Eddie Bennett got a shot off, missed, pellets perforating the black-out, smashing windows. Archie fired back and Bennett blew up, thrown backwards onto the billiard table. Balls rumbled across the floor. How many were there? Paulie Spano ran for the fire exit. He didn’t get far. A buckshot spread peppered him across the neck and shoulders. He slammed into the wall, not moving. Tommy popped up, fired again.
He wiped something warm from his cheek, pumped the shotgun and stayed low, scrambling for the fire exit. The only way out. He dived out, another shot rang out––shit shit shit––and pain lit him up, his knees buckling inside-out as he landed chin-first. He saw lights, reached out for a chair leg, yanked. A few inches. Reached for Paulie Spano’s ankle, yanked. Half a foot closer to a locked door, crawling through a stew of blood and brain.
A kick to the ribs, hard. A foot slid beneath his chest and flipped him up and over on his back.
Jack Spot stood over him in a vicuna coat and trilby, a smoking .12-guage pointing down at his face.
Tommy tried to shuffle away, got nothing but useless scuffles. He looked down: his right leg was wrecked, gone from the knee down.
“Evening, lad,” Spot said.
“My leg…”
“I warned your boss.”
The pain was unbelievable. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I told him––you Ice Creamers aren’t welcome around here no more. All of this is mine now.”
“How much do you want? The takings are over there––take it all.”
Spot laughed. “Don’t worry, lad. I’m going to.”
“Please.”
“It too late for please and thank you. Should’ve buggered off home when you had the chance.”
Tommy went for his .38 as Spot pulled the trigger. He took both barrels in the chest from twelve inches away. Spot slotted extra shells and finished him off, his patent leather loafers––bloody and gore-streaked––the last things that Tommy Falco ever saw.
PART FIVE
London
January – March 1946
CALENDAR
–– 1946––
The Star, 25th January:
GANG WARFARE IN SOHO
MAN DIES VIOLENTLY IN SUSPECTED FEUD
A murder investigation has begun after the bodies of four men were discovered in a property in Soho, W1. Thomas Falco, Albert Thomas, George Taylor, Edward Bennett and Paul Spano were found in the Regal Bridge and Billiards Club, a well-known gambling den, on Friday. While police were not prepared to be drawn on the motives for the mens’ deaths, this reporter has been informed that it is the latest in the escalating blood feud between rival gangs in London’s West End.
STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
To: Commissioner
I.O: D.I. Charles Murphy
Submitted at request of: D.A.C. Clarke
Re: Gang Activity in Soho, W.1.
Sir,
You asked me to provide up-to-date information on the spate of killings in the West End. I can confirm the speculation in the press: these murders are certainly inspired by the increasing violence that has erupted between the Spot and Costello gangs. The recent victims were all Costello men, and it is a curiosity to both my men and myself as to why there have been no reprisals. Of course, we must assume that retaliation will be forthcoming and the delay makes it more likely that, when it does finally come, it will amount to a serious escalation.
Our investigations to date have concentrated on the Costello Family. While we have made some progress with that, it is not as fast as I would have liked. With that in mind, I am considering novel approaches to the enquiry. The methods I am considering might be considered radical, or perhaps even dangerous. I will, of course, keep you abreast with developments.
Sincerely,
D.I. C. Murphy
2nd February 1946
44
THE COMMISSIONER’S OFFICE was the grandest in the whole of Scotland Yard: a large bookcase against one wall carried law reports and criminal treatises; a chandelier hung down from the high ceiling; a framed portrait of Lord Trenchard hung over the fireplace; wide windows offered a view of the Embankment and Waterloo Bridge. The Commissioner, Harold Scott, was behind his desk and Deputy Assistant Commissioner Stanley Clarke was sat in the armchair against the left wall. The atmosphere was tense, freighted with a dull foreboding that did not augur well. Charlie thought it felt like an inquest. He stepped forward, removed his hat and hung it, together with his coat, on the oak hatstand next to the door. The Commissioner invited him to sit and he did so.
Charlie had never been particularly impressed with Scott. The man was a civil servant. His background was in the Civil Defence Administration and something to do with aircraft production––nothing to do with policing or police. His face was long and sombre, marked by the deep lines that ran from his nose to the edges of his mouth, and he rarely smiled. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that made him look like an accountant. He did not suit his uniform.
“Good morning, detective inspector.”
“Morning, sir.”
“You know what this is about, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I believe I do––the murders in Soho.”
“Five men. A massacre would be a more appropriate way to describe it.”
“I think that’s fair.”
“Yes, inspector, quite fair. What can you tell me about it?”
“The five were all Costello men. It is a safe assumption, therefore, that the shooters were from the Spot Gang.”
“You’re just assuming?”
“They left no evidence and no witnesses, sir. I can’t offer any more certainty than that at the moment.”
“This isn’t good enough, inspector. It really isn’t. There was the murder in August, too, I believe.”
“That’s right. Leonard Masters.”
“We’ve got nowhere with that case, either?”
“We know it was Spot––”
“––then bloody well arrest him!”
“I could bring him in, sir, but it would be a waste of time. No-one will go on the record against him. We don’t have a case yet.”
“Do you understand the pressure this is putting me under, detective inspector? A massacre, right on our doorstep? This isn’t America, for God’s sake. It’s bloody London! And the black market, too.” He held up a report. “This is from the government. Home Office. They say the black market is totally out of control. Rampant, they say. Getting that sorted was the whole reason behind your investigation. You said you could do it and, yet, all I can conclude is that things are worse now than before you started.”
Charlie took a deep breath. “I understand your frustration, sir. It’s frustrating for us, too. These gangs are well organised and professional. They are held together by the promise of significant reward and the threat of violence. It might not look like it from your position”––from behind your comfortable desk, he felt like adding––“but we are making progress. We’re developing our understanding of how these groups are comprised and how they function. We are gathering intelligence. We’re probing for weaknesses, and for potential informants.”
“Do you have any?”
“Potentially.”
“‘Potentially?’ What does that mean, inspector?”
Charlie felt a flash of anger but he smothered it. “It means, sir, that we are developing two particular ways into the Costello family that could be very fruitful for us.”