He flicked on his torch and continued the conversation that the two men had begun as they made their way to the house. “He’s lost the plot.”

Jack closed the door behind him. “So you keep saying.”

“It’s true, though, ain’t it? Fabian’s bad news. Bloody bad news. I mean, ask yourself––what’s he doing with us? We don’t need him.”

“If you say so.”

“It was fine, the four of us, before. Me, you, Joseph and Tommy. Does Joseph think we’re going to do places five-handed? No thanks. Might as well ring Old Bill up before and tell them what we’re up to.”

They left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the first floor. The hallway was wide, wood-panelled and laid with an expensive parquet floor. Billy flipped through the mail that had been stacked on a table next to a telephone.

“What is it with him and Joe?” he said. “Has he said anything to you?”

Jack shrugged. “Nothing you don’t already know. Army pals.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. They only met right at the end, didn’t they?”

They went up to the second floor and tried doors until they found the master bedroom. They went inside. It was a large room, with a walk-in wardrobe and a bathroom leading off it. They knew what they were looking for. Billy went to the tallboy and started to turn out the drawers, strewing the clothes on the floor.

“War hero––can you believe that?”

Jack opened a wardrobe and set about emptying it. He shrugged.

“It don’t sound that likely, though, does it?––given the evidence, what the man’s like. He don’t look the type for that kind of thing.”

“Who knows?”

“He must have something on him. No other reason why Joe would’ve let him get into this with us.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know––he’s got the black on him.”

Jack scoffed, “Don’t talk rot.”

“What, then?”

Jack gave a long, exasperated sigh. “I don’t know.”

“The last thing we need at the moment is a passenger. From what I’ve been told things are going to get spicy soon.”

“You mean Jack Spot?”

Billy nodded. “You heard he’s been telling people that they need to be with him rather than with us?”

“I heard he had a word with a couple of pubs on Shaftesbury Avenue.”

“More than that. He’s been threatening blokes in Soho, too. He’s not someone Violet and George will be able to ignore like he’s not there. He’s a bloody psychopath, him and his bloody gypsies too. I heard they don’t think he’s anything to worry about.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes until Jack tipped out the cupboards of a chest of drawers. “Here,” he said, “found it.” He held up a presentation box and, inside, a diamond necklace. There was other jewellery in the drawer––rings and bracelets and necklaces––and Jack tipped them all into his pockets.

The two of them finished in the bedroom and went back downstairs.

“No,” Billy said, returning to the same theme, “that Fabian’s no good, no good at all.”

He had been picking at the same theme for most of the night, and Jack was growing weary of it. “Aye,” he said, hoping Billy might let the matter rest.

They exited through the main door and, closing their mackintoshes around them, they walked quickly away from the house.

“He’ll get us all nicked, you mark my words.”

“Look on the bright side,” Jack said, hoping to forestall another tirade. He tapped his pockets so that the diamonds clinked. “Fancy a drink?”

They walked the short distance to the main road. In five minutes they had hailed a taxi and were heading towards Soho.

22

EDWARD AND JOSEPH arranged to meet three days after the burglary at Piccadilly Circus. Joseph was waiting for him beneath the statue of Eros.

They embraced warmly.

“What’s the plan?” Edward asked. “We’re going for a drink?”

“That’s what I was thinking,” he said.

“Where? Soho?”

“Actually, I was thinking the Ritz.”

Edward looked down at his tatty second-hand suit and scuffed shoes and sighed. “Don’t be daft––they’re not going to let me in looking like this.”

“I was thinking we’d make a stop and get you some new clothes first.”

Edward did not complain. They set off, Joseph leading the way. They had to walk past West End Central police station in order to get to the Savile Row tailor’s that Joseph had in mind. The station had taken a direct hit during the Blitz and it had only been open again for a few months. A pair of detectives slouched at the bottom of the steps with cigarettes in their mouths and uniformed men emerged for the start of their beats. Edward walked on, eyes down, resolutely aimed towards the pavement.

Joseph chuckled at his discomfort. “Stop being so bloody flighty,” he said once they had put the station behind them. “It’s been a week."

It wasn’t that that Edward was worried about. He knew that they were in the clear there but he would allow Joseph to think that he was anxious. He would expect that of him, surely. “Policemen always make me feel guilty,” he explained. “But it’s not normally with reason.”

“We’re not getting caught. Nothing’s happened, has it?”

“No––not yet. But––”

“So we’re fine. Old Bill don’t know nothing. Relax, Doc––we’re in the clear.” They walked on a few steps and Joseph reached into his jacket pocket. “Look, it’s natural to be nervous. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t put me on edge, too. But you know it was worth it, don’t you? Here––this is for you.”

He reached across and handed Edward a thick, brown envelope.

He peeled back the seal of the envelope. A thick wedge of banknotes was inside. “How much?”

“Three hundred.” Joseph said it with a wide grin. “Not a bad little tickle for your first job, eh?”

Edward could hardly believe it. “You said a hundred, maximum.”

“It was worth more than I thought.”

Edward put the envelope into his pocket. “Capital,” he said.

“Not bad for half an hour’s work,” Joseph said.

Joseph had arranged a series of appointments for them: a tailor, a shirt-maker, a cobbler. The first appointment was at Dege & Skinner. They were greeted deferentially by a tailor and showed inside. The shop was as quiet as a library and redolent with the dry smell of fresh fabric. There was barely enough space on the wall behind the counter to display the Royal Warrants. George V had been a regular customer, the Duke of Windsor had continued the family tradition and Clark Gable and Tyrone Power represented Hollywood’s royalty. It was impossible not to be impressed.

“Good morning, gentlemen. What can we do for you today?”

Joseph said he was going to buy three suits: one off the rack, to wear immediately, and another two that were to be made bespoke. The cost would be around forty pounds, the tailor said, before asking Edward whether he would be ordering the same. He gaped: forty pounds? The most expensive item of clothing he had ever bought was a suit for his interview at Trinity, and that had cost a fiver from Selfridges in the Christmas sales.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

Joseph intervened, “No, he’ll have the same.”

“Joseph…”

“You can’t wear that thing for another minute more. It’s a monstrosity.” The tailor must have noticed his awful suit too but he was too discrete to mention it. Joseph tapped his breast pocket knowingly. “We can afford it. Treat yourself.”

“Sir?” the tailor prompted.

“Go on, then,” Edward said, unable to prevent the self-indulgent grin that broke out across his face. “The same, please.”

Another tailor appeared from the back and the two fussed around them, taking measurements and flicking through a book of fabric samples. When they were finished, he chose a suit from the rail, added a new shirt, cufflinks and a pair of shoes, and took it all into the changing room to try on. He shut the door and shrugged off his old jacket, catching sight of the top of the envelope in his inside pocket. He tried on the suit. It was a little long in the leg but adjusting it would be simple. He stepped outside and turned before the big, floor-length mirror. Joseph was waiting for him. They stood alongside and regarded themselves in the glass. His suit was single-breasted, cut from a heavy grey flannel with a waistcoat in a similar colour. It was a traditional English cut, with that combination of style, cutting and craftsmanship that flattered the figure and communicated substance. The shirt was brilliant white and thickly-starched. The brogues were polished to such a high sheen that they reflected the face of the tailor as he knelt down to adjust the fall of the trouser. Joseph took a ninepenny handkerchief, folded it into a neat square and slid it into Edward’s breast pocket. He took a grey trilby from a nearby shelf, placed it on Edward’s head and adjusted it carefully.