Dead Men's s Boots

Cornell worked for Charlie Richardson and was murdered by the Krays. That leaves Aaron Silver as the odd one out.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s a couple of generations earlier. Pre-war, even. He was a mad rat-bastard Jewish immigrant who came over from Poland and tried to get work as a tailor. But his needlework sucked and he couldn’t get a start-up. So he has a brainwave one day and he starts going round all the other tailors, taking voluntary contribuƒuntlewtions for the Brick Lane Fire Service. You pay up front, they don’t burn your house down.

’

‘It’s not exactly the Krays.’

‘You’re wrong. He was the ur-Krays. The Krays before the Krays, the great precursor. Protection was just where he got his foot in the door. Pretty soon it was prostitution, gambling, the tail end of the opium business – you name it. Silver wasn’t his real name, by the way. He was born Aaron Berg, but he went by Aaron Silver so that his family wouldn’t be shamed. Nice boy. Loved his mother.’

I nodded, turning these dusty old facts over in my mind.

I’d been wondering ever since I met Chesney whether any of this might turn out to be connected in some way with Jan’s theory of a vengeful Myriam Kale wandering around London forty years after her death, but it seemed not. An American contract killer would still sit oddly with a bunch of East End gangsters.

‘You did your homework,’ I said to Nicky.

He looked at me, pulled his lower eyelid down with the tip of his middle finger – an unsettling gesture when a zombie does it, because the eye is desiccated and it’s not that firm in its socket to start with.

‘Only way to avoid getting ripped off is to know your stuff,’ Nicky told me. ‘John the Git was hungry for anything to do with those East End bad boys. Big premiums for stuff that hadn’t changed hands too many times since, and for stuff that they’d owned as kids.’

That explained the lead soldier and the toy car. But it still didn’t give me even the beginning of a clue as to what John had been looking for. I only knew – with absolute certainty – that the Lombroso stuff was a smokescreen.

John had dropped out of university without finishing his degree, just as I had – but while my discipline was English, his was biology. And what little I knew about Lombroso came from a late-night drunken conversation in which John had told me at length what an utter wanker Lombroso had been.

‘So what was he looking for?’ I asked Nicky.

‘Why don’t you tell me?’ There was a sneer lurking behind the words.