2 The Imposter (32 page)

Tommy knocked on the door.

No answer. He knocked again.

The peephole opened.

“What are you––deaf? It’s me, cloth ears. Open the bloody door.”

The bolts slid back.

“Alright, Tommy?” Alfredo DeNina said, opening the door.

“Everyone back?”

“Upstairs.”

“Any trouble?”

“They never said so.”

Tommy was relieved. The last few weeks had been difficult. The trouble with Spot was common knowledge on the street now, and so was the fact that George and Violet had sat on their hands and done nothing. He had been knocking off their businesses and they hadn’t lifted a finger. People were starting to think that they were soft touches. Reckoned that gave them licence to have a bit of a go. There’d been an example of that tonight: a bolshie barrow boy was into them for thirty quid, debts piled up at their faro tables. The bloke had asked for an extension, demanded it almost, and then got lippy when Tommy told him where to get off. There was nothing else for it: he pistol-whipped the mouthy bugger, knocked out a couple of teeth and put him to the floor, gave him a shoeing while he was at it. An example to the others. You couldn’t afford to show weakness. Give them an inch and they’d take a bloody mile. You had to be strong. One of the rules of the game. George Costello had taught him that himself. Tommy didn’t understand why he had stopped following his own advice.

He went inside, DeNina double-locking the door behind him. He took the stairs to the first floor. Four members of the Costello gang were drinking and smoking. They were the collectors. Their job was to fan out around the family’s interests and bring the takings back to be counted. George had put him on the strength at Chiara’s birthday party. Tommy had been well chuffed to be asked. It meant they were taking him seriously, that the reputation he’d been working on was starting to have the right effect. He wanted them to see him as trustworthy, reliable and hard, able to cut up rough when that was required. George had told him that he knew he was good for the job and that meant a lot.

The others were older. Bert Thomas was nursing a whisky sour. Eddie Bennett and Paulie Spano were at the table working on the cut-up, sorting a pile of money into neat stacks. George Taylor was peering between old black-out curtains into the street.

“Alright, Tommy,” he said, letting the curtains fall back into place.

He nodded. They were all tense and tired. The only things he could think about were a couple of whiskys and his bed. He dropped the bag of money at Bennett’s feet.

Eddie hefted it. “Full?”

He nodded. “Punters everywhere. Turning them away.”

Eddie gestured to the money on the table. “Same for everyone.”

Spano riffled a stack of notes. “Been a good week. Can’t remember a better one.”

Tommy undid his jacket and fixed himself a drink. He was all done in. He’d driven the Austin across north London all night, visiting the spielers and liquor dens. He’d had the Jimmies all the way, the old nerves on edge: keeping an eye out for Jack Spot’s lads, the bagful of cash under the seat and the shotgun across his lap. George Costello had warned them about the rumours that Spot was plotting something, and you couldn’t be too careful, not with that devious Jew.

He checked the time: half past two. He picked up the tumbler, the ice jangling against the glass, and drained it. He poured another double measure, shook a cigarette from a pack and lit up. No need to worry, he reminded himself. The club was locked tighter than a nun’s knickers. The street door was two-inches thick and Alfredo DeNina was behind it with a sawn-off and a machete like the stevedores at the docks used. The windows were two storeys up, impossible to reach without ladders. The fire escape was chained and bolted shut. The place was nigh-on impregnable. Tommy got up, twitched the curtain aside and looked down into Wardour Street. Nothing. He stood and watched. Nothing out of the ordinary. He a glass of whisky that he didn’t really want and went back to the window. He folded his hands across his chest. Ten minutes passed. He shook a cigarette from a pack and lit up. Georgie the Bull would be along soon enough to collect the takings.

Two men in overcoats walked to the outside door. He squinted down at them. Trilbys covered their faces.

One of the men knocked on the door.

Tommy cradled the shotgun.

“Who is it?” he called down.

The sound of a muffled conversation came from downstairs.

“It’s alright,” Alfredo shouted up. “Punters. Sent them away.”

A shotgun blast, loud, close range. Tommy spun around. Bert Thomas staggered towards him, half of his head gone. Tommy turned his head at the blow-back as he went down, spun the shotgun around and ducked. A puff of blue smoke from the stairs. DeNina pushed the curtain aside, ejected shells and reloaded. Damned turncoat! The sound of feet taking the stairs two at a time. DeNina aimed, fired again. George Taylor took one in the face, an arc of white bone and grey-green brain splattering the black-outs. Bastards! Tommy swung the shotgun around, triggered a spread. DeNina caught buckshot, staggered back against the wall, slid behind a table. Tommy dived for cover as two other men came up the stairs. He pressed himself behind a stack of chairs, recognised the thin one: Archie Eyebrows, Jack Spot’s first lieutenant.

Eddie Bennett got a shot off, missed, pellets perforating the black-out, smashing windows. Archie fired back and Bennett blew up, thrown backwards onto the billiard table. Balls rumbled across the floor. How many were there? Paulie Spano ran for the fire exit. He didn’t get far. A buckshot spread peppered him across the neck and shoulders. He slammed into the wall, not moving. Tommy popped up, fired again.

He wiped something warm from his cheek, pumped the shotgun and stayed low, scrambling for the fire exit. The only way out. He dived out, another shot rang out––shit shit shit––and pain lit him up, his knees buckling inside-out as he landed chin-first. He saw lights, reached out for a chair leg, yanked. A few inches. Reached for Paulie Spano’s ankle, yanked. Half a foot closer to a locked door, crawling through a stew of blood and brain.

A kick to the ribs, hard. A foot slid beneath his chest and flipped him up and over on his back.

Jack Spot stood over him in a vicuna coat and trilby, a smoking .12-guage pointing down at his face.

Tommy tried to shuffle away, got nothing but useless scuffles. He looked down: his right leg was wrecked, gone from the knee down.

“Evening, lad,” Spot said.

“My leg…”

“I warned your boss.”

The pain was unbelievable. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I told him––you Ice Creamers aren’t welcome around here no more. All of this is mine now.”

“How much do you want? The takings are over there––take it all.”

Spot laughed. “Don’t worry, lad. I’m going to.”

“Please.”

“It too late for please and thank you. Should’ve buggered off home when you had the chance.”

Tommy went for his .38 as Spot pulled the trigger. He took both barrels in the chest from twelve inches away. Spot slotted extra shells and finished him off, his patent leather loafers––bloody and gore-streaked––the last things that Tommy Falco ever saw.

PART FIVE

London

January – March 1946

CALENDAR

–– 1946––

The
Star
, 25
^th
January:

GANG WARFARE IN SOHO

MAN DIES VIOLENTLY IN SUSPECTED FEUD

A murder investigation has begun after the bodies of four men were discovered in a property in Soho, W1. Thomas Falco, Albert Thomas, George Taylor, Edward Bennett and Paul Spano were found in the Regal Bridge and Billiards Club, a well-known gambling den, on Friday. While police were not prepared to be drawn on the motives for the mens’ deaths, this reporter has been informed that it is the latest in the escalating blood feud between rival gangs in London’s West End.

STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL

To: Commissioner

I.O: D.I. Charles Murphy

Submitted at request of: D.A.C. Clarke

Re: Gang Activity in Soho, W.1.

Sir,

You asked me to provide up-to-date information on the spate of killings in the West End. I can confirm the speculation in the press: these murders are certainly inspired by the increasing violence that has erupted between the Spot and Costello gangs. The recent victims were all Costello men, and it is a curiosity to both my men and myself as to why there have been no reprisals. Of course, we must assume that retaliation will be forthcoming and the delay makes it more likely that, when it does finally come, it will amount to a serious escalation.

Our investigations to date have concentrated on the Costello Family. While we have made some progress with that, it is not as fast as I would have liked. With that in mind, I am considering novel approaches to the enquiry. The methods I am considering might be considered radical, or perhaps even dangerous. I will, of course, keep you abreast with developments.

Sincerely,

D.I. C. Murphy

2
^nd
February 1946

44

THE COMMISSIONER’S OFFICE was the grandest in the whole of Scotland Yard: a large bookcase against one wall carried law reports and criminal treatises; a chandelier hung down from the high ceiling; a framed portrait of Lord Trenchard hung over the fireplace; wide windows offered a view of the Embankment and Waterloo Bridge. The Commissioner, Harold Scott, was behind his desk and Deputy Assistant Commissioner Stanley Clarke was sat in the armchair against the left wall. The atmosphere was tense, freighted with a dull foreboding that did not augur well. Charlie thought it felt like an inquest. He stepped forward, removed his hat and hung it, together with his coat, on the oak hatstand next to the door. The Commissioner invited him to sit and he did so.

Charlie had never been particularly impressed with Scott. The man was a civil servant. His background was in the Civil Defence Administration and something to do with aircraft production––nothing to do with policing or police. His face was long and sombre, marked by the deep lines that ran from his nose to the edges of his mouth, and he rarely smiled. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that made him look like an accountant. He did not suit his uniform.

“Good morning, detective inspector.”

“Morning, sir.”

“You know what this is about, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I believe I do––the murders in Soho.”

“Five men. A massacre would be a more appropriate way to describe it.”

“I think that’s fair.”

“Yes, inspector, quite fair. What can you tell me about it?”

“The five were all Costello men. It is a safe assumption, therefore, that the shooters were from the Spot Gang.”

“You’re just assuming?”

“They left no evidence and no witnesses, sir. I can’t offer any more certainty than that at the moment.”

“This isn’t good enough, inspector. It really isn’t. There was the murder in August, too, I believe.”

“That’s right. Leonard Masters.”

“We’ve got nowhere with that case, either?”

“We know it was Spot––”

“––then bloody well arrest him!”

“I could bring him in, sir, but it would be a waste of time. No-one will go on the record against him. We don’t have a case yet.”

“Do you understand the pressure this is putting me under, detective inspector? A massacre, right on our doorstep? This isn’t America, for God’s sake. It’s bloody London! And the black market, too.” He held up a report. “This is from the government. Home Office. They say the black market is totally out of control. Rampant, they say. Getting that sorted was the whole reason behind your investigation. You said you could do it and, yet, all I can conclude is that things are worse now than before you started.”

Charlie took a deep breath. “I understand your frustration, sir. It’s frustrating for us, too. These gangs are well organised and professional. They are held together by the promise of significant reward and the threat of violence. It might not look like it from your position”––from behind your comfortable desk, he felt like adding––“but we are making progress. We’re developing our understanding of how these groups are comprised and how they function. We are gathering intelligence. We’re probing for weaknesses, and for potential informants.”

“Do you have any?”

“Potentially.”

“‘Potentially?’ What does that mean, inspector?”

Charlie felt a flash of anger but he smothered it. “It means, sir, that we are developing two particular ways into the Costello family that could be very fruitful for us.”

“Details, man!”

He took a deep breath before he spoke again. “There’s an ex-soldier who’s working with them,” he said. “He doesn’t fit the usual type. I’ve spoken with him. Put the screws to him a little. There’s something that makes me think he could be a weakness for them.”

“And the other one?”

He thought of Eve. How could he mention her to them? His brother was not a policeman any longer but he was still a liked and respected man, well connected, and everyone knew about Eve’s disappearance during the war. Charlie knew that they were aware of his ruthlessness––he had to believe it was one of the reasons why he had been promoted so quickly––but withholding the information that his brother’s daughter was alive and well and, what was more, consorting with a known criminal in the hope that he could turn her into an informant? They would see that as a step too far, even for him? Frank would find out, they would clash again, Eve would be pulled back from the brink and he would lose one of the two levers he had worked so hard to find. No. That wouldn’t do at all.

“And,” he said, “The other one I’d rather keep to myself for the moment, sir.”

There was grumbling and shaking of heads but they did not press him.

“I’ll admit that progress is slow,” Charlie said, “slower than I would have liked, but I remain completely confident that I’m the best man for the job and that if given sufficient time I’ll deliver the results that you want.”