“No, dear. Not any more. It’s so different now, I couldn’t bear it.” She didn’t elaborate. “We were talking about work before––what are your plans now you’re back?”

“I’m thinking about a career in medicine.”

“He went to University,” Joseph explained. “He’s clever.”

“I hardly think so,” Edward said dismissively.

“Where did you go?”

“Cambridge, ma’am.” Edward waited, hoping that Violet would ask him something about Cambridge, but she did not. He could have discussed the way they taught medicine, the way the university was divided into colleges, the food at the collegiate dinners, the political tendency of the student body, anything. He had sat next to an officer on a long trip through the Burmese countryside, both of them perched atop the hull of a tank so hot you could have fried eggs on it. The man had been at Cambridge and talked of nothing but Cambridge, so that Edward had pressed him for more and more, devouring it all, predicting a time when he might be able to use the information. By the time the trip was over he felt as if he had gone to Cambridge, too.

“Are you qualified?”

“No, not yet. I enlisted right after I graduated. I still have qualifications I’d need to get before they’ll let me practice and then I’m not quite sure what will happen to things with Mr. Beveridge’s plans.”

“Well, it’s a fine profession to be in. We’ll always need doctors, however they rearrange things. And until then?”

“I’m keeping my eyes open in case something come up.”

Violet frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps we could help you with that? Our family has several business interests––I expect Joseph has told you. One of them is in motorcars. Second-hand ones, buying and selling. We’re always looking for good young salesman. And, someone with your record, the war, your medal and such like––it’s the least we can do to thank you for your service and I think that might be a rather good fit.”

“I don’t know––” he began, pretending to hesitate. Was this it? He thought that he smelled an opening and he knew not to come across as overly eager.

“The offer is there,” she said. “Take the weekend to think about it. It can be an excellent job. If you have the gift of the gab the money is very good.”

“You should think about it, Doc,” Joseph impressed on him.

“Come and have a look on Monday,” Violet said. “Joseph can tell you where the showroom is. Have a look, see what you think––there would be no obligations.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Nonsense. It’s the least we can do.”

“I’m grateful.”

George frowned at his sister. “We should be going,” he said, showing her his pocket watch.

Violet checked the time and nodded her agreement. “We have an appointment. It was a pleasure to meet you, Edward. I’m sure we’ll see you again.”

The two of them got up and, bidding them farewell, made their way to a parked car. A large, serious-looking man was waiting by the kerb. He opened the rear doors for them, got into the front and drove them away.

“She liked you,” Joseph said.

“You think?”

“Certainly.”

“This job? What do you think? Was she serious?”

“It’s like she said: the family has a lot of business interests,” he replied, choosing his words carefully. “The showroom would be a good fit for you––better than a job in a kitchen, anyway.” He got up. “Now then,” he said. “How about another drink? How about a nice brandy? Doc? Are you listening to me?”

“Sorry,” he said. He had been miles away.

“You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

Edward brushed that off as Joseph went over to the pub but it was true. He had plenty on his mind. Opportunities, openings and main chances. All of them aimed towards the future prosperity of Edward Fabian.

PART THREE

London

June – August 1945

11

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR CHARLIE MURPHY stared out of the window of the car, peering through sheets of rain. He was outside an office building on Upper Street, right in the heart of grotty Islington. There was no sign of a police station, at least not one that could be recognised as such. Charlie got out and trotted through the rain into the building, through a wide door and into a lobby. He took a flight of stairs and passed through another door. The walls were painted green, like all municipal buildings, and the paint was peeling. The windows were tall and narrow and all of them had missing panes, boards covering the gaps. The place was in a state. It looked like it was empty. It looked nothing like a police station and that was exactly what Charlie wanted. If the Ghost Squad was to be effective, it needed to be anonymous, and this was a good start.

Charlie opened a set of double doors. Beyond was an open floor, not all that big, with a couple of offices leading off on one side. The place looked like it used to be a fashion warehouse: a crowd of battered old mannequins were gathered in a corner, dusty armless corpses that had seen better days. There were large industrial windows, a wide door in the wall with a winch outside, the sort of get-up for hoisting gear straight in. Two middle-aged women were working at typewriters and one whole wall was covered with shelves, books, box files and piles of paper. Half a dozen men were working at desks.

Vernon White and Roderick Carlyle, the sergeants who made up the heart of his little team, were waiting in Charlie’s office, cups of tea steaming before them. He had hand-picked from uniform all the way back in 1940. They were his men. They had been with him since the Ripper case, the arcs of their careers following his own. There had been quick promotions from detective constable to detective sergeant and growing acclaim at the Yard, yet they were loyal and showed no interest in leaving his side. Charlie knew why: he was good, they knew it, and they also knew that they would rise faster with him than without. White was a cold-eyed hatchet-faced man, as lean as a rake and as hard as the manager of a loan office. Carlyle was a fresh-faced, a razor-sharp mind hidden beneath a naïve face. “Morning, lads,” Charlie said.

“Morning, guv,” they said together.

“Are we ready to go?”

Carlyle nodded. “The men are all here.”

“Did we get them all?”

Carlyle shook his head. “We got six. The Commissioner will double it if we can show results.”

Charlie grunted. There were hardly mob-handed, and a job like this would only work with a good deal of manpower, but it would have to do. “Get them ready,” he said. “I’ll get myself a cuppa and then I’ll give them the run-through.”

Carlyle and White went outside into the main room and Charlie heard them organise the men for the briefing. He made himself a cup of tea and went outside. The six detective constables had arranged their chairs so that they were facing the wall on which Charlie had fixed a pinboard.

“Morning, gents,” he said. “My name is detective inspector Charlie Murphy and I will be your C.O. for the next six months. Everything I am going to tell you today must stay in this room. Everything we will do in this building is secret, and nothing must leak out. Nothing.” He put his briefcase on the desk before him and popped open the clasps. “You’ll all be aware of the problem with the black market. It was bad during the war but it’s even worse today. There are shortages of everything and if there’s one thing you can say about chummy it’s this: he knows how to take advantage of a situation, and he’s taking advantage of this one. London has been flooded with criminals looking to make a quick buck. We’ve got fellows who wouldn’t normally have anything to do with crime falling to temptation. Blokes who work in factories leaving the door open so that goods and material can get nicked. Stevedores siphoning off a third of the fuel they’ve just unloaded and flogging it on. Butchers putting a little extra meat in the packets of their favourite customers for a payment on the side. And, of course, the underworld has reacted. You can’t walk down Oxford Street without seeing a spiv flogging nylons. It’s everywhere, lads. It’s an epidemic. You’ll have read some of the stuff in the papers, having a go at the Met for letting it happen. It’s got to a point where we can’t ignore it any more. The Commissioner has made this a priority. We are going to tackle the black market.”