The Imposter

Two more tasks, he kept reminding himself.

One task for Joseph.

One task for him.

Two more things to do and then they would be done. And then, finally, he would be able to relax.

He parked outside the warehouse in Soho. A sign above the doorway a

“Come on,” he grumbled to no-one in particular. “Come on.”

His thoughts ran to the jungle and the war. He wondered how war did strange things to a man. Every minute you were living in fear. The expectation that the next bullet would be the one that finished you. That’s got to damage you, he thought, hasn’t it? Got to change something about how you are.

There was no point in dwelling on what had to be done. It was necessary: that was enough. He had learned that lesson in Burma and he had put it into practice with Billy. Some things in life just had to be sorted out. You got on with it as best you could. You did your best not to remember the things that you had seen and done, even though those memories came back to you anyway. He had done things that men who had not served would not have credited, and certainly would not have understood: killed in cold blood, destroyed property, stolen whatever he wanted. Billy could not possibly have comprehended it. None of them would have been able to, not unless they had been there. Joseph was the exception. He had been there, and he knew. He knew that the tasks they were performing this morning were necessary, too.

He thought of how he had developed a hard shell, like being dipped in lead. He had been scared more than he had ever been scared in his life. He had done things, maybe because he was following orders, but he had done them anyway. After a while he did not even think about them anymore; they became as mundane and routine as cleaning his rifle or changing his socks. He had done them like you might scratch an itch.

And this?

Compared to those things, this was a walk in the park.

He rolled the cigarette between his fingers. He gripped the stock and the barrel of the Sten.

A private car turned the corner and headed towards him out of the gloom, blooms of sodium yellow light from its headlamps suffusing the rain-smeared glass. He watched as it parked ahead of him, next to the entrance to the warehouse.

The car’s doors opened.

He unslotted the magazine of the Sten, tapped it against his knee to clear any blockages, slotted it back home and recocked the weapon. His hands slid to the barrel and stock, closing around the gun, the metal cold against his skin. It was an excellent weapon and he knew precisely how to use it. He tightened his grip.

Four men got out of the car. They were only a little late. Edward had called Spot’s man, Eric, yesterday night. He was Dick MacCulloch and he explained that he was driving the consignment of whisky down from Scotland this morning. He said that he could deliver it to wherever Spot preferred; the man had swallowed the story without question. There was no reason for him to be suspicious. He had played the conversation out properly, even negotiating the amount that he wanted in exchange for the booze. Eric had driven a hard bargain and Edward had only acceded to his price reluctantly. He had been impressed with his own performance. The price didn’t matter a jot: this wasn’t about money. There was to be no whisky. A payment would be made but it would be by him, and not be the sort that they were expecting.

The men laughed as they unlocked the warehouse’s broad double doors, the noise of their mirth breaking the lumpen silence. Perhaps they had been out in Soho celebrating? Why not? It had been a good few days for them. The news was promising for Spot and his goons. The Costellos were out of business and the way was clear for them to dominate the West End. That was what they were all saying. London, and all the opportunities it offered, was theirs for the taking.

Edward tightened his grip around the stock of his Sten gun. He pulled his scarf up around his face, opened the car door and stepped outside. He held the submachine gun vertically, muzzle down, shielding it against his leg and torso. The morning air was cold and fresh. The sun was breaking between the chimney stacks of the hat factory at the end of the street, sparkling through the smoggy drizzle. The men had gone inside. Edward crossed the pavement and followed them. There were no windows, and the only light was the grey murk from the doorway. Boxes and crates were stacked up against the walls. The four of them had their backs to him. They were moaning that MacCulloch was late, that his tardiness risked a clip around the ear. They had things to do. Places to be.

Edward moved quickly, closing the distance, bringing the Sten gun up, aiming it at waist height.

They were ten feet away.

“Lads,” Edward shouted out.

The four men turned.

Their good humour drained away, their mouths fell open, fear washed through their faces.

He fired. The gun rattled and cracked, spitting and bucking in his cradled grip. He sprayed bullets, swivelling at the hip to bring all four men within his arc of fire. Spot’s heavies danced backwards, arms aloft, jerking like marionettes. One tripped and fell backwards against the wall. Another toppled across the bo

He walked back to his car and dropped the Sten gun into the open boot. He got in, started the engine, and pulled away from the kerb. He passed the open door at walking pace: the Spot men were scattered around inside like fallen ninepins, blood pooling on the concrete floor, ru

Edward pressed the stick into second gear and accelerated away.

67

JOSEPH DROVE SOUTH at around about the same time, making good time until Whitehawk where the car was absorbed into a crawling queue, caught between busses that crunched through their gears as they struggled uphill and myriad other vehicles, all of them jammed tight. Impatient drivers pressed their horns and jerked their cars to within inches of their neighbours. Every spare seat was taken: battered pre-war Morrises, sporty Packards, a pair of youngsters hitching a lift on the ru

He had never been as nervous as this. It had taken Edward a day to persuade him that what they were intending to carry out was necessary. He had reminded him of Tommy Falco and it was that, eventually, that had made the difference. It was not their fault that it had come to this. Spot had been increasing the pressure for weeks.

Le

Tommy Falco and the other men at the Regal.

The violence all across the West End.

Even Chiara’s bloody dog.