A restaurant with a brick flung through the window.

A gang of gypsy heavies standing outside the Alhambra, scaring away all the passing trade.

The proprietor of a general store with a knife pressed against his throat, threatened with violence: stop paying the Costellos, start paying Spot.

Edward shelved his concerns for the moment and wandered across the parquet floor to the French doors. He opened them and stepped out onto the stone-flagged terrace. The streets of Mayfair spread out below him and then, beyond that, the green of Hyde Park, its broad fields still scarred in places with the fading green-brown slashes of anti-aircraft trenches. Edward stared across the vista, the hubbub of the city below full of the promise of excitement and opportunity.

“Come on, Doc,” Joseph said. “All we went through, the war, getting our arses kicked for the King, and they expect us to live like tramps in dirty bedsitters? That just don’t seem right to me. And it’d be fun here, you and me, wouldn’t it? We’d have a proper laugh––two bachelors, a bit of gelt to spread around, a nice place to call home. Think of the laughs we could have, think of the judies we could bring back, you can get a whole different class of girl if they think you have something about you. What do you say?”

Edward didn’t need much in the way of persuasion. “Alright,” he said. “You’re on.”

Joseph was in boisterous spirits as they emerged onto the busy street. He put his arm around Edward and squeezed. Edward’s mood followed his friend’s, and he returned the gesture, both of them laughing at a shared realisation: they were young men, with money and the prospect of making much, much more. Life had treated them harshly for too long, but now a corner had been turned, and things would be different.

27

CHARLIE MURPHY MADE his way down Northumberland Avenue to the three buildings that comprised Scotland Yard. It was sunny and cool although not cool enough to be called crisp. The Commissioner’s Office and the Receiver’s Office were made from old red and white brick, the third from Portland Stone that was mined by convicts down on Dartmoor. He was a little anxious. Deputy Assistant Commissioner Stan Clarke had asked to see him. Urgent, he’d said. Christ. Clarke hadn’t said what the meeting was for but the chances were that it was going to be something that Charlie didn’t like. Of course, he had seen the papers over the last couple of days. He had stewed over them in the pub with Carlyle and White. They had made glum reading. The front pages all led with reports of the shooting of Lennie Masters and the ruckus in the club. They were comparing it with Chicago and Al Capone. Charlie knew that was asinine nonsense, arrant foolishness of the worst order, but he also knew that excited reporting like that would go down very badly with his senior officers.

That fact of it was that they were losing control of the West End. Jack Spot was there every night, seemingly with more men each time. Charlie received the reports very morning and the coloured pins on his large map demonstrated how his malefic influence was spreading throughout the area, all seemingly unchecked. Businesses that had kicked up to the Costellos for years were being persuaded to change their allegiances. Spielers and shebeens were being attacked, the custom driven away. Two street bookies had been slashed across the faces and driven out. The Maltese, who controlled vice west of Regent Street, were being attacked. And, throughout all of this, there was nothing in the way of retaliation from the Costellos. Charlie could only think of two possible explanations for that: either they were a spent force or they were getting into something else.

The D.A.C.’s office was on the second floor. Charlie knocked and went inside. The office was large, with wide windows that looked out over the Embankment and the iron-grey sweep of the Thames beyond. A couple of olive-green navy pontoons were still lashed to their moorings, bobbing sullenly on the rise and fall of the tide. The D.A.C. was behind his desk, papers spread out before him and a pencil in his mouth.

“Morning, Charles,” he said. “Take a seat.” He pointed absent-mindedly at the armchair opposite the desk.

Charlie did as he was told. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Clarke put the pencil down and tidied the desk. “Cost cutting,” he explained, indicating the sheaf of papers with a gesture of brusque irritation. “Bane of my bloody life.” He settled back in his chair and folded his arms. “Now then, Charles, afraid we have a bit of a problem.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Your work on the gangs. The black market and so forth.”

“Yes?”

“Not going quite the way we want it to.”

Charlie felt defensive. “We’re making progress,” he protested. “This isn’t an easy job, sir. We always knew it would be difficult.”

“Appreciate that but you’ve got to put yourself in the Commissioner’s shoes. All this blather in the press, calls for us to be seen to be doing something––it’s all about image, Charles. Giving the right impression. And, at the moment, you’ve not given us anything to show them that we’re making a decent fist of it.”

“The Commissioner has spoken to you?”

“Course he has, man, course he has. And he’s unhappy. The Masters murder is a problem. The Times and the Express have both been bending his ear about it. And when he can’t give them anything useful to print they make up that nonsense they’ve been coming out with over the last couple of days. He hates that, Charlie, absolutely hates it. He bollocks me and then I have to bollock you. You know how it is.”

Charlie spoke with careful patience: “The reason we haven’t made any arrests yet is because it’s a long and sensitive investigation. I could go in and arrest a dozen men this morning if that’s what he wanted me to do.”

“So why don’t you do that?”

He knew to tread carefully but it was difficult to hide his irritation. “Because it would be a stupid move, sir. As I understood it, the purpose of this investigation is to go after the big fish. We could probably set them back a few weeks by taking the low-ranking men off the street but they’d just replace them. We’d be no nearer solving the problem. All we would have achieved would be to warn them that we’re onto them.”

“How much longer before you think you can deliver someone impressive?”

“Like who?”

“Jack Spot? One of the Costellos?”

“Hard to say. We’re trying to develop a couple of informers. It depends how we get on with that. These are careful people, sir. It’s not straightforward.”

“Alright, Charlie,” Clarke said. “I’ll tell him to be patient. But you need to remember that this is a results business. The line that we’re working hard and making progress isn’t going to wash forever. I’m going to need something tangible.”

Charlie got up and smoothed down his trousers. “I understand, sir.”

“One of the big fish, Charlie. That’s what we need.”

28

THE DAWN OF EDWARD’S BIRTHDAY in October found him in circumstances he would not have credited just nine months earlier. The miserable penury that had greeted his return from Asia was now a distant memory. He was well off, with two and a half thousand pounds spread among three bank accounts and two safety deposit boxes, fifty pounds in cash that he kept on his person and another hundred pounds swelling the coffers every week. His wardrobe contained half a dozen bespoke suits, he bought fresh shirts whenever he fancied them and his shoes were handmade by the cobbler who supplied the King.

He still had concerns. The sight of policemen patrolling Soho’s streets was still frightening, and there were nights where he would awake in a cold sweat to realise that it was the sound of a passing siren that had disturbed him. And the threat from Jack Spot had still not been addressed. Violet and George had still not taken his advice, nor had they struck back. An uneasy limbo had developed, with the family pressing on as if ignoring the gauntlet that had been thrown down would make it go away. Edward worried about that, too, about their naivety, and worried that Spot would decide there was nothing for it but to make a grander statement of intent. But the worries passed and as the days went by their effect lessened. Life was good.