The Imposter

Edward had explained it colourfully. You don’t pull a tiger by the tail, he said. Joseph could understand that. Spot had boxed them into a corner. He was taunting them, daring them to retaliate, daring them to do something.

Well, then. Fine. Now they would.

They would give him exactly what he was asking for.

The road finally climbed up Race Hill and as he crested it he was rewarded with a view out over the sprawl of Brighton and, beyond, the green and white of the sea. He rolled the car into the car park, locked it and set off for the track. Loud-speakers set onto the roofs of vans advised the racegoers where best to put their money. Children squabbled. A few punters were already drunk, staggering towards the gate to be parted from the rest of their funds. He paid the entrance fee and followed the tu

He stopped and looked more carefully.

Where was he?

The brightening sky.

The clouds of dust over the course from the thundering of the horses’ hooves.

The torn betting cards and the short grass towards the dark sea beneath the down.

Where, where, where?

And then he saw him. There, standing before Tavell’s stall, was Jack Spot. He was eating a currant bun. Joking with Tavell. Not a care in the world. Joseph pulled his trilby tightly against his head, tugging down the brim so that as much of his face was obscured as possible. The horses from the first race of the day set off, the sound of their shod feet thundering as they came around on the rail. He got closer. A young man with oiled, blond hair stood on a wooden step paying out money.

Joseph reached into his pocket and felt for the revolver.

The horses turned onto the straight and accelerated towards them.

“Jack!” he shouted.

The big man looked up. Joseph noticed all the small details: the crumbs from the bun that had stuck around Spot’s mouth, the fat knot of his tie, the faces around them that warped from jollity to fear as they saw the glint of the revolver and realised what that must mean. Spot opened his mouth as if to speak, opened and closed, the crumbs dropping from his mouth onto his coat and the floor, and Joseph fired, twice into the body, and Spot fell backwards into the stand. He slid down the blackboard, his coat rubbing off the odds. Joseph followed and stood over him.

The horses went by with a deafening drumbeat of hooves.

Spot put up his hands to ward him off.

“Please,” he mouthed.

Joseph ignored him, aimed at his face and fired.

EPILOGUE

Halewell Close

June 1946

THE WEDDING OF Mr. Edward Henry Fabian and Miss Chiara Grace Costello was arranged for the last Saturday in June. It was only three months after Joseph’s wedding and yet if the cost of financing yet more festivities was difficult for the Costellos to absorb, it was not obvious from the scale and grandeur of the occasion. Expensively engraved invitations had been dispatched to six hundred guests, twice as many as had attended the wedding of Joseph and Eve. Once again, the reception would be held in the grounds of Halewell Close, with the marquee––this one much larger––erected over the etiolated markings that were still visible on the grass. The party would go on all day and into the night, the entertainment provided by the best swing band in Soho. It would be lavish and no expense would be spared. That was Violet Costello’s preference and Edward had been delighted to indulge it. After all, there was more money now. And he wanted people to remember the day. He wanted it to be more elaborate, more memorable than Joseph’s.

After all, in so many ways, the party was his coming out.

There had been rumours of an upturn in the family’s fortunes. Jack Spot’s humiliation at the racecourse had seen him in full retreat, even before the unsolved death of his four lieutenants. That bloody morning’s work had been dubbed “The Upton Park Massacre” by a wide-eyed press that had become entranced by the casual brutality of the killings. One thing was for sure: it had led to the rebalancing of power in the West End. Those businesses that Spot had taken from the Costellos had been returned to them. The flow of strong-arm money from the shebeens, spielers, pimps and prostitutes that he had diverted now flowed into the Costello’s coffers again. The death of the four men served as a stark reminder of what happened to those who crossed the family’s path, and suggestions to local businesses that it was in their best interests to ‘work’ with the family were now accepted without resistance. For the first time in months, the Costellos started to expand their sphere of influence. And for the first time in years, they were the dominant force on the racecourses once again. People were saying that they were swimming in new money.

The guests had travelled out of London in the morning and headed west into the Cotswolds. Their bridal gifts were envelopes stuffed with cash, handwritten cards inside each envelope a

The motivation for these kindnesses was not unsullied, and Edward knew it. Each guest hoped that he would remember them fondly and, in time, acknowledge their respect with a favour. The men and women were drawn from across Soho and the West End and they had all heard the talk. Edward Fabian had become the most influential person within the family. He taken the place of the incarcerated George Costello at Violet’s side, and it was his counsel that she took. The ceremony binding him to Chiara had simply been the public confirmation of what everybody already knew: Edward was family now. It had been him, with Joseph, who had seen off Jack Spot. It had been him who had overseen the family’s recovery and the expansion of their interests. He was not someone to cross or trifle with and, all agreed, he was destined for big things. There was no harm in trying to gain capital with him now.

Edward stood with his bride at the entrance to the marquee, shaking the hands of the men and kissing the cheeks of the women. He accepted their compliments with good grace, offered the hope that they would enjoy the evening and moved on to the next in line. He felt superb, perfectly ecstatic. He greeted everyone respectfully, with a kind and personal word to each that was calculated to encourage a sense of familiarity. He wanted his guests to think that he was someone who made an effort. He felt in control and it seemed impossible to him that anything could go wrong. Joseph was next in line and he hugged him, pounding him on the back and welcoming him into the family. Violet followed and he stooped to allow her to kiss him on the cheek. Jimmy Stern, at the wedding as his uncle but under an assumed name, took his nephew’s hand and held it.