The Imposter

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 gri

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 a