He looked up. The man was medium height and medium build, salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of wire-framed glasses that made him look ascetic and studious. He was reasonably well dressed although not, Edward concluded with a note of satisfaction, anywhere nearly as well as him. He recognised him from somewhere, too, although he couldn’t place where.

“Good evening, Edward. Do you mind if I call you Edward?”

He was a little wrong-footed. “Do I know you?”

“We met.”

“We did?

“The boxing––your friend Billy Stavropoulos was fighting.”

Edward recalled him and their brief encounter at the bout in Bethnal Green. “Kipps? We laid a bet together?”

“I’m afraid I was a little duplicitous. My name isn’t Kipps.”

“No? Then what is it?”

“It’s detective inspector Murphy.”

Edward felt his own face pass from the friendly smile that was always ready and available to a frowning wariness that was one step removed from panic. “I see.”

“But call me Charlie, please.”

“I think I’d rather call you detective inspector, if that’s alright.”

“Really? That’d be a shame. I’d like us to be friends, Edward. The kind of friends that can dispense with formality.”

“I don’t think so, detective inspector.”

He smiled and shrugged. “Whatever you prefer.”

Edward worked on recovering his composure. He sipped his gin, the ice cubes bumping against his top lip. The policeman regarded him sharply, his cold eyes articulate with intelligence. Policeman, individually, did not tend to concern Edward. They were typically dull and stupid, unthinking automatons who followed protocol without question. This man did not seem to fit the pattern and Edward was suddenly quite sure that he was on dangerous ground. He had no idea what Murphy was doing here. He had no idea what he knew and what he didn’t know.

“I’m guessing this isn’t a coincidence,” he said, a gentle gambit that he hoped might have him tip his hand a little.

“I don’t believe in coincidences in my business, Edward.”

“And what is your business?”

“Closing down the black market.”

He set the glass down on the table. “How could I possibly help you with that?”

He pointed at the empty chair opposite him. “Do you mind?”

“It’s a free country.”

Murphy sat down. He took out a box of Senior Service and handed it to him. Edward tapped out a cigarette and lit up. He sucked down on it greedily, feeling the nicotine hit his lungs, exhaled and gazed through the fuzzy smoke at Murphy.

“You’re a mysterious one, Edward, I don’t mind admitting it. Let me tell you what I know about you––and don’t worry about stepping in and correcting me if I’ve got any of this wrong. Alright?” He put his cigarette to his lips and took a long drag. “We know you enlisted in 1938. We know you had two tours in Burma and that you have an enviable record: cited for valour six times and then you top that with the Victoria Cross. A bona fide, gold-plated war hero. Very impressive. You’re given your demob papers in 1945, you land at Portsmouth and then it’s up to London where you can’t seem to find employment. You sign on at the Labour Exchange. The next thing we know, you’re turning up with the most notorious mob in London.”

Edward said nothing. He felt a prickly sensation running down between his shoulder blades.

“Not what I would expect from a man with your record. You’re observed in Little Italy, in Soho and at Lennie Master’s funeral. We’re reasonably confident that you were the other man when Joseph was arrested on suspicion of burglary, and that makes us think that you were responsible for straightening out the witness. We know you’ve been to their place in the Cotswolds and we think you’ve been stepping out with Chiara Costello. How am I doing so far?”

“Please––this is fascinating. Go on.”

“You seem to have found your way right to the heart of the family. The problem I have, Edward, is that none of what you’ve being doing fits with what we know about you from before. I like to have as much information on the men I’m looking into as I can. I’ve had detectives going through the records with a fine-tooth comb: we’ve checked the Criminal Records Office at Scotland Yard, and Edward Fabian has never been in trouble––you’ve never so much as stolen a bon-bon from a sweetshop. You studied medicine at Cambridge. You did well and when we asked them your tutors seemed to think you’ll have a fine career as a doctor. Your parents are both dead, but they were both respectable members of the community––Rotary Club, Women’s Institute, et cetera. Getting yourself involved with the Costellos is about as far from what you’d expect for a man like you as it’s possible to get.”

Edward tapped the dead cigarette into the ashtray, trying to hide his nervousness. The knowledge that the police had been looking into his background made him tense. He had no idea that Edward Fabian’s parents were dead. That was a lucky break; what if they had been alive? What if the police spoke to friends that they might track down? They would tell them that they hadn’t seen him since the start of the Blitz, and that would have raised more questions than he would have been able to answer.

“I’m really nothing special, inspector,” he said off-handedly. “I doubt there’s very much to find. Give me another, would you?” Murphy offered the packet and Edward tapped a cigarette out. He put it to his lips and allowed Murphy to light it for him. “The attention is all very flattering but I don’t see how any of it is relevant and I’m afraid I am rather hungry.”

Murphy grinned. “Not relevant?”

The waiter paused at the table and Edward held his tongue. The man smiled at them both with an attitude of perfect servility. “Will you be dining with us tonight, sir?”

“No,” Edward said before Murphy could answer. “My friend is just leaving.”

“Very good, sir.”

Edward waited until the waiter moved away and then said, “No, it’s not relevant. None of what you are saying makes any sense. I met Joseph Costello while I was in Burma. We saw action together and we became good friends––but that’s as far as it goes. Really, inspector, I’d like to eat and none of this has anything to do with me. It’s a flight of fantasy, at best, and outright harassment at worst. I don’t see any way that I can help you. I mean, do I look like the kind of chump you’d normally be chasing?”

“You mean men like Joseph?”

“If you like.”

“You’ve got the money and the clothes. But apart from that? No. You’re not like him at all.”

“Right.”

“But criminals come in all shapes and sizes.” He screwed his cigarette into the ashtray and stared at him, his eyes steeled and humourless. “You might not see it now but I’m trying to do you a good turn. This might be the only chance you get to save your neck. I don’t know who you are but I do know that a man like you has no place with the Costellos. I can understand some of it: you come home from the fighting and everything seems tame by comparison. The excitement in your life has suddenly been taken away. You don’t have any money, either, and the idea of getting involved in something illicit has a certain charm. Really, Edward, it’s not an original reaction. You’re not the first serviceman I’ve met who’s felt that way.”

Edward fixed him in a cold, magisterial gaze. “Did you serve, detective?”

“No. The police was a reserved––”

“Yes,” he interrupted impatiently, “a reserved occupation, I know. As far as I’m concerned, that’s just one step removed from wearing a white feather. Very convenient if you don’t want to do your duty. If you want me to take you seriously it would be better if you didn’t presume to talk about something of which you have no knowledge. I find that offensive.”

Murphy smiled at that, his jaw tight. The barb had found its mark; was he sensitive to accusations of cowardice? “Seems to me I have your advantage,” he said, maintaining the tone of friendly threat. “I know plenty about you. It’s only fair you know something about me before I leave you to your dinner.”