He thought for a moment; it didn’t make sense. He sat down in the chair and thought about it some more. He cleared a way through the confusion to leave just one possible reason why Fabian would have the ring.

Fabian was working for Jack Spot.

And Fabian wasn’t really Fabian at all.

He laughed, unable to stop himself, the laughter driven by the anticipation at what he would now be able to do. He looked again at the passports and documents and the ring. It was too good to be true. He would finally be able to balance the ledger. All those frustrations, those sneers and snide remarks, so much to pay him back for. This was quite a haul. It was better than he could ever have hoped for.

52

EDWARD STIRRED GROGGILY at the early morning sun shone through the open window, motes of dust drifting lazily though the golden shafts. He settled back against the mattress, allowing himself the luxury of waking gradually. He had a hangover, he discovered, a dull throb in his temples and an insistent ache in his bones. He and Chiara had enjoyed a splendid night, returning to the Ritz for the meal that Edward had originally promised and then drinking at the hotel’s bar until two in the morning. He had drunkenly suggested they take a room there rather than return to his apartment but she had chided him for his extravagance, and they had taken a taxi home and gone straight to bed. He felt her weight beside him, and the warmth from her body against his skin.

He got out of bed gently, so as not to wake her. Chiara had bought him a gift as they wandered around the West End yesterday: a luxurious Egyptian cotton dressing gown from Dickins & Jones. Edward pulled it on and went through into the living room. They had barely paused there the night before, removing their coats and shoes before repairing to the bedroom. Now, with the full light of the morning blazing through the uncovered window, he could see that something was wrong. The door to his study was ajar and he always kept it closed. He crossed the room and touched it with careful fingertips, then pushed it open. The room beyond was in a mess: papers had been removed from the desk drawers and strewn around the room, books had been tipped from the shelves, the standard lamp was lit, the chair was overturned. Edward stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him. He went to the desk; the most important drawer had been forced, the wood splintered and torn around the lock. He pulled it all the way open and searched inside. Edward felt the blood go out of his face. He felt faint. His passports, his correspondence, his money; it had all been taken.

He stood in the middle of the small room, his hands braced against the desk to stop him from falling. He stared vacantly out of the window at the jagged horizon of rooftops and chimneypots, feeling nothing except a faint, dreamlike panic. Chiara was sleeping in the next room but she suddenly seemed hopelessly far away. He was friendless and alone, that was the thing he had to remember. He always had been, and nothing had changed. A cold shiver ran up and down his spine and then, much too suddenly for him to react, he vomited. The first gout fell across the papers on the carpet but the second, more powerful, he managed to direct into the wastepaper basket. His head began ringing as if he were about to faint, and the absurdity of his faintness, plus the danger of collapsing and having Chiara find him dazed and prostrate on the floor amid all this mess, made him gather his strength and walk slowly and carefully back into the sitting room, then into the kitchen, and then to drink a pint of cold water.

He opened the window and breathed in the fresh air deeply. He wasn’t going to faint, he told himself. He was going to compose himself, recover his equanimity and think rationally about what he had to do. He went back into the sitting room and quietly closed the door to the study, then he went into the bathroom and stood under a cold shower for ten minutes, letting the water run all over his body, scrubbing it into his scalp and face, the icy cold driving away the dazed panic so that he could think clearly. He turned off the shower, dried himself and, after quietly collecting his clothes from the bedroom so as not to disturb Chiara, dressed in the lounge.

He wanted to go out and take a walk but he knew he couldn’t leave Chiara in the flat. He stood looking at the disorganised clutter on the desk, the acrid tang of his own vomit starting to fill his nostrils. For a moment, he wondered if he had the strength or the energy to straighten it all out. It annoyed him how foolish he had been. Those things should have been hidden properly, under the floorboards or put away in a safety deposit box. He had meant to, too, but he had continually put it off. Lazy and stupid, he cursed himself. He banged his fist against the desk. Lazy and stupid and now he was going to have to pay for it.

He heard the sound of the mattress as Chiara shifted her weight on it, and then the creak of the floorboards. He closed the door to the study, took the bin into the kitchen and washed it out. He splashed his face with cold water, scrubbed it dry with a tea towel and took a deep breath, preparing himself to start the day.

53

THE SHANGRI-LA WAS EASY TO FIND. It was on Dean Street, towards Theatreland and Shaftesbury Avenue. A great spot, Billy thought. Slap bang in the middle of the action. Just the kind of place that out-of-town theatregoers would visit before their shows, a little bit of authentic Soho atmosphere but not too much. The place was shut at the moment. The windows were covered with paper but Billy found a gap that he could peer through. The place was in the middle of a redecoration: the tables were covered with drop sheets, pots of opened paint were lined up, a step-ladder rested against the wall. There was a man inside, spreading out another sheet over the bar. Billy knocked on the window. The man shook his head and mouthed that he was closed. Billy knocked again, smiling, and pointed to the door. The man weighed down the ends of the cloth with a pot of paint, rubbed his dirty hands against the apron he was wearing, came over and opened up.

“Sorry, pal, we’re closed. We’ll be open again next week.” The man was old, in his early sixties perhaps. He was thin, with wispy greyish-black hair and large grey eyes that seemed to wobble in his head as if he was cockeyed. He wore a pair of square glasses that were marked with tiny flecks of white paint.

“Are you the proprietor?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Jimmy, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said carefully. A flicker of suspicion passed across the man’s face and there was a natural wariness in his eyes. “Who’s asking?”

“Can I come in for a moment?”

“I said we’re closed.”

Billy looked straight at him. “It’s about Jack. Jack Stern? It’s important.”

He watched as the man’s face clouded with a wariness that was quickly cleared by a shrug and a shake of the head. “Afraid I don’t know anyone by that name,” he said, breezily. “You must have me mistaken for someone else. Good day to you.”

He smiled and started to close the door but Billy was too quick. He jerked his body forwards, catching the frame against his shoulder and bouncing it backwards. It thudded into the man’s chest and he staggered into the restaurant. Billy followed inside, shutting the door behind him. He slid the bolt across and pulled down the blind.

“Look here,” the man protested angrily. “What’s your game, mate?”

Billy looked around. There was a small, framed picture on the wall above the bar. It was of the man, Jimmy, and a young boy. Billy recognised him. He was much younger then, wearing chef’s whites. Billy guessed the photograph must have been ten years old. The younger man was Fabian. The shape of the face, the hair, the same knowing look in his eyes; there was no doubt about it.