2 The Imposter Page 2

  Black markets flourished in Soho streets. Barrow merchants sold silk stockings (probably stolen) with only a pretence of accepting ration coupons. Crates of oranges, strictly restricted to children, passed through a market speculator to his favourite customers. Housewives evaded milk rationing with two companies, thereby getting twice their legal share. Working in gangs—a man or children assisting a woman with a shopping bag—shoplifters raided lingerie, stocking, and sweater counters. Scotland Yard reported a 25 per cent increase in shop-lifting. ‘Kerb crawlers’ (fences) ferried stolen goods out to the suburbs, sold them couponless to house-wives. A woman reported to the police that she was offered an ebony coat for £16 (half the store price) by a woman black marketeer who had about 20 fur coats in the back of her limousine…

  METROPOLITAN POLICE

  Criminal Investigation Department

  New Scotland Yard

  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 report upon the state of gang activity in London, specifically as it pertains to the feeding of the black market. I can confirm that the most powerful faction remains the Costello Family, who count among their many activities robbery, extortion, and the operation of illegal drinking and gambling clubs throughout Soho. The Costellos have been dominant for a generation but there are signs that challengers are beginning to eye their crown. Chief among those is the Jack Spot Mob, led by the eponymous Spot, a powerful brawler from the Upton Park area of East London. He has banded together with several dozen gypsies and my intelligence is that he is extending his influence towards the West. There have already been minor skirmishes between the two gangs and I predict worse is to come if the problem is not tackled.

  I understand that this is not what you wanted to hear. My recommendation, as laid out in my separate memorandum to you, remains: the creation of a dedicated “Ghost” Squad to infiltrate the gangs and seek the evidence that will lead to their destruction. Without wishing to appear immodest, I would be happy to put myself forward to lead this Squad.

  Sincerely,

  D.I. C. Murphy

  24th May

  2

  ENGLAND LOOKED TIRED AND ILL as the train shuffled north-east, picking its way through the blasted suburbs of Basingstoke and then into South London. Particles of brick dust hung in the air, disturbed by the passage of the train. Slag heaps were choked with weeds and thick grass. Whole terraces had been flattened. Long lines of industrial chimneys stood smokeless, stiffly naked against the sky, in huddles over empty workshops. The cellars of demolished houses had been turned into static reservoirs, waters glittering darkly in the fading twilight. A pack of feral dogs, their owners dead or disappeared, clambered onto a pile of rubble and howled at the train as it passed. Familiar roads and streets had been rendered unrecognisable.

  The carriage was full of soldiers, loaded down with kitbags, mementoes, trophies. Edward’s own bag was jammed into the overhead rack, the curved blade of his kukri tucked into a loop of fabric. The atmosphere was pensive. They could all see it: things had changed. England had changed. There had been female railway porters at Portsmouth, for goodness sake. Edward had heard, like everyone, that women had been working in factories. He assumed things would have quickly settled back down again and returned to normal. But the Axis had been defeated and there they were, women, still doing men’s work. And they had gone butch. At all ages and on every social level, they had taken to uniforms. They wore jackets, trousers and sensible shoes. It was a rum lot. Vexed comments were exchanged between boys to whom this was not a welcome development. It was certainly going to take some getting used to.

  The door to the compartment opened and a soldier hauled his kitbag inside. “Well, I’ll be,” he said, a delighted smile upon his face. “It’s the brawler from Calcutta.”

  Edward beamed back at him. “Costello, isn’t it?”

  “The very same. What are the chances, eh?”

  “Did you just come ashore?”

  “Yesterday. What about you?”

  “A week,” Edward said. “There were a few things to tie up and now that’s that. Done.”

  “You’re out?”

  “Seven years later. You?”

  “The same. And not a moment too soon.”

  Joseph Costello sat down opposite and dropped his kitbag to the floor. He untied the toggle, tugged the mouth of the bag open and reached inside for a bottle of gin. “A little something to celebrate?”

  “Where did you get that from?”

  “Ways and means. Want to wet your whistle?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  They both took their army-issue tin cups and Joseph poured out two large measures. “So what are you looking forward to most?”

  “How do you mean?”

  He settled back against the seat. “Now we’re home––what are you looking forward to?”

  Edward sighed expansively. “A chair to sit in for breakfast and the day’s paper to read––on the day it was published without people peering over my shoulder. You?”

  Joseph tried to light their cigarettes. He had a beautiful silver lighter, but it did not work reliably. Edward finally produced his ugly, flaring lighter, as ugly and efficient as a piece of industrial equipment, and lighted it for him. Joseph passed one to Edward and he lit that, too. Joseph sat back and rested his legs on the bench opposite. “Proper food off a china plate,” he suggested, “and tea from a china cup with my own dose of milk and sugar.”

  “Somebody else to do the washing and make my bed.”

  “A shirt with a collar and tie, and shoes.”

  “To go to bed when I like in a room of my own and put the light out when I want to. And no more bloody jungle.”

  Joseph laughed. “No more jungle. I’ll drink to that. Another one?”

  Edward proffered his cup and Joseph poured again.

  “What are you going to do now?” he asked. “For work, I mean?

  “I’ll take it as it comes. There’s a family business. I’ll probably end up there.”

  “What do they do?”

  Joseph paused, as if searching for the right words. He settled for, “A little bit of this, a little bit of that.”

  “Is it successful?”

  “Oh, yes. Big house in the countryside, places in London, a fleet of cars in the garage, more money rolling in than they know what to do with––at least that was what it was like before I left and I shouldn’t think much has changed.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Well, I’m not going into details, but let’s just say it’s the kind of thing that’s probably even more popular in an economy like this”––he gestured out at the dishevelled landscape passing by the window––“than what it was like before.”

  Edward was intrigued but he decided to let it go for fear of appearing too keen.

  “What about you?” Joseph said, changing the subject.

  Edward’s story was well rehearsed and he relayed it naturally and easily. “I studied medicine before the war. Haven’t practiced since I graduated, though. I’m sure there’ll be refresher exams to take, that sort of thing. And Mr. Beveridge is promising all sorts of changes, isn’t he? ‘The National Health Service.’ Goodness knows how that will affect things.”

  “Socialism!” Joseph snorted. “My God, we can do without that.”

  The train started to slow as they drew into Waterloo station. They hoisted their packs over the shoulders and joined the queue of men in the corridor, all of them anxious to disembark. Edward felt his stomach clench as he stepped down from the train. He foresaw figures standing at the end of the platform, near to the barriers, policemen waiting for him, patiently waiting with folded arms and handcuffs hanging from their belts. He grew suddenly tense. He had hoped that seven years would have been time enough
for the fear inside his stomach to have been quashed, but it was not. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. No use thinking about that now. He pulled his shoulders back. No use spoiling his return worrying about imaginary policemen. Even if there were policemen, it wouldn’t necessarily mean anything. He had to be realistic––they couldn’t still be after him, not after all this time.

  As far as they were concerned, he was dead and buried.

  Joseph paused on the concourse and shrugged his pack from his shoulders.

  “Alright, pal,” Joseph said. “This is me. My uncle’s coming to pick me up. I’d offer you a lift, but he’s not really the friendly type––”

  Edward lowered his own pack to the ground. “It’s quite alright––I’ll get the tube.”

  “It’s been good to get to know you, Doc,” he said.

  “Doc?”

  “Doctor? The medicine?”

  Edward had almost tripped up. “Oh yes, of course,” he said, remembering to smile. “Doc––very good.”

  “Listen––I reckon we ought to keep in touch. We’ve got plenty in common.” He shadow-boxed for moment, firing out a gentle combination. “The noble art and all that.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I’m thinking about keeping it up, doing a bit of sparring. You should come along, once your foot’s better.”

  “It’s nearly better now,” he said. There had been nothing to do on the voyage home except put his feet up and read and the rest had done wonders for the wound. “I’d love to.”

  “Here, hold on.” He took his travel pass and a pen from his pocket. He scribbled a number on the docket and handed it to him. “You should be able to reach me here. Give me a ring when you’re settled. We could have a spar and then go for a pint.”

  “Capital idea.”

  “That’s settled, then.”

  Joseph pulled him in and pounded him on the back. “Good to meet you, Doc,” he said. “Enjoy being home. And call me––alright?”

  Edward said that he would, and he meant it.

  3

  EDWARD TRANSFERRED ONTO THE UNDERGROUND. When he emerged from Tottenham Court Road station half an hour later it was into a warm dusk. The damage that had been done to the city since his departure was difficult to credit. Even now, with peace a year old, windows were still missing and there were holes in roofs. Some buildings had been pulverised, as if crushed by a giant’s fist. Others, the remedial work more advanced, had been removed neatly from the surrounding terrace as one would remove a slice of cake. It was as if they had never even been there, weeds already growing in their foundations. A fine film of dust thickened the city’s usual smog, coating everything with a patina of grime.

  He passed into Soho. He had grown up on its exciting grill of good-time streets and he retained fond memories of it. It was like a tiny international resort with an ozone of garlic, curry, ceremonious sauces and a hundred far-flung cheeses. The war had not changed it. The carrier cans in the windows were still full of salad and cooking oil and you could still find dozens of Spanish cheeses, snails, octopus and Chinese cheesecake. There was Dijon mustard; Rajah-like Eastern dishes costing pounds or modest four-bob curries; sex books; strip-tease shows; exotic clubs and thirty-odd different kinds of bread. Edward walked towards his destination and passed a woman reverently dusting bottles of wine, adorned with a whole picture gallery of labels, handing them to her small son who squatted in the shop window arranging them for display. Outside, the father stood, both arms extended, directing the whole operation like a temperamental stage manager.

  Eating was still a serious business and there remained sophisticated restaurants that laid on discreet shabbiness like a sort of make-up, knowing that serious gourmets do not bother much about decor. The Shangri-La was one such establishment. It was on Dean Street, one of the bisecting thoroughfares that ran north-to-south, connecting Oxford Street to Shaftesbury Avenue. It had twenty tables offering eighty covers and a small bar. Edward’s father had taken out a loan for a hundred pounds in 1936 and had spent it on a thorough refurbishment: wooden panels had been fitted to the walls and intricate stained-glass windows had been installed. The carpet, table clothes and curtains were all in dark colours and a fire burned in the grate. The intention had been to make something that felt exclusive, the kind of cosy clubbable charm that one might find in a Mayfair private members room. It had worked, to a point, but that was back then; now the carpets were tatty and the edges of the curtains had frayed. The room, like the city outside, looked faded and tired, like an elderly relative who had seen better days.

  Edward made his way around to the kitchen entrance.

  The small kitchen staff was busy. Jimmy Stern was working in front of the range, chopping vegetables, two large saucepans sending clouds of steam up to the ceiling. He was slick with sweat and his whites were slathered with blood and grime.

  “Hello, uncle,” Edward said.

  The old man gaped at him, dropping his knife.

  “You want to be careful with that––you’ll have your finger off.”

  Jimmy hugged him and then released him, clutching him by the shoulders so he could look him up and down. “Good lord, Jack––you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  It was the first time he had been addressed by his real name for seven years. It took a moment for him to reply, “It’s not Jack anymore, uncle, remember? It’s Edward.”

  “Hell, I forgot. Edward––?”

  “Fabian.”

  He chuckled. “Edward Fabian––that’s right. We really should have found you a better name.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers. I was in a rush. It wasn’t like I could wait around for something better to come along.”

  The two nodded at the thought of it. Edward Fabian had been the victim of one of the first Luftwaffe bombs of The Blitz. He had been a promising medical student, just graduated from Trinity Hall, Cambridge. Jimmy had a friend in the coroner’s office and he had been paid a pound to look out for a casualty who matched Jack’s height, build and hair colour. Fabian had been the first to meet the criteria, and they had simply switched papers. The local council was at sixes and sevens as the bombs fell and it had been easy to cover their tracks. Fabian’s body had been cremated hastily and that was that: as far as the authorities were concerned, Jack Stern had died in the wreckage of a collapsed terrace. Jack had become Edward.

  “What do I call you? Jack or Edward?”

  “Edward,” he said. “It’s been years. I’ve got used to it now. And Jack’s dead. Let’s not tempt fate.”

  “When did you get back?”

  “Last week.”

  “And you’re out?”

  “I am.”

  “Properly? For good?”

  “I’m officially demobbed. I’m a free man.”

  Edward noticed a new, manic quality to his uncle. Jimmy had always been highly-strung, prone to mood swings, but it seemed that he was wound even tighter than usual.

  “Have you eaten?” Jimmy asked.

  “A sandwich on the train.”

  “‘A sandwich on the train.’ That’s not good enough, is it? Go and find a seat. I’ll fetch you something.”

  Edward was hungry and didn’t complain. He made his way through into the restaurant. It was quiet, just a few diners quietly going about their meals, cutlery ringing against the crockery. He checked his watch: it wasn’t late. They should have been much busier.

  Jimmy brought out a plate of Baked Pig’s Cheek and sat down opposite him. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing special.”

  “It’ll do fine.” Edward sliced a piece of pork and put it into his mouth. He chewed; it was rubbery and dry, barely edible. Jimmy had prepared an excellent apple sauce to mask the poor quality of the meat but there was only so much he could do.

  “So? How was it?”

  “Up and down” he said. “Some days were good, some were bad. Most of the time it was boring.”

  “Boring?” Jimmy said.


  “You’d be surprised.” He had no desire to talk about the war and changed the subject. “How have things been here? It’s quiet.”

  “Slow.”

  His face showed the signs of strain and worry. “Are you making money?”

  “Not really. Not enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He dismissed the question with a brush of his hand. “We don’t need to talk about that now––you’ve just got back. It can wait.”

  This was more than enough to make Edward nervous. “No, tell me.”

  Jimmy slumped a little. “It’s been difficult. Bloody difficult. We’ve been losing money. The rent, the cost of staff, the ingredients.” He pointed at Edward’s half-finished plate of food. “I can’t charge proper prices for that. The food is the same as a National Restaurant. Worse, probably. It’s impossible.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Edward said, poking at the remnants of the meal.

  “I’m not an idiot, Edward. It’s awful. You saw the menu? The beef is horse, we don’t have any bread…”

  “Bread isn’t rationed?”

  “It wasn’t during the war. Soon as we bloody well get through that, though, and it is. Ridiculous. The vegetables need the mould cutting out of them and the snoek––my God, if there’s a worse tasting fish than bloody snoek I haven’t had it. Who’s going to pay a quid to eat that? Look, I was going to tell you tomorrow but I might as well get it out of the way now. I’ve had to make some difficult decisions.”