“Boys,” Violet began. “Do you want a drink?”

“I’ll take a whisky,” Edward said. Joseph concurred.

The barman delivered two whiskys. Edward took his and sipped, prolonging it. Violet was watching him carefully. “I understand you helped Joseph with his recent situation?

“I had a word with a witness.”

“You must have been very persuasive.”

“I suppose I was.”

“I’m grateful,” she said.

Edward’s hand was trembling a little: a mixture of excitement undercut by nerves. Violet held her up her vodka and the others reciprocated. He put the glass to his lips and sipped. The liquid burned his throat.

“Now then, Edward,” Violet began. “I want you to know that we appreciated your advice with our friend Mr. Spot. I know that might not have been obvious at the time, but we did. You might also be wondering why we haven’t done anything yet. You may rest assured that we will. It’s simply a matter of picking the right moment.”

“I understand,” Edward said. It sounded awfully like an excuse to him but there was no profit for him in pushing the point any further. He had made his point.

“You must be wondering why we want to speak to you?”

“I am.”

“Something has come up. A piece of business. It’s an interesting proposition and will require significant effort. It’s also––potentially––extremely lucrative. It is something the two of you are very well qualified for. You were a corporal in the Army, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Edward said.

“And your decoration will stand you in good stead, too.”

“I don’t understand. How can I help?”

Violet regarded him over the lip of her glass. He was being appraised. “What I’m about to tell you must stay between us,” she said, her affability now backed by a warning that didn’t have to be said.

“Of course,” he said.

“A man has come to our attention. An Army man who works for the government now––a bureaucrat, in the civil service. He comes into one of our spielers now and again. He’s a serious betting man, and he has a problem with it. The cards haven’t fallen for him recently and he’s ended up owing the family a large amount of money. George has had a chat with him.” She said that in such a way which left Edward in no doubt as to what she meant: a room out the back, a razor blade held against the throat, a hammer held over splayed fingers. “He says he can’t pay but he’s been persuaded that he needs to sort out his obligations. He’s made a proposal to do that. Business. I’d like you and Joseph to look into it.”

“Why me?”

“You have the background and Joseph says you have the brains for it. You showed initiative in helping Joseph out of his recent situation, too. I like that. It shows initiative. I’d like you both to be involved.”

“What do we have to do?”

Violet had finished her vodka. She fitted a cigarette into a holder and allowed George to light it for her. “You’ll need to meet him.”

37

EDWARD SPENT THE DRIVE INTO THE EAST END wondering how far he could go with the Costellos. Life had been monotonous after demobilisation and now it was thrilling, a series of hair-raising exploits that he found irresistibly addictive. It was about the exhilaration as they sped away from another ransacked house, the excitement that shivered between them in the car, the sheer, undiluted, ineluctable thrill. It was about money. He was being brought closer to the heart of the family. He had proved his mettle with the robberies and then straightening out the milkman and now he was on the way towards being trusted. He had been given an opportunity. He thought of George and Violet, of their money and power, and he wanted all of that for himself. There were other ways to get it, for sure––other scams and tricks––but those would have to be started from scratch and, he knew, none could ever be as promising as this.

Walthamstow was a large track with two large silver-coloured corrugated-iron stands flanking it. Two further banked kops were at either end where you could stand for a penny. The track thronged with people, queues snaking this way and that, and flat-fare taxis formed a single, unbroken, black line. Racegoers made for the wide entrance gates: some ran, the first race due off in ten minutes, desperate punters scrambling before the odds on their favourites shortened. A brass band played at the entrance to the course, drums and trumpets, all the old standards reprised, the crowd joining in. A preacher called for repentance through a loud-speaker. Hawkers sold programmes and form guides. The murmur of excitement grew as dogs paraded before the eight-thirty.

“This place,” Joseph said, gesturing around. “It reminds me of being at the horses when I was a boy. I remember it like yesterday. They gave me a bucket of water and a sponge. My dad sent me to rub the odds off the boards of the bookies who wouldn’t pay up. My dad and my uncle were like kings. Men tipped their hats to them, no-one wanted to offend them. Everyone knew their reputation––it was enough to guarantee they got what they wanted. A bloke wouldn’t play ball and you’d overturn his stall, scare his punters away. That was usually enough.”

They passed alongside the track. The overhanging floodlights, glaring down on the track, made the grass unnaturally green, the white paint of the starting traps unnaturally white. A long line of bookies called out for bets and advertised odds like fairground barkers. Tic-tac men fluttered their hands, passing messages around the course. “Marshall Plan, ten to one, ten to one for Marshall Plan.” Losing tickets lay scattered around, trampled underfoot. Teenagers stood on wooden stools and paid out money. Men jostled for space, elbowing each other in their haste to give away their cash, notes held out in proffered fists. The bugle went and the kennel men shoved their dogs into the traps. The lights in the stands went out, the grass still more brilliant under the floodlights. The hare rumbled around the circuit, rounded the corner, the traps flew up, the dogs exploded away in a blur of colour. They sped by, feet thudding like drumbeats on the dry ground, cheers rising from the half-crown enclosure, forming a tight pack as the commentator called the race over the course’s loud-speakers, the pitch of the crowd winding up as they turned onto the final straight, cheers mixed with groans as the favourite was overhauled, a long-odds chancer winning by a nose.

They climbed the steps to the members’ bar. Major Herbert Butler was waiting for them at a table. Butler was a man of considerable girth. His hairline had retreated to the top of his crown and what wispy remnants of hair were left he kept plastered to his scalp with handfuls of Brylcream. His eyes were porcine nuggets, his nose a fleshy button and his jowls so pendulous that they spilled over the collar of his shirt, dragging the corners of his mouth with them so that he wore a permanent expression of sour distaste. He was dressed in clothes that would once have been expensive but had not been cared for properly, the jacket and corduroy trousers frayed at the cuffs, the fabric with a dull shine. A packet of cheap cigarettes sat before him. It looked like he was on his uppers.

Joseph approached. “Major Butler.”

The man swung around anxiously at the salutation. “Costello?” He was nervous: his nails were bitten to the quick and he swept regular glances around the room as if he expected to be observed. “You’re late,” he said with the attitude of a man used to giving orders.

“Traffic was murder,” Joseph said with a cool smile.

“You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”

Joseph held his smile patiently. “Well, we’re here now––what do you say we have a chat?”

“Yes, yes.”

They sat down at the table and Joseph began. “My uncle says you have a way to pay back the debt you owe.” His choice of words was deliberate. It would do Butler no good at all to think that his age, experience or rank gave him any kind of authority over them. He needed to remember that he was in hock to them.