2 The Imposter (38 page)

The man looked up at his colleagues and gave a curt nod. They took their jemmies and swung them into the windows, slammed them down on the stacked piles of crockery, stabbed them into the paintings that had been hung on the wall. It was a concentrated orgy of violence that lasted no more than thirty seconds but when they had finished the place had been completely wrecked. No-one spoke. It was silent save for the gasped sobs of the diners and the crunch of shattered crockery and glass as it was trodden underfoot.

“Alright then. That’ll do. As I say, Jack sends his warmest regards. Goodnight.”

Joseph did not look at them. He stared at Eve instead. His eyes were black orbs, without warmth or life, more frightening than the men and their threats and their violence and anything else that she had ever seen. She reached out across the table and took his hand in hers. He did not flinch. His flesh was cold to the touch.

49

EDWARD DISTRACTED himself with an hour or two of shopping. He visited a haberdashery where he bought a pair of yellow silk pyjamas, as close as possible to the pair that he had borrowed from Joseph when he had visited Halewell Close. He bought a pair of narrow satin-like trousers and, for Chiara, flared hipsters of black wool, waist twenty-six. He added a gold tie-pin and settled the twenty pound bill from his money roll, making a show of taking it out of his pocket and counting off the notes. It made him feel much better, as did emerging from the shop with his purchases in crisp paper bags. After that he descended into Bond Street station for the short trip to Soho. He could have taken a taxi but he preferred the anonymity of the Underground, a chance to lose himself amidst all the other Londoners going about their business. He went to a pavement telephone box and asked the operator to place a call to Jimmy Stern’s number. They spoke briefly and Edward said that he would be around to discuss business in a half an hour. There was a homeless man begging on the pavement next to the telephone box. Edward stopped and gave him a pound note.

He had given Jimmy the money to rent a small flat on Bateman Street, just around the corner from the Shangri-La. He knocked on the door. The sound of barking came at once, close at hand, then Jimmy’s voice, ordering the dog to be quiet. The barking did not stop. The door opened.

Jimmy was exasperated. “This bloody dog––”

“You’re doing a fine job, uncle.”

“How much longer?”

Edward stepped inside and shut the door before Roger could get out. “I don’t know. Not yet. A few more weeks.”

“You must be joking. I’ll have strangled him by then.”

The flat was small: one bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a sitting room. It had come with its own furniture, none of which was in particularly good condition. The carpets were threadbare, the underlay visible in patches, and the paint was peeling from the damp that crawled up the walls. The dog’s bowl was pushed into a corner of the kitchen, scraps of food from the restaurant spilling out of it and all over the floor.

Roger reached up, his paws on his chest. Edward sat down on the flea-bitten sofa and scrubbed the dog’s ears. “Just don’t get too attached, alright?” He stretched out his legs. “Well?”

“They were there. Intimate, the lads said. He’d just given her this.”

Jimmy dropped a diamond ring onto Edward’s open palm.

Edward nodded. “Nice.”

“Expensive.”

“He doesn’t do things by halves.”

Edward had had Joseph followed for the better part of two days. Jimmy found the lads through a friend of a friend––Mancunian hard-men who wouldn’t be recognised in the smoke, who could be in and out of town in the space of a week.

“How did he take it?”

“How’d you think he took it? Johnny said he thought he was going to blow his top.”

“And they made it obvious they were with Spot?”

“Told him than once. He got the message.”

Edward held the ring up so that the light from the bare electric bulb sparkled through all the different facets. It was a shame to have to spoil Joseph’s big night but hadn’t he brought it upon himself? What choice had he left Edward? He had none. The Costellos given him no other options at all. They were blundering into a dreadful mistake and they just needed to be able to see it: he was the only one who could help them. There was no way he could just sit by and watch them destroy themselves.

He slipped the ring into his pocket. “How much did it cost us?”

“Fifty notes.”

He took a wedge of notes from his pocket and handed them to Jimmy. “Cheap at half the price. This should cover it. They’ve all left town?”

“Yes.” Jimmy went through to the kitchen and filled the kettle. “Straight back up north. They won’t come back down. You want a cup of tea?”

“Please. Definitely best for them they stay away. I know what Joseph is like. I’m telling you, he’ll top them if he sees them again.”

“You had any improvement with him?”

“Haven’t seen him since Paris.”

“And you’re sure this is going to help?”

The dog nudged his knee with his head and he scratched him behind the ears again. “They need me. They just need to see how much.”

50

EDWARD MOVED OUT the next day. He had waited outside the apartment until he was sure that Joseph was not there and then he had quickly packed a suitcase with his best clothes and hurried away. He took a room at a smart hotel in Covent Garden and took long walks so that he might have the thinking time to decide upon what to do. He spent hours composing a letter in his head, apologising for losing his temper and trying to make a joke out of it, but the right words would not come and he could not satisfy himself that he had found the right tone. Eventually, he sent a note on the hotel’s headed paper suggesting that they go for a drink to mend the damage that had been done. Joseph had not replied. Edward spent a sleepless night, and then a day, of pacing the hotel room while he tried to work out the best way to fix the situation. The stark contrast between his happy confidence of just a few weeks previously and his present fearfulness was awful to him. The rift with Joseph was at the forefront of his mind but he recognised clearly that he was obsessing with it so that he could pretend to ignore the other awful development: the man whom Billy had met who said he was Edward Fabian’s brother. That, he knew, was a more dangerous situation. He expected the man, or a private detective, or, worst still, the police, to come knocking at his door at any hour of the night or day. They would have questions for him and he would not have the time to prepare the right answers. The thought of it terrified him. He could neither sleep nor eat nor sit still. He seemed barely able to function at all. The whole awful situation was pure agony.

On the second day in the hotel he started to plan an escape. His luck had held for too long and now it was beginning to turn. What was to stop him making a run for it? Nothing at all. He had a decent amount of money. He could sell his car and empty his accounts and make off with it all. Where would he go? Europe seemed suddenly too hot for him but what about America? How was that? He would drive to Liverpool, sell the car there and board a transatlantic liner. What better place to make a clean break and start afresh? He had so nearly succeeded with the Costellos. Who was to say he would not be more successful the second time?

Something stopped him. He could not abandon his father again. There was also a sense of unfinished business. He did not want to run. The realisation helped him to settle his thoughts. In the end, his thoughts settled on Chiara. He wrote to invite her to London so that they might have dinner together. She replied by return, her enthusiasm obvious, saying that she would be delighted. In a postscript she admitted to feeling claustrophobic at Halewell Close and that a night out was just the tonic she needed. Edward had counted upon as much.

He checked out of the hotel and took a lease on a furnished apartment. He planned the evening carefully. He booked a table at the Ritz, went to his barber for a shave, a trim and a vibro-massage, and then picked out his best suit, matching it with a crisp new shirt and tie that he had bought for the occasion. He dressed and regarded himself in the mirror that he had hung on his bedroom wall. There was no question about it: he looked absolutely splendid. He looked, he thought, like he had money and knew how to spend it tastefully. The years had been kind to him, he thought, lending him an air of sophistication that had not been there before. He was the kind of man who looked best when he had a little money. He had worked hard to get it. It took talent to notice the right opportunities, and then skill and great patience to exploit them. He had invested time and effort in the family and he would not allow Violet or Joseph or anyone else to prevent him from getting what he deserved.

He met Chiara at the restaurant, the
maitre d’
greeting them and showing them to a prime table. He slipped a pound note into the man’s hand as he shook it and went around the table to remove the chair for Chiara to sit down.

“This is a rare treat,” she said. “To be honest, I couldn’t wait to get away.”

“What’s the matter?”

“You haven’t heard about what’s happening at the house?”

“No.”

“It’s that nonsense with Jack Spot. Violet has put two of George’s best men in the gatehouse at the end of the drive. She’s worried he’s going to try and do something. She hasn’t let me out for the last week.”

“What about tonight?”

“She thinks I’m with Joseph.”

“Oh dear,” he said. “Best it stays that way––she’s not very fond of me.”

“She won’t admit it, but this whole situation is getting to her.”

There was a short pause as Edward decided how to start the conversation he knew that they must have. It was the reason that he had invited her to dinner and there was no point in delaying it but yet the thought of what she might tell him in response made it difficult to begin. He had the sense that this moment was important and, as it assumed more and more gravity, it became correspondingly more difficult to address. He started to speak and then, suddenly fearful, he stopped.

Chiara noticed his awkwardness and smiled sweetly at him. “I know about you and Joseph,” she said. “Your silly tiff in Paris.”

Edward gaped. “Have you spoken to him?” he asked anxiously.

“I have. And he feels absolutely awful about it.”

“So do I,” Edward confessed urgently. “What did he say?”

“That it was a foolish argument and that he regrets it very much.”

Edward was surprised by the sudden rush of relief that washed over him. “I wrote to him,” he said. “He didn’t reply.”

“He was still angry when you sent it. And now that he isn’t angry, he doesn’t know what to say to fix it all up and then, on top of everything else, he’s had Eve to think about.”

“Think about what?”

“Oh,” she said, blushing a little. “Of course––you don’t know.” The waiter delivered the menus and Chiara was silent. Edward found that he was avid for the news, his stomach churning as the man described the specials and until he left the table. “This is probably about as foolish as your argument,” she continued, “especially since they’ve only known each other again for half a minute, but he proposed to her the other night and she said yes.”

“My goodness!” he said.

“They’re talking about getting married at the end of the month. The service would be in the local church and then there’ll be a big party at the house.”

“It’s all very sudden.”

“I know. It’s lunacy. But it will give the two of you a chance to make it up. He’s planning a thing”––she fluttered her hand as if it were something amusingly distasteful––“with his friends. Last night of freedom, I suppose, something along those lines. I suspect it will involve all the pubs and clubs in Soho. I can’t think of anything worse but, anyway, he asked me to apologise for what happened and to tell you that you have to go.”

Edward’s mind went blank with relief. He felt the surge of his old confidence. It wasn’t too late, after all. He had made a dreadful error and yet he had not been punished for it. He had been given a second chance.

He became aware of some people waving at them from a table on the other side of the room. Chiara noticed them too. “Who are they?”

“I’ve no idea,” Edward replied, making a vague sign of greeting in return.

“Well, they certainly seem to know you.” She folded her napkin, laid it on the table and stood. “I’ll just be a moment. Would you order me a drink?”

“What will you have?”

“A gin, please. I shan’t be a moment.”

Edward watched her cross the restaurant to the corridor that led to the bathrooms. He caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror that hung from the opposite wall and seeing again how swell he looked helped to restore his mood. He was still gazing at himself when he noticed the man who had waved at him get up and leave his table. His stomach fell. He took up the menu and pretended to be absorbed by it but it was no use. The man approached and stopped by his table.

“Pardon me, are you Jack Stern?”

Edward smothered a frightened gasp. The man was next to him, crouching, his left hand resting on the table and his body turned at an angle to face him. He had him trapped against the table. Edward stared at him, paralysed. He didn’t look like a policeman but perhaps that was the point of it. He had heard of the Ghost Squad, after all, and perhaps it was their tactic to send someone who looked anonymous, to give that man the best chance of apprehending him before he could flee. Or perhaps he was a private detective. There had been others but not for many years. The man was well-dressed, like all the others in the restaurant, sporting a beautiful dinner jacket, his generous belly constrained by a scarlet cummerbund and his hair swept backwards across his head, a little grey at the edges. He smiled at him, a happy beam of greeting, and now Edward’s frantic brain groped for the right thing to say.

“It
is
you,” the man said, not waiting for his reply. He looked a little tipsy. “I knew it. I saw you when we came in––I said to my wife, ‘That’s Jackie Stern or I’m a Chinaman’ and I was right, wasn’t I? I wasn’t sure but then I realised, you’re not wearing your glasses. How are you, old chap?”