2 The Imposter Read online

  Chiara said, “You’re the doctor, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. How do you know that?”

  “Joseph was talking about you.”

  “He was?”

  “He was happy you asked him to come today.”

  Edward smiled, pleased with himself. He felt very optimistic all of a sudden.

  “Have you met Billy yet?” Evie asked him.

  “Briefly. I don’t think he likes me much.”

  “He can be like that,” Sophia said. “He’s awkward around people he’s just met. I shouldn’t worry about it. He doesn’t mean it. His bark’s worse than his bite.”

  “You should know,” teased Evie.

  The remark was lost on Edward. “Are they good friends?” he asked.

  “They’ve known each other for years. His father and our father worked in the business so the two of them practically grew up together. He’s Greek. It used to be one hundred per cent Italian round here when my grandfather came over, but there’ve been all sorts moving in the last few years––Jews, Irish, Greeks. We call him Bubble when we want to get a rise out of him.”

  “Why?”

  “Bubble and Squeak.”

  Edward felt foolish for asking. “Oh––I see, Greek.”

  “He hates it.”

  Joseph had squeezed three gins between his hands and was coming towards them. Billy was behind him, carrying three pints of beer.

  Joseph gave a glass to each of his sisters.

  “Go easy on the poor lad,” Evie warned her sister as Billy arrived.

  “No fear. It’s too much fun.”

  “My sister and Billy used to be––involved,” Chiara explained quietly for Edward’s benefit, searching for the right word.

  “Only when I’ve been drinking,” Sophia said. “I do have standards.”

  Evie shook her head. “If you say so.”

  Sophia latched onto Billy at once. “Hello, darling.”

  “Alright, Sophia,” Billy said awkwardly. His demeanour underwent an abrupt and amusing transformation from his usual insouciance. It melted away like an ice cube on a hot day.

  “Don’t worry, my love, I won’t say nothing.”

  “What you on about? There’s nothing to say.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Don’t know why you’re being so coy.”

  “Leave him alone,” Joseph said, but there was an amused smile on his face.

  “I was just being civil.”

  “You know what you were doing.”

  Billy hid behind his pint.

  Edward enjoyed the exchange. He didn’t much like Billy and it was good to see him squirm. Smiling, he drank his beer right away. It was a warm day and he had developed a thirst. The beer was tepid but it didn’t matter.

  “Violet’s waving at us,” Evie said.

  Edward followed her gesture and saw a woman and a man at one of the large trestles.

  “Wonderful,” Joseph groaned. “I haven’t seen her all week. How is she?”

  “The same as ever,” Sophia said. “Annoyed you haven’t been to see her.”

  “We better go and see her before we get too lit up.”

  “You’re already lit up.”

  “More lit up, then.”

  “Who’s Violet?” Edward asked Chiara.

  “Our aunt,” she explained. “And the fellow next to her is our uncle George.”

  “We’ll leave you to it,” Sophia said. “I don’t think we need to be subjected to her. We get it every day.”

  “To what?” Edward said, confused.

  “Come on,” Joseph said. “You’ll see. Let’s get it over with.”

  10

  MATRONS FUSSED OVER DISHES that had been arranged on the trestle tables: bowls of pasta, salads, cuts of meat, trifles and cakes, a large tureen filled with punch. Joseph explained that each family had provided a dish, most more than one, the women rising early to start the preparations. The air was freighted with a sweet-smelling aroma: garlic, fried onions, rosemary, tomatoes, roasted vegetables. They picked their way through the crowd until they reached the table. Violet Costello was in her early fifties. She was a handsome woman, dressed elegantly in clothes that were obviously more expensive than those of the women around her. They had the dowdy, homely appearance of the housewife yet she was impressive, bearing herself with a regal air. She obviously had money, and style. If Violet indicated her status with subtle choices, George Costello was altogether more ostentatious. He was tall, over six feet, and his brillantined hair made him look even taller. His shoulders were broad and he was built as powerfully as an ox. He was wearing a fine suit, a clip-on bow tie with changeable paper collars and a loud, checked, belted overcoat. He wore a fresh carnation in his button-hole. His hair and whiskers had been cut that morning, his grooming punctiliously exact. His head was a little too large for his body and his eyes were a little too small for his face; they glittered darkly, suggesting he was not a man to be crossed.

  A steady procession of people approached their table. They acted deferentially, shaking hands with George and kissing Violet’s cheek, a few words spoken before they moved away to allow the next person their audience. Most bore gifts: bottles of black, sticky homemade wine, a basket of freshly baked bread. A large collection of bottles, plates and salvers had formed on the table behind them. Young girls removed the gifts and redistributed them around the street to be enjoyed by the revellers.

  Edward felt a stirring of excitement. There were opportunities here.

  “What’s all that about?” he asked Joseph, indicating the well-wishers.

  “Violet paid for the party.”

  “And the gifts?”

  “Signs of respect.”

  Edward did not know what that meant, but he concentrated on his smile as they approached the table. Violet turned. “Joseph,” she said warmly, “and Billy. Two of my favourite boys.”

  “Mrs. Costello,” Billy said. His attitude had moved from surliness to close to servility.

  “And who’s this?”

  “This is Edward Fabian,” Joseph said. “We served together.”

  “The man you mentioned?”

  “That’s right.”

  Edward extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  She took it. Her skin was smooth as porcelain. “Sit,” she said, gesturing to the space next to her, and he did as he was told. She spoke in short, curt bursts, with a certainty of tone that suggested she was used to giving instructions and that she was used to those instructions being followed. Her words were inflected with a strong East London accent that he found surprising, given that her wardrobe was so obviously expensive; she looked like Bond Street but sounded like Bethnal Green. “You all look half-starved. Have something to eat with us.”

  She reached across the table for a plate and a bowl of pasta. Edward sat next to her, feeling a little awkward, as she dished out a serving and handed him the bowl.

  “How have you found being back?” she asked him.

  “It’s wonderful, obviously, but it’s also a bit of a shock.”

  “Your parents must be glad?”

  Edward made sure he looked thoughtful. “Oh, they’re both dead, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s fine,” he said. “It was a long time ago.”

  He could certainly never tell any of them about his father, or about Jimmy, and, despite the ease with which he delivered the lie, he felt a moment of disquiet. It was guilt. He tried to recover himself: what was he so worried about? He had delivered the very same lie a hundred times before and there was no way that these people could possibly tell that it wasn’t true.

  Violet indicated his uniform. “Is that for a reason?”

  “We’ve just been to Buckingham Palace,” Joseph answered for him. “Edward has been decorated.”

  George Costello flinched, the first break in h
is rigidity. It was like watching a thick wall shift and lean after a bomb had fallen.

  “Really?” he said.

  “He got the Victoria Cross.”

  Violet was visibly impressed. “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” Edward said, masking the mild unease he felt with a shrug.

  “What did you do?” George pressed. He didn’t try and hide his dubious tone.

  “Nothing really,” Edward said. He felt himself begin to sweat, and he tried again to relax.

  “No, come on,” George pressed irritably. “What did you do?”

  “He doesn’t like to talk about it,” Joseph said.

  “You’re very modest,” Violet commended. “I’d much rather that than some loud-mouthed braggart.”

  George harrumphed but allowed the conversation to drop.

  “How long have you been home?” she asked.

  “Just a few weeks.”

  “And have you found work?”

  Edward was about to reply that he had not when a black Wolseley slid to a stop on the side-street opposite. George Costello swore colourfully under his breath. Two men in the front seat took notebooks from the dashboard and, with no attempt at concealment, recorded the number plates of the other cars parked near them.

  Joseph regarded them contemptuously. “They just won’t give it a bloody rest, will they?”

  “Ignore them,” Violet said. “It’s a free country. They can do what they want. And we’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Joseph stared at the two men and, when he was sure that they were looking in his direction, spat theatrically into the gutter.

  “Joseph!”

  “What? They think they’re going to get something today? Here?”

  “They’re just making a point.”

  “They’re wasting their time,” George muttered.

  Edward watched the men in the car scribble into their notebooks. “Who are they?”

  “Police,” Joseph grunted.

  Edward stared at the car and the men inside it. Police? The mention of the word made him shiver. He wanted to ask what they were there for but he could see that it was not a subject it would have been wise to pursue. The car dallied for five minutes before reversing away, sliding around a corner and out of sight.

  “Good riddance,” Joseph said.

  The crowd had grown so that there were now hundreds of locals gathered in the street. Plenty of them were drunk, and some had started dancing on the pavement. Others had taken their places at the tables, helping themselves to the piles of food and the gallon jugs of homemade wine. The children were finally quiet, gorging themselves happily from the array of plates and bowls.

  Violet laid a hand on Edward’s wrist. “What do you think?” she asked, gesturing at the scene.

  “It’s wonderful.”

  “It’s not what it was. I can remember when there would’ve been thousands here. The area––it’s changing.”

  “It’s the bloody Irish,” George said.

  Violet ignored her brother. “It wasn’t all that long ago when this whole district was completely Italian. I can remember it from when I was a little girl… Italian shops, Italian food, the only language you’d hear was Italian.”

  “Those days are long gone,” her brother muttered.

  She nodded sadly. “It’s all moved to Soho now.”

  “Do you live here?” Edward asked.

  “No, dear. Not any more. It’s so different now, I couldn’t bear it.” She didn’t elaborate. “We were talking about work before––what are your plans now you’re back?”

  “I’m thinking about a career in medicine.”

  “He went to University,” Joseph explained. “He’s clever.”

  “I hardly think so,” Edward said dismissively.

  “Where did you go?”

  “Cambridge, ma’am.” Edward waited, hoping that Violet would ask him something about Cambridge, but she did not. He could have discussed the way they taught medicine, the way the university was divided into colleges, the food at the collegiate dinners, the political tendency of the student body, anything. He had sat next to an officer on a long trip through the Burmese countryside, both of them perched atop the hull of a tank so hot you could have fried eggs on it. The man had been at Cambridge and talked of nothing but Cambridge, so that Edward had pressed him for more and more, devouring it all, predicting a time when he might be able to use the information. By the time the trip was over he felt as if he had gone to Cambridge, too.

  “Are you qualified?”

  “No, not yet. I enlisted right after I graduated. I still have qualifications I’d need to get before they’ll let me practice and then I’m not quite sure what will happen to things with Mr. Beveridge’s plans.”

  “Well, it’s a fine profession to be in. We’ll always need doctors, however they rearrange things. And until then?”

  “I’m keeping my eyes open in case something come up.”

  Violet frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps we could help you with that? Our family has several business interests––I expect Joseph has told you. One of them is in motorcars. Second-hand ones, buying and selling. We’re always looking for good young salesman. And, someone with your record, the war, your medal and such like––it’s the least we can do to thank you for your service and I think that might be a rather good fit.”

  “I don’t know––” he began, pretending to hesitate. Was this it? He thought that he smelled an opening and he knew not to come across as overly eager.

  “The offer is there,” she said. “Take the weekend to think about it. It can be an excellent job. If you have the gift of the gab the money is very good.”

  “You should think about it, Doc,” Joseph impressed on him.

  “Come and have a look on Monday,” Violet said. “Joseph can tell you where the showroom is. Have a look, see what you think––there would be no obligations.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Nonsense. It’s the least we can do.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  George frowned at his sister. “We should be going,” he said, showing her his pocket watch.

  Violet checked the time and nodded her agreement. “We have an appointment. It was a pleasure to meet you, Edward. I’m sure we’ll see you again.”

  The two of them got up and, bidding them farewell, made their way to a parked car. A large, serious-looking man was waiting by the kerb. He opened the rear doors for them, got into the front and drove them away.

  “She liked you,” Joseph said.

  “You think?”

  “Certainly.”

  “This job? What do you think? Was she serious?”

  “It’s like she said: the family has a lot of business interests,” he replied, choosing his words carefully. “The showroom would be a good fit for you––better than a job in a kitchen, anyway.” He got up. “Now then,” he said. “How about another drink? How about a nice brandy? Doc? Are you listening to me?”

  “Sorry,” he said. He had been miles away.

  “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

  Edward brushed that off as Joseph went over to the pub but it was true. He had plenty on his mind. Opportunities, openings and main chances. All of them aimed towards the future prosperity of Edward Fabian.

  PART THREE

  London

  June – August 1945

  11

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR CHARLIE MURPHY stared out of the window of the car, peering through sheets of rain. He was outside an office building on Upper Street, right in the heart of grotty Islington. There was no sign of a police station, at least not one that could be recognised as such. Charlie got out and trotted through the rain into the building, through a wide door and into a lobby. He took a flight of stairs and passed through another door. The walls were painted green, like all municipal buildings, and the paint was peeling. The windows were tall and narrow and all of them had missing panes, boards covering the gaps. Th
e place was in a state. It looked like it was empty. It looked nothing like a police station and that was exactly what Charlie wanted. If the Ghost Squad was to be effective, it needed to be anonymous, and this was a good start.

  Charlie opened a set of double doors. Beyond was an open floor, not all that big, with a couple of offices leading off on one side. The place looked like it used to be a fashion warehouse: a crowd of battered old mannequins were gathered in a corner, dusty armless corpses that had seen better days. There were large industrial windows, a wide door in the wall with a winch outside, the sort of get-up for hoisting gear straight in. Two middle-aged women were working at typewriters and one whole wall was covered with shelves, books, box files and piles of paper. Half a dozen men were working at desks.

  Vernon White and Roderick Carlyle, the sergeants who made up the heart of his little team, were waiting in Charlie’s office, cups of tea steaming before them. He had hand-picked from uniform all the way back in 1940. They were his men. They had been with him since the Ripper case, the arcs of their careers following his own. There had been quick promotions from detective constable to detective sergeant and growing acclaim at the Yard, yet they were loyal and showed no interest in leaving his side. Charlie knew why: he was good, they knew it, and they also knew that they would rise faster with him than without. White was a cold-eyed hatchet-faced man, as lean as a rake and as hard as the manager of a loan office. Carlyle was a fresh-faced, a razor-sharp mind hidden beneath a naïve face. “Morning, lads,” Charlie said.

  “Morning, guv,” they said together.

  “Are we ready to go?”

  Carlyle nodded. “The men are all here.”

  “Did we get them all?”

  Carlyle shook his head. “We got six. The Commissioner will double it if we can show results.”

  Charlie grunted. There were hardly mob-handed, and a job like this would only work with a good deal of manpower, but it would have to do. “Get them ready,” he said. “I’ll get myself a cuppa and then I’ll give them the run-through.”

  Carlyle and White went outside into the main room and Charlie heard them organise the men for the briefing. He made himself a cup of tea and went outside. The six detective constables had arranged their chairs so that they were facing the wall on which Charlie had fixed a pinboard.