“Details, man!”

He took a deep breath before he spoke again. “There’s an ex-soldier who’s working with them,” he said. “He doesn’t fit the usual type. I’ve spoken with him. Put the screws to him a little. There’s something that makes me think he could be a weakness for them.”

“And the other one?”

He thought of Eve. How could he mention her to them? His brother was not a policeman any longer but he was still a liked and respected man, well connected, and everyone knew about Eve’s disappearance during the war. Charlie knew that they were aware of his ruthlessness––he had to believe it was one of the reasons why he had been promoted so quickly––but withholding the information that his brother’s daughter was alive and well and, what was more, consorting with a known criminal in the hope that he could turn her into an informant? They would see that as a step too far, even for him? Frank would find out, they would clash again, Eve would be pulled back from the brink and he would lose one of the two levers he had worked so hard to find. No. That wouldn’t do at all.

“And,” he said, “The other one I’d rather keep to myself for the moment, sir.”

There was grumbling and shaking of heads but they did not press him.

“I’ll admit that progress is slow,” Charlie said, “slower than I would have liked, but I remain completely confident that I’m the best man for the job and that if given sufficient time I’ll deliver the results that you want.”

“Yes,” Scott said. “Time. That comes down to the nub of it.”

“We have to set a deadline on this, Charles,” Clarke offered from the side. “If you can’t present us with tangible progress––and by that we mean reliable arrests––then we’ve decided that we are going to have to close the investigation down and try something else.”

“I see, sir. How much longer do I have?”

“Three months,” Scott said. “Not a day longer.”

“Very well, sir. I understand.” Charlie stood. “Will there be anything else?”

Scott steepled his fingers and looked over them at Charlie, his eyes cold and blank. “Sit down, Murphy. I’m not finished yet.”

Charlie sat. He felt his heart hammering in his chest.

“The press is bad enough, detective inspector, but it’s more than that. The Minister was in here yesterday. Two hours. He was complaining that we’re not doing enough to get our house in order. And he can make ultimatums, too. He can assign blame. Just think about it for a minute: there are thousands of hard young men who have just returned home after fighting in the war. Many of these men have been unable to find work. After five or six years of service abroad, some of them might think that they have been abandoned by their government. Many of them will be tempted by the quick cash they might think they can make outside of the legitimate economy. Those men are not likely to be dissuaded from that course by a police force that is trumpeted as inept all the way across the national press. It was made very clear to me that something will be done unless we start to bring things under control.” He paused. “I know your reputation, Murphy. My predecessor and the deputy assistant commissioner here speak very highly about what you did during the war and, I’ll admit, your record is particularly impressive. But none of us can live on past glories. This is a results business and, to put it simply, you are not getting results. Your reputation and your career depend upon you doing your job and bringing these animals to justice. You understand me?”

“Yes sir,” Charlie said. “Perfectly well.”

“See that you do. Dismissed.”

45

EDWARD CROSSED PICCADILLY AT THE RITZ and headed west, then north, following Hyde Park up. They still had searchlights from the war hidden amongst copper-beeches and sycamores. St Johns was on Hyde Park Crescent. An empty hearse was already parked at the kerb. Edward parked behind it, checking his reflection in the hearse’s window before going around to the cemetery, a narrow space bounded by fir trees and box-cut hedges. Twenty-five men were gathered around the freshly dug grave. He slid through the throng until he was between Joseph and Jack. They each acknowledged him with a silent nod. They were dressed in black suits, white shirts and black ties, just as he was.

The atmosphere was palpable: sadness and anger in equal measure.

Tommy’s girlfriend stood alone on the other side of the grave. The chaplain delivered the sermon and she started to weep. Violet Costello put her arm around her shoulders. They sang a hymn before the eulogy, sang another hymn afterwards. Edward stared at the coffin. The vicar recited the committal as Tommy was lowered into the ground, the family and a few of the men casting flowers and handfuls of dirt down onto his coffin.

* * *

THE WAKE WAS IN THE ALHAMBRA. The club looked tattered and worn in the daylight, the imperfections that could be hidden in the darkness now more easily displayed. George and Violet Costello stayed for a drink, paid their respects to Tommy’s girlfriend, then quietly left. Edward necked a couple of jars then went up onto the roof to smoke and get a lungful of fresh air. When he went down again, the women were all gone. The chaps were gathered at the bar, talking. Edward went over.

“Something’s got to be done,” Jack McVitie said. “Another bloody funeral. My mate was shot dead by that bastard, and what are we doing about it?”

“Nothing.”

“That evil Jew must be laughing his bloody socks off at us.”

“You heard what happened in Soho last night? Fucking liberty! They hit three restaurants that have been paying up to us for donkey’s years. You know Da Vinci’s on Brewer Street? I went in there this morning, and they’re sweeping the glass up from all the windows they smashed, and I ask him for the weekly payment and he says he ain’t going to pay it no more. He says what kind of protection am I getting for my money when this kind of thing can happen? I gave him a thick lip, fair enough, I ain’t having him talking to me like that, but then I got thinking and you have to admit––end of the day, he’s got a bloody point.”

“And I can’t get the bookies on my patch to pay me my points. They’re more scared of Spot than they are of us. He’s nabbing all of them.”

“What’s happened to George’s bollocks? If this was a couple of years ago, he would’ve strung the greasy kike up on the nearest lamp-post weeks ago. He’s making us look like a bloody laughing stock, that’s what he’s doing. I used to be able to walk around the manor and people would treat me with respect. Blokes would either tip their hat to me or cross over to the other side. That don’t happen no more. They don’t give two shits about us. They all think he’s going soft.”

Joseph had been listening with a deepening scowl. He had no answer to that. Edward could see the colour rising above his collar and into his cheeks and decided it was better to intervene. He stood everyone a round. “To Tommy,” he said. “A good mate.”

“To Tommy.”

He drained his glass and ordered two more. He took Joseph by the arm and turned him away from the others.

He handed Joseph one of the fresh pints. “You can see the way this is going, can’t you?”

“I know,” Joseph said, fixing his stare into the bottom of his glass.

“If George and Violet don’t do something, they’ll start to lose the men.”

“Thank you, Doc,” Joseph said, his voice a tight slap. “I know that.”

Edward realised that Joseph didn’t want to pursue the conversation, but he there were things that had to be said and, he thought, he was the best man to say them. “Maybe I could speak to them? Your sister has invited me down to the house at the weekend. I could have a word with Violet?”

He snorted. “You saw how they reacted the last time you tried that. You’re not family, Edward. It wouldn’t go down well at all.”