The Imposter

He first saw the smoke as he passed the inspection pit. It was coming from the showroom. He reached for the door and recoiled: the doorknob was burning to the touch. He wrapped his hand in the sleeve of his coat and opened the door, a cloud of smoke billowing out, curling up against the ceiling. He covered his mouth and went inside. There was a slick of petrol all the way across the floor and he watched, in confused fascination that quickly became horror, as a blue wick of flame spread avidly across it. The flames crackled hungrily, racing across the showroom, high enough in places to start to blacken the ceiling. He was backing away when he saw the rag that had been stuffed into the fuel tank of the Packard nearest to the door. The fuel cap had been taken off and the rag was pushed all the way inside. It was alight, burnt almost all the way down, and as Ruby dumbly realised what was about to happen he also realised that it was too late to do anything about it. A moment later and the tank exploded, lifting the car off its rear wheels and then crashing it down again. The blast flung Ruby off his feet and tossed him back outside again. He landed heavily on his back, his head whiplashing back against the floor. His vision swam with woozy filters as consciousness ebbed away. He would wonder, later, if the hooded figure he saw was real or a tattered figment of his imagination, a concussion dream.

57

EDWARD BRACED HIS ARMS against the sides of the wooden-panelled corridor as the train rumbled around a sharp bend. He continued along the carriage, checking through the windows of the compartments on the left of the corridor. The train was on the fringes of the metropolis now, and most of the compartments had emptied out as commuters disembarked at the end of their journey home. He made his way along to the end of the corridor and the final compartment. He had checked earlier; it had been full, and he had decided to wait. Now, it had emptied out. The lone occupant was sitting facing the direction of travel, a copy of the Times held open before him. A glass of gin rested on the small table fixed to the wall of the carriage, ice clinking against the sides as it moved with the motion of the train.

Edward had done his research. Everything Charles Murphy had said to him in the dining room at Claridges had been true. He was the youngest detective chief inspector at the Metropolitan Police in living memory. Hugely ambitious and ruthless to a fault. His career had been made by the apprehension of a serial murderer during The Blitz but he had built on those strong foundations in the years that had passed. His own father had been one of his victims. The newspapers called him the “Scourge of the Underworld” and said he was spearheading the Commissioner’s public promise to root out black marketeers and put an end to gangsterism.

It was all true.

Edward wanted to speak to him somewhere quiet to reduce the chance that they would be seen together as much as possible. He paused at the door, his eyes on the man, and then on the landscape rolling past the window. The world keeps turning, Edward thought, and here I am, about to make myself a grass, the lowest of the low. But it was necessary, he told himself. There was no question about it any longer: it was what he needed to do.

The last few days had been miserable. His time with Chiara had been uncomfortable, undermined by a persistent chill of anxiety that he could not dismiss. It was the same with Joseph. Had Billy said anything about him, he wondered? Every cross word, every disagreement, and Edward convinced himself that the cause was Joseph’s knowledge that he had deceived them all. The sudden weight of guilt made Edward sweat, droplets on his forehead and on his back, his palms slick and damp. He needed to act. It would remove a dangerous threat and provide him with an opportunity to put his career with the family into its natural and proper place. He had wrestled with his decision and was happy with it. It needed to be done. Without it, he would probably have to leave, to flee, to go abroad.

He would never get what he deserved.

No. He knew he was doing the right thing. He had no choice.

He slid the door aside and stepped into the compartment.

“Detective inspector,” he said.

Murphy looked up, unable to prevent the expression of surprise that broke across his face. “Edward.”

He pointed at the bench on the opposite side of the compartment. “Do you mind?”

“It’s a free country.”

It was a knowing reference to their first meeting in the restaurant. Edward pretended a smile––he hoped that it might mask his nerves––and sat.

“How did you know this was my train?”

“I’ve been following you.”

“You didn’t think to make an appointment?”

He laughed derisively. “Really? You know what would happen to me if they found out we were talking, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course––foolish of me. George would cut you up into tiny little bits and throw you into the Thames. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said to me.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And?”

“And perhaps we can work together.” The train’s horn sounded, up and down, long and short and short again. “This situation in Soho––I’m no expert, but, the way I see it, it’s completely out of control. There are the Costellos on the one side, not as powerful as they were but still heavily involved. And then, on the other side, you’ve got Jack Spot. Ambitious, ruthless, not clever enough to be subtle but very dangerous––he has his eye on what the Costellos have managed to hang on to and he wants it all for himself. And, as you say, men have already died: Le

Edward wanted to make him recall their previous conversation and see how the boot was on the other foot now. Murphy knew what he was trying to do and glared at his impudence. “Not too bad,” he said, tightly. “Please––go on.”

“You know Ruby Ward?”

“Of course.”

“You know about the fire at his garage this morning?”

“Yes.”

“The whole place––burned to the ground.” He shook his head solemnly. “From what I heard, he was lucky not to have been killed. Can’t have been an accident, can it? Spot knows Ward works with the Costellos. He fences all their stuff. If you ask me, that was Jack upping the ante again.”

“Maybe.”

He leant closer. “Inspector, you’ve staked your reputation on being able to clean up the West End and, with respect, none of this is making you look very good. More bloodshed makes you look even worse. I don’t know what it’s like to be in the police, but I do know the army. Let’s say we had the Tojos causing trouble in a particular area and my commanding officer ordered me to put a lid on them, only it gets worse before it gets better. I reckon, in a case like that, odds are I’m going to get a bollocking and given something else to do. It’s definitely not the way I’m going to get myself that promotion I’ve been hankering after. Like I say, I don’t know how you work all that out in the police but I reckon it’s got to be similar.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. “As you say––you don’t know.”

Murphy’s weakness was his ambition and the screw only needed to be tightened just a little more so that the bait Edward was laying down became impossible for him to resist. “Just for the sake of argument, we can agree it’ll be better for you to get on top of this, right? Before it gets worse.”

“And what can you do to make that happen?”

“How long have you been chasing George Costello?”

“Long enough.”

“What if I said I could deliver him and a dozen of the family’s men?”

“I’d wonder if you had a death wish. George Costello is not someone I’d want to cross.”