“No, he isn’t. Me neither. But I know what I’m doing.”

“Fine––then I’d say I’m interested. And I’d ask you how you could do it.”

The light disappeared as the train thundered into the mouth of a tunnel. The noise of the engine reverberated against the walls, smoke gathering against the brick, and Murphy reached up to close the window.

“The Costellos have been running a very large black market scam for the last four months. They’re stealing goods and Ruby Ward has been flooding the market with them. It’s lucrative––immensely so, worth thousands and thousands of pounds. It’ll make what you’ve been looking into look like small change in comparison. How much do you know about that?”

“A little.”

“But not enough?”

“No.”

“I can tell you everything: how it’s operated and where they’re getting the goods from. I can tell you the next time they’ll be collecting the merchandise, and I can make sure that George Costello is there. Red-handed. You’d just need to be there and mop them all up. Sentencing is stiff for black marketeering these days, isn’t it?”

“A couple of years. Maybe more.” He leant back and, regarding him shrewdly, he pursed his lips. “I’d be interested in that. In principle. But that’s only half of the problem. What about Spot?”

“What if I told you that I could make sure that he was sorted out, too? That he and his men wouldn’t be a problem in the West End any longer?”

“How?”

He shook his head. “You’d have to leave that one with me.”

“Alright––assume for the sake of argument you can do all that. But you wouldn’t be doing it out of a sense of altruism, would you?”

“We’ll call it self-preservation. You were very persuasive.”

“What do you want? Immunity?”

“That, and something else. Just remember what you’d get in return: the Costellos and the Spot Gang out of commission. Peace on the streets that you can take the credit for. None of it at any risk to you. It’ll be my head on the block, not yours.”

“Out with it, then––what do you want, Fabian?”

The train cleared the tunnel and the moonlight returned, bathing the landscape in silvers and greys.

Edward leaned closer and looked Murphy dead in the eye. “Billy Stavropoulos.”

“You want him arrested?”

He nodded. “I tell you where and when. Arrest him, keep him out of the way for a day or two and then bring him to me.”

Murphy sucked his teeth. “And then?”

“And then you leave.”

“And then what happens to him?”

“Not your concern.”

“What’s he done?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He shook his head. “You know I can’t possibly do that.”

“Those are my terms. They aren’t negotiable.”

“Then I think we’re finished here. Good night, Fabian.”

Edward smiled at him. “Just think about it. Those things you said before––about how ruthless you are. I believe you. I recognise your character. I went back and read those newspaper reports from the Blitz, the murders you solved, what you did to catch that man. Your father, too. I read about that. You knew it in the restaurant––we both did––we’re cut from the same cloth. Ambition. I can tell––it drives you as much as it drives me. And we’re both ruthless. We don’t allow people to get in our way. I’m offering you the chance to decimate the gangs. Think of your reputation. All I want in return is Billy Stavropoulos––a nasty, murderous little crook who would cut your throat as soon as look at you. It’s a small thing in comparison and it’s not up for debate. You can take it or leave it. But if you turn it down, think of how many more men are going to die until Jack Spot finally gets what he wants. How many more Lennie Masters and Tommy Falcos will there be? Think of the bloodshed. The chaos. How will that make you look? Really, inspector, you must weigh it all up. Is Billy worth that? My terms are reasonable.”

The drinks trolley clattered along the corridor outside. Murphy was quiet, his expression opaque. “I’ll think about it,” he said at last.

“Don’t take too long. My information will only be good for another few days. If you don’t move soon, the chance will be lost.”

“Give me until tomorrow.”

“How will I know?”

“I’ll be on this train. Be on it again.”

58

FIVE IN THE EVENING AND THICK, choking smog hung over the landscape in a cloying pall. The streets huddled close, geometrically and depressingly perfect, lines of identical workers’ terraces built for the docks, a thousand chimneys sending smoke to thicken the miasma. The gardens in this particular street were, like all the others, small and prim at the front and unkempt at the back. Edward had observed the view as he drove East: row after row of barren grey streets, straggled allotments, derelict waste ground. Litter blowing in the gardens. Bomb sites and overflowing bins. Cars rusting against the kerb with no petrol to run them. Children out late in rationed clothes that had been patched and repatched until there was nothing original left. The streets were busy: men, alone and in pairs and in small groups, shuffled forwards in the wan light, all of them slouching home, away from the same location: the docks, and the unending trainloads of goods that needed to be unloaded and dispatched.

He had been busy. Spot had seen him before, albeit briefly, and he did not want to take the chance that he might be recognised. He had visited his uncle. They had drawn a bowl of water in the tiny bathroom and Jimmy had treated his hair with a rinse to make it darker. He had combed his hair across his scalp and then moved to the tray in his lap. It held what looked like barbershop floor sweepings but Jimmy shook it out and revealed it as a beard fastened to an almost invisible, flesh-coloured gauze. Jimmy fitted the moustache first and then the beard, fixing it in place with a light glue. It felt odd to have hair on his cheeks and lip but the effect was adequate. He had stuffed his cheeks with cotton wool to adapt the shape of his cheekbones, added a pair of heavy spectacles with plain glass lenses and then smiled at his reflection in the mirror, just gently so as not to disturb the still setting glue. His face was barely recognisable and he was pleased with how it looked. It would be good enough.

Edward parked the car near to the Boleyn Ground. This was deep in Jack Spot’s manor, the heartland of the criminal empire that he knew, with sombre conviction, was inexorably spreading west. Edward had made discreet enquiries and had learnt that Spot generally took his dinner in the working men’s club on Green Street, next to the Boleyn Ground where West Ham played. It was said to be his headquarters, a collection point for the mixture of East End toughs, Jewish heavies and gypsies who made up the majority of his strength. Edward got out of the car, shivering in the damp cold, and walked the few hundred yards to the club. The door was open and he went inside. The room was large, and thick with smoke. There was a bar at the opposite end, a series of tables scattered in between and two or three dozen men: some were drinking and eating, others were talking, others were playing darts or bar billiards. Edward paused at the entrance, his stomach seething with nerves. He was in unfamiliar territory and, suddenly, he felt out of his depth. The men at the nearest table had noticed him, pausing to regard him with unveiled hostility. Edward gathered his courage and went to the bar.

“I’m looking for Jack Spot.”

The barman was wiping a cloth over a dirty glass. He looked him over. “Who’s asking?”

He raised his chin and spoke firmly: “Dick MacCulloch.”

“What do you want?”

“That’s for me and Mr. Spot to talk about. Is he here? Can I speak to him?”

The barman put down the glass and stared at Edward for a long moment. Edward held his eye, the nerves still fluttering in his stomach. “Wait here,” the man said.