The Imposter

Edward stood at the bar and started to fret with the edges of a towel that had been spread over a spillage. He knew that he was taking a risk by coming here, a big one, but there had been no alternative. There was Spot’s reputation for violence, for one thing, but he was less concerned about that than he was about the Costellos. If he was spotted, and the news got back to them… well, that didn’t bear thinking about. He would have preferred to send someone else but who was there? Jimmy would have been a possibility, but he was still black and blue from the beating that Billy had dished out, and who else was there after him? No-one. It had to be him.

The barman returned. “This way,” he said. He led the way to a room at the back of the club. It was plain, furnished with a table and two chairs and a filing cabinet. Crates of beer were stacked against the wall. Edward recognised Jack Spot. He was alone at the table, eating a plate of liver and onions and drinking from a cup of tea.

“Sit down,” he said to Edward pointing to the empty chair opposite him.

Edward did as he was told. Spot was dressed impeccably, in an expensive suit with a bright red handkerchief folded in the pocket. A crombie had been hung from a hook on the wall and a trilby rested on the crates of ale. Spot himself was an impressive figure. Although he was sitting, Edward estimated that he must have been well over six feet tall. His face was ponderous and heavy, full of flesh, somewhat ruddy––his face might have been stone to Edward. He had large grey-green eyes that flicked and darted, or perhaps he was one of those people who never looked at anyone they were talking to. His shoulders were wide and his hands enormous.

He picked up the tea and sipped at it.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Spot.”

“Eric says you have something you would like to discuss?”

He flinched and touched his moustache with his finger. “I do. Business.”

He replaced the cup in its saucer. “I’ll let you have a minute. I don’t normally appreciate my di

“Thank you.”

“Fifty seconds. Get to it.”

“I work for a freight company.”

“Doing what?”

“Driving trucks.”

“I see. Freight?”

“That’s right.”

“Valuable?”

“Sometimes.”

“And the opportunity?”

“There’s a consignment of whisky being delivered to the depot in the next couple of days. Very good stuff, Mr. Spot––it’s worth hundreds of quid, especially with the way things are.”

Spot stabbed a piece of liver and inserted it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“I heard that you were the man to speak to about opportunities like that?”

Spot looked at him with a faintly amused expression, gazing at him as if he were some kind of animal which interested him, and which he could kill if he decided to. “And who told you that?”

Edward feigned to fluster. Spot was the kind of man who would beat up someone he thought was wasting his time, and here, alone with him in his club, in the middle of the East End, there could not have been a more propitious place. “I know some chaps who gamble in one of your spielers,” he explained, “they said it was right up your street.”

Spot noticed his anxiety and a smile spread slowly across the man’s red, fat lips. “I might be interested, Mr.––?”

“MacCulloch. Dick MacCulloch.”

“Mr. MacCulloch.” Spot put another piece of liver into his mouth and chewed. “But how do I know you’re not a stool pigeon or a detective?”

“Do I look like a detective?”

“No, Mr. MacCulloch, you don’t, but I didn’t get to be where I am by taking u

“I’m taking the truck to Scotland to pick it up on Sunday. I should be back down again with it a week tomorrow.”

Spot tapped his fork against the side of the plate. “And how much would you want for doing this?”

“Fifty notes. I’ll probably get my cards over losing the load, so it’s got to be worth my while.”

The neutral smile flickered and then disappeared. Spot’s eyes snapped into close focus, and Edward felt drawn into them. They were dark and unfeeling, with no suggestion of compassion or empathy, and impossible to read. “Alright, then, Mr. MacCulloch. Speak to Eric again on the way out. He’ll give you a telephone number. Call it when you are three hours away from London. I’ll have a think, maybe ask a few questions about you. If it is something I think I might be interested in, and if I think you can be trusted, you’ll be told where to go. If not, you will have needlessly interrupted my di

“Thank you, Mr. Spot.”

Spot nodded and concentrated on his half-finished plate. Edward took that to mean he was dismissed and, nodding his head deferentially, he backed out of the room and into the smoke and noise of the bar.

59

MONDAY MORNING. The hands of Edward’s wristwatch moved towards eight o’clock. It was cold and overcast, with wispy tendrils of river mist creeping across the breakers’ yard. It was to be the last run to Honeybourne, although only Edward knew that. He grabbed the rails with both hands and hauled himself up into the cab of the lorry. Joseph was waiting in the passenger seat, his feet propped on the dashboard and a selection of holiday brochures spread out across his lap. Jack McVitie was behind the wheel of the Commer Express delivery van parked ahead of them and behind them came the other lorries. Everything was as it normally would be.

Edward had spent the last few days refining the plan. He had persuaded Joseph that they should have George come with them this time. There was a lot of merchandise, he had explained, and it would make sense for him to see it all for himself. Edward had been wary of making too big a thing of the suggestion for he knew it was essential that it was not so obvious so as to be remembered later, after everything, nor that it was something that he had proposed. Joseph did not seem to make very much of it, and, after a little persuading, George had agreed to come. He was behind the wheel of the third lorry, the one directly behind theirs.

“What about the south of France, then?” Joseph was saying, stabbing his finger at the open brochure. “Still full of the French, no doubt. What about Eve? Think she’d like it? Her cup of tea?”

“The weather’s splendid, I’ve heard there are some spectacular beaches, the hotels are luxurious, the food will be out-of-this world. I should think she’d love it.”

Joseph looked at the brochure again. “We could fly direct from London Airport on BOAC––they have planes that go all the way down. It ain’t cheap, though, none of it. The whole thing’s a great big racket. You get them a ring when you get married, you pay for the wedding they’ve always dreamed of, then you have to stump up for a holiday. I ain’t even thinking about a house, clothes, a nice car. As soon as your woman realises you’ve got a little bit of folding about you, their taste gets expensive all of a sudden, and then there’s babies and the whole thing starts all over again. Chiara won’t be any different––believe me, I know. That one’s been brought up to expect the good life, always has. You better have plenty saved up if you’re pla

Jack McVitie hauled himself into the open doorway. “Where’s Billy?” he asked.

Joseph tossed the brochures down into the footwell and frowned. “No idea. He’s a bloody fool half the time, but it’s not like him to be late like this.”

“Strange,” Jack said. “We were supposed to be having a drink last night and he never turned up.”