The Imposter

Edward found his way to the entrance of the tent. It was a beautiful evening, shafts of golden sunlight falling on the freshly cut lawns that rolled down to the lake. He allowed himself to daydream. He imagined their honeymoon, landing in Sicily, the first time he had returned there since the accident that had seemingly doomed him to a life without the status he cherished. He thought about the burning sun, the startlingly blue sea, the sluggishness in the air. He thought about the woman in the harbour, the furious argument after she had confronted him and then, eventually, his hands pressing down on her shoulders until her thrashing and kicking became spasmodic and, finally, stopped.

A foul memory he would try and forget.

It meant nothing now.

He turned and looked back at Halewell Close, the imposing spires rising above the ridge of the marquee. It was a marvellous place and it was such a shame that it had been allowed to fall into decrepitude. The Costellos did not really appreciate it. It was just another bauble to own for them. Edward saw it for what it was, respected all the history that it must have seen, and valued it.

Damn Violet.

Damn Victor.

Damn them both.

He would have the house, in due course, and when he did, he would look after it properly.

He caught himself. For a moment, it felt as if it were something that he must have imagined. Was it all real? Had he really done it? Perhaps he was still in the jungle; a fever dream, sweating under canvas somewhere.

He walked away from the tent, down the sloping lawns to the boathouse.

He smelt the aromas emanating from the cook tent, felt the moisture on the breeze coming off the lake.

He wasn’t imagining it. It was true. He had done it. He would have the house, and one in France, and one in Italy. He would keep his London apartment. He would have cars, all the newest models, and a new suit whenever he felt like one. He would have everything that he wanted. Everything that he deserved. He ran his fingers along the splintered balustrade that guarded the drop to the water below and thought back to the night he had stood with Joseph on the same spot, and agreed to rob a house with him. It was less than a year ago although it seemed longer than that. He looked into the gently rolling waves, stirred by the breeze, and thought of Billy Stavropoulos. There had been a week of bad dreams in the immediate aftermath of that night on the sea. Billy would appear at the foot of his bed, dripping wet, with seaweed festooned over his head and across his shoulders, limpets stuck to his face. He would stand over Edward’s sleeping body, staring down at him, his eyes a filmy white as salt water puddled around his feet. Sometimes, when the dream was at its worse, Billy would be joined by a second figure. A woman, barnacles on her fingers like rings. Occasionally, every now and again, Jack Spot would loom behind her, a bloody hole cratering the middle of his face. Edward would stir with a sudden start, sweating, wondering for that first instant of wakefulness what was real and what was the dream. After the first week, the nightmare passed. He rarely had it now.

He turned back to face the marquee. The evening sun was low; he had to shield his eyes and yet it was still getting cold. He allowed himself a final moment of peacefulness before he made his way back up the lawn and into the tent.

He was intercepted before he was halfway there.

“Jack Stern?”

His stomach plunged.

“Excuse me––Mr. Stern?”

He turned.

A man was coming towards him.

He was solidly-built, in his mid-forties, and carried a leather briefcase. He had salt-and-pepper coloured hair, cut very short on the sides, and a solid jaw covered with just a little too much flesh, like the rest of him. His face was the very picture of inscrutability. One couldn’t tell a thing from that face, Edward thought. Whoever he was, he was a professional.

“I’m sorry?” he said. “Do I know you?”

“My name is Arthur MacCauley,” he said. “I’m a private detective.”

“A private detective?”

“My client has engaged me to try and find the man in this photograph.” He reached into his briefcase and took out a newspaper. He held it up: it was the article that Henry Drake had written with Edward’s picture next to it. “This is you, isn’t it?”

“Yes. That was almost a year ago.”

“Yes, I know. It only just came to my attention. How about this?”

Edward looked at the photograph that the man held up. It was of a young man, in his early twenties, his hair cut fashionably short, his skin fresh and clear. He was well dressed in a di

Ca

Eight years ago.

A world away.

Another lifetime.

“No, that’s not me.”

“Please, Mr. Stern. Really?”

“I’m sorry,” he protested, “but it isn’t.”

He lowered his voice a little. “Let’s not make a scene, Jack. Alright? What do you say? I know today’s your wedding.”

“That’s right––it is my wedding. And you’re trespassing, sir. If you don’t leave I’m afraid I’m going to have to call the police.”

He smiled at him. Completely unthreatened. “You want to do that?”

Edward almost turned away from the man, ready to leave him there on the lawn, but he stopped and, in that second, he anticipated his defeat and the consequences of it. Exposure. Disgrace. Scandal. He changed his mind. No, he thought. He wasn’t finished. He could carry this off, just as he had carried everything off before. The show wasn’t over yet. He fabricated a sigh. “Jesus Christ. But at least let me smoke a cigarette first?”

“And then we go back to London.”

He reached into the pocket where his cigarettes were and felt the sharp point of the letter opener. He turned and pointed down the lawns to the lake and the boathouse. “It’s quieter down there. We can talk about whatever you want.”

“After you,” MacCauley said.

The Soho Noir series begins with THE BLACK MILE. For a free sample of the first chapter, read on.

CHAPTER 1

MONDAY, 10th JUNE 1940

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR FRANK MURPHY stepped away from the girl’s body and went to the window; the yelling from the crowd outside was louder. He pulled the thick black-out curtains aside. It was dusk, eight o’clock, a silvery moon rising above the rooftops. An ARP Warden walked his rounds; tarts and their johns found their alleys; tail-gu

The restaurant’s large plate glass window shattered as a brick was flung through it.

“It’s getting worse,” Frank said. He watched as the two men were put into the meat wagon. Locals hammered their fists against the sides. “What a mess.”

Detective Sergeant Harry Sparks was going through the girl’s belongings. “Mussolini getting chummy with Hitler, that’s that as far as I’m concerned—we can’t take chances with ‘em. Risk of a Fifth Column, that’s what they’re saying. Best keep them out of the way for the duration.”