won’t do any harm. What do you say?”
Joseph grinned broadly, his teeth shining.
Edward said he would think about it.
8
YORK HALL WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF BETHNAL GREEN. It was a poor area, down-at-heel and often dangerous, and it had suffered badly during the war. Buildings had been flattened, whole terraces erased, and even now there was a dirty, dusty smut that hung in the air. Murphy had decided against driving across from the West End. Hardly anyone owned a motor here, and the last thing he wanted to do was to draw attention to himself. He had taken the underground instead and walked the short distance from the station. He was wearing the cheap set of clothes he used when he wanted to blend in: threadbare suit, crumpled shirt, scuffed shoes. His overcoat was old and fetid but at least it was thick. It was foggy and damp out, and he was glad for its warmth.
The handbills distributed outside the station advertised a night of amateur boxing. Six bouts, six rounds apiece, a motley collection of fighters: youngsters who thought they could fight their way out of the slum, and those who had tried it and knew better. Charlie ran his finger down the sheet until he found Billy Stavropoulos. He was boxing under the name of Bert Gill, going up against a young featherweight from Hackney. Immigrants often chose Anglicised names. Charlie knew it well enough: he’d nicked plenty, and you always had to record both.
A queue of spectators snaked around the corner of the building, stamping their feet against the cold and speculating on the night’s entertainment. Charlie paid for a ticket at the door and shuffled inside, following the crowd into the auditorium.
It was a medium sized space, bench seats arranged at a steep rake around a well-lit ring. Charlie spotted Joseph Costello quickly. He was sitting near the front with another man he did not recognise. There was space on the bench next to them but it was filling quickly. Charlie hurried down the steps. “Excuse me,” he said as he made his way along the row.
“You’re alright, mate,” Joseph said to him.
Joseph Costello had never seen Charlie before. He was not concerned that he would be made. He knew all of the mistakes that led to plainclothes men being spotted by the crooks they were observing, and he made sure not to repeat any of them. His only concession to his usual punctilious appearance was the narrow wire-framed spectacles that were his trademark; it was said that he looked more like a don than a policeman. It was an effect he cultivated and it had served him well. Charlie Murphy was the youngest man to make detective inspector in the Met for thirty years. His latest assignment, leading the Ghost Squad, was just the latest in a long line of successes.
The noise in the auditorium built as the first fight got underway. Charlie was close enough to the ring to hear the muffled crump as the leather gloves of the fighters slammed into their targets, heads and torsos, and close enough to see droplets of sweat and blood spray across the canvas. He was close enough to overhear the conversation between Joseph and the man he was with. They discussed the fights knowledgeably. Charlie knew that Joseph had been a keen boxer before leaving for the war. This second, unrecognised, man evidently knew the fight game, too. Joseph called him “Doc,” but never used his name. It didn’t matter. Charlie filed the information away, and the man’s appearance, too. It seemed likely that the two were war buddies, and it ought to be simple enough to cross-check with the War Office and identify him.
The next fighters made their way to the ring.
Charlie eavesdropped as Joseph leant over to his friend. “Fancy a flutter?” he said.
“Can’t really afford it.”
Charlie glanced across as Joseph reached into his jacket and withdrew a roll of notes, fastened with a gold clip. He thumbed off ten pounds and handed it over. “Don’t be daft,” the other man protested.
“I want you to have fun. See the fellow in the blue corner––”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Charlie said. “Do you have a tip? I could do with some luck.”
Joseph looked at him, paused, as if debating whether to be civil or tell him where he could get off. He nodded. “I know him––Battles Rossi. Tough little bugger, from south of the River. If it were me, I’d put a fiver on him to win in the first.”
Charlie thanked him. He made his way to the queue for the bookies and was joined by the second man.
“Your mate knows his onions,” Charlie said as they waited.
“I certainly hope so,” he said. “Go on––after you.”
Charlie took a pound and laid it on Rossi.
“Do you box?” he asked.
“Did a bit in the army, but nothing special. Not as young as I used to be.”
“I know the feeling.” He extended his hand to him. “My name’s Kipps.”
“Edward Fabian. Good to meet you.”
Charlie absorbed everything: the way the man spoke, his attitude, the safety pins that secured frayed double-cuffs. A pair of brogues that had once been decent but now were holed and scuffed. The reference to the army. No sign of an accent. The man was not a local. He did not fit in with the human flotsam of the East End. A soldier who had fallen on hard times? There were plenty of those poor buggers.
The fight was over almost by the time they had returned to the bench. Rossi’s opponent was a flashy fighter, dancing in and out of reach and landing a series of crisp jabs that quickly drew blood. The first round was drawing to a close when Rossi, who had evidently been fostering a false sense of confidence in his opponent, pretended to be dazed and lowered his hands. Charlie could see the subterfuge immediately, but Rossi’s opponent, sensing a spectacular end to proceedings, launched in at him; and walked straight onto a crunching right-hand uppercut that lifted him onto his tiptoes and sank him to his knees. The referee counted to ten, the crowd bellowed their approval, and, just like that, Edward––who had laid the full five pounds––was twenty pounds better off.
“How’s that!” Joseph said.
“Strike me,” Edward replied.
“Thanks for the tip,” Charlie said. “Got any others?”
“Not tonight.”
“The name’s Kipps.”
Joseph regarded him in cold appraisal. His eyes were blank and soulless, the darkest black, and Charlie felt a shiver pass through him as he was held in his gaze. “Nice to meet you, Kipps,” he said, without offering his hand. He turned away, ending the conversation. Charlie was not surprised. Par for the course. It would take more than that to make any headway with someone like Joseph Costello. There was a layer of suspicion to pierce. His type were born with it.
“Reckon I could’ve taken him?” he heard Joseph asking Edward.
“I should say so.”
“Too bloody right.”
The next fight was Stavropoulos’s. He came to the ring with his opponent, the featherweight from Hackney, and, after they were announced to the crowd, they set to it. The first two rounds passed as the fighters fenced around each other, jabbing harmlessly from range. The fight sparked to life in the third round; the Hackney man came forwards but Stavropoulos repelled him with a series of stiff jabs. He followed with a crunching flurry to the kidneys and then, the man’s guard lowered, a hay-maker that twirled the man on his toes and sent him face first to the canvas. The referee could have counted to twenty; it was over. Joseph and Edward went to the apron and congratulated Stavropoulos as he clambered through the ropes and dropped to the floor.
Charlie had seen enough and left the auditorium as the three of them went through to the changing rooms. He needed to write his report and update the other members of the Squad. It had been a productive evening, and he had gathered information on Joseph that would be added to the detailed dossier that was being compiled. He didn’t mind the brush off he had received. That didn’t bother him at all.
There would be other conversations, ones on his patch, to his rules.
Conversations that were not so easy to avoid.
9
EDWARD DRESSED in his freshly-laundered dress uniform and, as he made his way out of the boarding house, he noticed himself in the dusty mirror that was hung in the hall: he had become the upright, self-respecting young soldier again. He paused. “Hello,” he said, smiling into the glass. It didn’t look quite right and so he cleared his face and tried again. “Hello,” he repeated in the slightly deeper voice he had perfected on the boat to India that first time, part of the routine he adopted as he settled himself into his new persona. “Hello. I’m Edward Fabian. Pleased to meet you.” He forced his smile wider, exposing his white teeth. That was better. He felt his shoulders drop a little and the muscles in his cheeks relaxed. He straightened his uniform. He was doing the right thing, behaving the right way. There was no need for anxiety. Edward Fabian, the soldier. It was a role he had played for seven years.
He emerged at Victoria and, after walking the short distance to Buckingham Palace, joined the long queue of military types at the Hyde Park Gate. He handed his invitation to the police officer on duty and crunched across the gravel into the quadrangle beyond the Palace’s great façade. A subaltern directed him to the ballroom. It had been arranged with several rows of chairs for the relatives and friends who were invited to witness the investiture. The colours were of red and gold, there were portraits hung in ornate frames, yards of lush drapes and carpets that you sank into, marble floors buffed so bright you could see your reflection in them. The chairs faced a dais where the King received the men who were being honoured. The room was empty at the moment. Edward introduced himself and was ushered into an anteroom for a brief education in royal protocol from a member of the house who remained staid and aloof, as if this teaching these ignorant yahoos how to scrape and bow was below him.
The men were finally led into the ballroom and directed to the reserved seating nearest to the dais. There were men from all three services: the face of a chap from the RAF was deformed by burns and a naval rating had had half of his leg blown off. Edward was in the front row next to those two men. He turned around, scanning the crowd behind him, and saw Joseph. He winked. Joseph grinned back at him. He was wearing a beautiful suit, a shining pair of shoes and he had a trilby in his lap. His clothes were new and obviously expensive, and he looked quite a picture. Joseph was the only person that Edward had invited. He would have asked Jimmy but they could not afford to shut the restaurant and it seemed wrong to have a moment like this and not share it with anyone.