Joseph shook his head. “What was that all about, Doc?”

Edward clapped him on the back. “She’s shy.”

“She never used to be.”

“She’s older now. Perhaps it means more.”

“That was what you and my sister were there to sort out.”

“You’re going to have to be patient.”

“Not one of my strengths.” He sighed but then, just as quickly, perked up. “Women! I need a proper drink. You aren’t going to turn me down, are you?”

“Certainly not,” Edward said. “Lead on.”

32

CHARLIE MURPHY tailed the taxi all the way across London. He could hardly believe what he had seen in Piccadilly Circus. He had followed Edward and Joseph to the restaurant but he hadn’t noticed the two girls until they all emerged together at the end of the night. He recognised Chiara Costello. She and Fabian had been together several times recently and it seemed likely––if a little improbable––that they were stepping out together.

It was the sight of the other girl that had knocked him for six.

He had had to check and double check and even then it had taken him a little while to be sure that it was Eve. He hadn’t seen her for five years. She had been fifteen, then, and now she had grown into a beautiful young woman. The coltish innocence of youth had been replaced by a knowingness that he found difficult to match with his memories of her but there was no question about it.

He was sure.

It was definitely her.

Five years. As he followed the taxi into the East End he thought of the effect that her sudden disappearance had had on his brother. Poor Frank. It had almost destroyed him. It had been at the same time as the murders in the West End and he had been convinced that she had been one of poor doxies who ended up as victims. His single-minded obsession with the case had been driven by his fear. They had cleared that case up and still there had been no sign of her and so he had kept searching. He left the police soon afterwards and set up as a private investigator so that he would have more time to look and less protocol to observe. He had continued the search for five long years but he had found nothing. Frank was not a man prone to speaking about his feelings––and the brothers were not close––but Charlie had spoken to Frank’s wife and she had told him how it had torn him apart. Their marriage had failed, he had turned to the bottle and the loss was still tormenting him, even today.

And now this. Charlie thought about it, peering through the smeared rain on his windscreen at the taillights of the taxi in front. He had found her. Here she was, fresh from dinner with Joseph Costello, the presumptive heir of London’s most notorious criminal family.

He already knew what he was going to do.

The taxi turned into the Old Ford Road and stopped beside a terrace halfway down. Charlie pulled over too and switched off the engine and the lights. The taxi’s door opened and Eve got out, pausing to say something to Chiara Costello before closing it, waving as the cab set off again. She turned and disappeared into one of the houses.

Charlie got out of the car and followed her to the door.

He knocked.

Eve was still in her overcoat.

Her mouth dropped open.

“Eve,” Charlie said.

“Oh, God.”

“Can I come in?”

She thought about that, her mouth opening and closing, and, for a moment, Charlie wondered if she was about to shut the door on him.

“Uncle––”

“I think we’d better talk, don’t you?”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“I’m not going away, Eve.”

She stepped aside and he entered the hallway. It was a simple two-up, two-down. The door ahead of him led to the kitchen. A flight of stairs ascended to the first floor where, he guessed, he would find two bedrooms. The toilet was probably in the yard. She led the way through the door to the left. It was a sitting room: neat and tidy, a table and two chairs and a reasonable sofa arranged in front of the wireless. A bookshelf full of books. A few feminine trinkets here and there: a vase of daffodils on the table; a crocheted blanket folded neatly over the arm of the chair. He trailed his finger over the mantelpiece: no dust. These were the signs of a house-proud occupier. Charlie wondered whether she lived here on her own.

She sat quietly in the armchair, her legs pressed together and her hands clasped tightly on her knees. There was no colour in her face. She seemed unable to speak.

“Eve,” he said gently. “Where have you been?”

“Manchester.”

“For all this time?”

“Until last Christmas. I was working as a waitress. Then I came back.”

“Your father––”

“Please,” she said, the mere mention of him seeming to unblock dammed emotions. The entreaty was freighted with desperation. “Please, Uncle Charlie. I don’t want to see him.”

“He’s your father, Eve. You know what this has done to him?”

She looked down at her hands. “I––”

“Eve?”

She looked up, her eyes suddenly fierce with life. “I don’t care. I don’t want to talk to him. You mustn’t tell him you’ve seen me.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate him.”

“You don’t hate him.”

“No, I do.”

He sighed. “How can I not tell him? He’s my brother.”

“Because I’m an adult now. It’s my choice whether I see him or not. And I’m asking you to respect that.”

He crossed to the bookshelf and ran his finger along the spines of a series of penny-dreadfuls. He knew he had to proceed with a delicate touch if he was going to nudge the situation the way he wanted. “Why did you run away?”

“I was seeing a boy. He told me I couldn’t.”

“Are you seeing him again now?”

She regarded him suspiciously. “How did you find me?”

“Is it Joseph Costello?”

She looked at him with undisguised panic. “How did you know?”

“You were with him tonight.”

“You were following me?”

“No––I was following him.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a criminal.”

“He’s a rogue. That doesn’t make him a bad person.”

Charlie shook his head. The girl was blinded by emotion. He sat down and took out his cigarettes.

“Give me one of those,” she said.

Look at her, all grown up. He shook two out of the packet and handed one over. There was a matchbook on the mantelpiece; she struck a match and lit hers. Charlie lit his own with his lighter.

“You and Joseph. You better tell me what happened.”

“Originally? I was young, it was a little bit foolish, but I still loved him. Father and I argued about it. On and on and on. He told me I couldn’t see him but how was that fair? I was fifteen years old. Almost a woman. Fifteen is old enough to make your own decisions. He had no right to tell me what to do, where I could go, who I could and couldn’t see, and so I ignored him. He found out I’d defied him and we had another row, a big one. He was drunk and he slapped me. He told me I had to do what he told me while I was under his roof and so I decided I wouldn’t be under his roof any more.”

“And then?”

“I had a friend in Wigan. She used to work down here. I told her what had happened and she said I could go up and stay with her for as long as I wanted. I thought maybe I’d go for a week or two and then contact Joseph. We’d spoken about running away together. I didn’t see him before I went and when I tried to get in contact with him again he had enlisted. Burma! It broke my heart. There wasn’t any point in moving back to London without him and so I tried to make a life for myself up there.”

“Why did you come back?”

“My friend died last year. The cancer. It was different, then––I didn’t know anyone else, I was lonely and I missed the city. So I moved back again and got a job waiting on tables. Joseph came into the restaurant just after I started. I could hardly believe it. It’s like we were never away from each other. I can’t tell you how happy I am.”