Murders in the Blitz (16 page)
‘There they are,’ said Charlie, ‘in the corner.’
Eve turned her head towards where Charlie had inclined his head.
‘No, don’t look at them,’ Charlie growled speaking in an unnatural way out of the corner of his mouth. ‘It’ll be a right smell out if you look.’
‘Don’t be daft, Charlie. What does it matter? I want to look – you said they’re not a dangerous bunch, so what harm can it do?’
‘Well, when I said, not dangerous, I didn’t mean, not dangerous, but not likely to murder anyone. They know how to look after themselves though.’
‘Oh. I see. Clear as mud. So you’re saying I can’t ask them any questions about Malcolm or what happened to him?’
‘God, no! You can’t do that, they’d just get the dead perish.’
‘Well, in that case I’m not sure why we came in here in the first place.’
‘I thought you might like a drink.’
‘Oh, all right, Charlie, I’ll have a half. But I warn you, I’m going to look at them even if I can’t ask them any questions.’
Eve, aware of hunger pangs as she had had nothing more than a slice of bread with Katya for lunch, sat on a vacant seat facing the men in the corner, and idly scanned the faces. They looked pretty harmless, if a bit sharp and oily for her taste. Each of them wore a suit, draped in the latest fashion for wide boys, and a tie, so they must have been doing fairly well for themselves. Several of the men had their hair slicked back with a hair preparation that gave it a glossy look, like patent leather, and Eve noticed that when they shot their cuffs, which seemed to happen more often than necessary, they exposed costly-looking cufflinks to match the hefty rings that adorned their fingers. There was an older man on a stool near the group who appeared to be with them. He wore a three-piece business suit and Eve thought she recognised him from somewhere. She would ask Charlie when he got back with the drinks.
As he weaved his way back from the bar Charlie paused for a moment to speak to the group. What’s he doing, Eve thought? She hoped he wasn’t messing things up, asking the wrong questions, getting them on edge and suspicious. She watched anxiously as he chatted and laughed. Their initial wary reaction to being addressed by this stranger soon disappeared as Charlie worked his charm. They were soon laughing at something he’d said and one of them patted him on the back, his face beaming with friendship, as Charlie left them.
Charlie made his way back to Eve, a broad grin lighting his features.
‘What did you say to them, Charlie? You didn’t ask about the black market, did you?’
‘You must think I’m an idiot, Eve. No, I was softening them up. I mentioned Malcolm, though. They seem to agree that he was a Wally to get himself murdered. But none of them looked as if he had a guilty conscience; as if he had done it. They think you’re my girl, by the way. So snuggle up close and make it look real.’
‘All right, I wouldn’t want them to think you’re trying to fool them. What are you going to do next?’ Eve moved closer to Charlie, draped an arm round his shoulders and giggled girlishly.
‘Who’s that bloke, Charlie, the one in the suit?’
‘That, my girl, is the local Rationing Enforcement Officer. Interesting isn’t it? You’d think he’d have more sense than to drink with that lot in a public place.’
‘What?’ said Eve, aghast. ‘You mean he’s mixed up with those black market spivs?’
‘It looks as if he may be. I’ll tell Reed later, he’ll be very interested. Nothing like a bit of corruption to get him excited. I thought that now I’ve made contact, next time I come in I can ask some more leading questions about the black market racket. They may open up to me.’
Eve and Charlie sipped their drinks and stayed until the group of spivs began to leave. A couple of them gave Charlie a cheery handshake and a wink as they left. He seemed to have made himself a new group of friends. The rationing official lingered on his bar stool, sipping half a pint of beer and left five minutes later.
About half an hour later, when Eve and Charlie were outside The Bush, Eve turned towards the police station.
‘I ought to have a word with Inspector Reed before I go home. I’ll see you tomorrow, Charlie.’
‘All right, Evie. I’ll get on back then. See you in the market tomorrow.’ He turned towards the Uxbridge Road.
Eve entered the police station and a vicious whirlwind span up to her in the lobby, whirling her arms with unsuppressed rage.
A tiny dark-haired young woman, wound up into a fury like a demented wasp, yelled at Eve: ‘Are you the one? The bloody bitch stirring all that stuff up again? Why can’t you people leave well alone? What business have you got talking to my Stan, making him all upset again? Bloody cheek I call it!’
Eve looked to the desk Sergeant for an explanation of this onslaught.
‘Sorry, Miss Duncan, it’s Mrs Barrett. She came in to see you. I didn’t know...’
‘It’s all right, Bert. I’ll deal with it.’ She turned towards the raging woman and, by holding up her arm just in time, diverted the swinging gasmask box from her face. ‘That’ll do, Mrs Barrett. Why don’t you come and sit down over here and we can discuss it calmly.’
She guided the termagant to the bench in the corner of the lobby and sat beside her.
‘You must be Eileen Barrett, Stan’s wife.’
‘Yeah. That’s me,’ came the sulky reply. ‘You’ve gone and talked to Stan about me and Malcolm. He’d practically forgotten about it and now you’ve stirred it all up again. He was mad as a monkey when I got home yesterday. Said all sorts of horrible things. I thought he was going to throw me out, like he threatened before, but I’d managed to calm him down. Why’d you have to do that? Mess things up all over again.’ By now the woman’s raging fury had transformed to unrestrained sobbing. She dragged a hanky out of her pocket and began to dab her eyes, blackening the scrap of cotton with mascara.
‘I’m very sorry, Eileen, but we had to talk to anyone who might have had a motive to kill Malcolm Miller.’
‘There’s lots of others. Why did you have to pick on Stan?’ Mrs Barratt continued to cry and dab with the skimpy, sodden handkerchief.
‘We had to question everyone, Eileen. I’m sorry if it has revived painful memories for you and your husband. Look, why don’t you go home and cook him his favourite dinner, be really nice to him and perhaps he’ll forget all about it.’
Eileen Barrett regarded Eve with tear-washed eyes and an expression that said she must be mad to think it was that simple. It took a few more moments of sobbing before it dawned on the woman that Eve’s suggestion might be a good policy and she stood up, patted her hair and started to walk towards the door.
‘I still think you shouldn’t have interfered, we was getting back to normal again. He was even letting me go to the Palais now and then. Now you’ve put the kibosh on it all. He’ll never let me enjoy myself again.’
Eve found it difficult to imagine that the weedy Stan Barrett could stand up against the mighty temper of Eileen, let alone prevent her from doing anything she wanted. But she supposed that every couple found a suitable way of conducting their lives. She wondered how long this particular marriage would last. Eve did not doubt that Eileen would find it difficult to remain faithful for long.
‘So long, Eileen, good luck,’
Eve waved her off from the steps of the police station. Then she returned to the lobby and addressed the sergeant.
‘I have to get home for Jake, Bert, he’ll need a walk. Is the inspector in? I could give him a quick report.’
‘No he’s out, Eve. He’ll be back in the morning. Why don’t you come and see him then?’
Eve agreed, thinking she had probably done enough for one day. She said goodnight to Bert and walked home, searching the darkening sky for signs of aircraft, but so far nothing ominous blighted the evening and the siren was silent. Soon the searchlights would be crisscrossing the night sky and the anti-aircraft gun crews, ever vigilant, would be scanning the horizons for the enemy. Perhaps they’d be lucky and the Germans would leave them alone tonight.
The following morning the wireless told Eve that the Luftwaffe had not bombed London the previous night, but Liverpool and Southampton had both been heavily attacked. A night of respite meant that Londoners around Shepherd’s Bush were more cheerful, briskly going about their business, many with smiles on their faces. What a difference a stress-free night’s sleep made.
Eve reported to Inspector Reed and he told her to pursue the questioning of residents on the milk round until it was completed.
‘You may still find out something from one of them. Perhaps as it’s a Saturday there’ll be someone who wasn’t in when you called the other day. Sorry, Miss Duncan, I know it’s tedious, but we have to keep trying.’
‘That’s all right, Inspector, I don’t mind.’
‘Glad to be away from Mr Gibbon, I expect.’
‘A bit of that,’ she replied wryly, appreciating his insight, ‘and it’s wonderful to be out in the fresh air.’
‘Well, off you go and let me know what you discover.’
‘Is there any news about Miss Broadbent? Have we found out anything more about her or who may have killed her?’
‘No. Don’t you worry about that, I still think it’s a robbery gone wrong. We’ll pick him up eventually. No, you concentrate on the milkman; you’re much more likely to hear something about that crime. I’ll see you later. Send in Sergeant Banks on your way out, he’s waiting outside.’
Eve left the office and Banks went in, his head low as if he expected a telling off from his boss. Eve couldn’t believe that the benevolent inspector would give him too much of a hard time.
Back on the streets Eve continued to ring doorbells, asking the same questions when someone answered, noting anything of interest, and moving on. Towards the end of Malcolm’s round she found that the milk delivery on Monday morning had become more and more haphazard. People who did not normally get milk through the dairy found a pint or two on their doorstep and, further along, those who had ordered milk did not receive it. Some residents were irate, but most were resigned and only mildly surprised at the inconvenience. Nothing much fazed the people of London in these times and the mere failure of a milk delivery was the least of their concerns. There was a war on after all.
Well before lunchtime Eve had finished the task of visiting everyone on Malcolm’s route. She was interested to note that it was towards the Uxbridge Road end of his round that things had begun to go wrong. The deliveries did not end abruptly, but continued right to the end even though they were not entirely correct. It occurred to Eve that the round must have been concluded by someone other than Malcolm; someone who didn’t know exactly who his customers were. Clever, she thought, because it made it impossible for her to work out precisely where Malcolm stopped delivering personally; the spot where he must have lost his life, or at least been carried off to be killed.
Eve joined Charlie for a mid-morning cup of milky coffee in Gladys’s cafe, when he could get away from the Saturday crowds in the market. She then returned to the police station only to find that the inspector was absent again. She was seated at a desk, going over her notes, trying to get them into some sort of order, names and addresses carefully noted, comments written down, when two eager police constables, one of them the young lad who had summoned her to the station on Monday morning, dashed in, full of news.
‘This girl was attacked, Sarge,’ the lad told the Custody Sergeant. ‘In broad daylight, by the shops. Knocked over the head. There were crowds of people around, but no-one saw who did it.’
Eve listened attentively. Someone else attacked? Unusual in Shepherd’s Bush; so much violent crime in less than a week.
‘Poor kid, she’s expecting a baby too. The ambulance’s taken her to Fulham Hospital.’
Eve piped up, not able to resist, ‘Is she all right?’
‘She caught a nasty bump on the head, miss,’ said Eve’s messenger, ‘she was unconscious when they put her into the ambulance. Someone in the crowd reported that she said something before she went out. But it didn’t make much sense.’
‘What was it she said?’ asked Eve.
‘Something like, “he wasn’t there”.’
‘No, what she said was, “it wasn’t him. Billy, it wasn’t him”,’ said the other man.
‘That’s intriguing,’ said Eve. ‘I wonder what she meant.’
‘I expect someone will go and talk to her when she comes round. Maybe that’ll make it clear.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Eve. She hoped Inspector Reed would let her speak to the girl when she recovered consciousness. Perhaps he would let her talk to the family too. Something compelled her to find out more about this latest casualty.
She finished working on her notes and handed them to Bert to give to the Inspector when he returned. She thought she would go down to the hospital anyway and try to see this poor girl.
A trolley bus ride into Fulham took her to the hospital. It had been emptied of patients last August, before the Blitz started, in preparation for the anticipated influx, and was now full of victims of the bombing, some of them terribly injured. The staff were buzzing around, far too busy to take any notice of Eve. They probably thought she was visiting a relative and nobody asked what she was doing there. She imagined the girl would be in the women’s ward and, with a minimum of detective work, she found her way there.
She asked the ward sister about a girl who had come in with a head injury and the woman barely looked up from her paperwork, pointing to a bed in the corner that was shielded by curtains. Eve made her way there. The still figure of the girl lay with her head liberally bandaged and a drip on a stand beside her pumping fluid into her arm. Her face, pale, almost transparent, had bruises around the eyes. The sheets and a thin cotton blanket were tucked tightly around her body so that the gentle bump that was her baby rose in a poignant curve. She looked incredibly young and fragile.
Without a qualm Eve reached for clipboard that held the girl’s notes. Amy Pugh, aged 21, it said, 25 weeks pregnant, maiden name Grainger. Eve spotted a thin gold wedding band on Amy’s left hand. Her husband must have been on leave when she got pregnant six months ago. Poor kid, she thought, to have him away from home and probably in danger, whilst she went through her pregnancy alone.
Eve’s thoughts were interrupted by a man’s harsh voice behind her.
‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’
Eve turned to find a middle-aged couple watching her; their faces showed alarm and annoyance in equal measure. The situation called for a bit of fast thinking. Eve took a gamble, guessing that these were Amy’s parents. She stuck out her right hand.
‘Hello, Mr and Mrs Grainger? I’m Eve Duncan. I work for the police in a family liaison capacity, talking to the victims of crime and their relatives,’ Eve invented rapidly, thinking as she did so that this was almost true and hoping Inspector Reed wouldn’t be too angry if he found out.
Amy’s father’s stern features relaxed perceptively as he shook Eve’s proffered hand. The mother took the seat by the bed and stroked her daughter’s arm.
‘I hope you can find out who did this to our Amy. What a wicked thing, attacking her like in broad daylight, in the street and her expecting and all.’
‘Is the baby going to be all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Grainger, ‘it’s a tough little thing the doctor said. Tougher than Amy’s poor head.’
‘Do they know how long she’s going to be unconscious?’
‘There’s no way of telling, apparently, sometimes it’s days, sometimes weeks,’ Mr Grainger gazed down at his daughter. ‘I hope she comes round soon so that I can find out who did this to her and go and sort the bastard out.’
‘You can’t take the law into your own hands, Mr Grainger. Leave it to the police, they will find him and see that he is punished. It may not have been someone whom Amy knew; she may not have recognised him.’
‘Be that as it may,’ he replied, ‘I want to make sure that he suffers.’
Such vindictive ambitions were only to be expected from a man whose daughter had been attacked in such a way, but Eve hoped that she would be able to dissuade him from any action. Not that he could do anything until they found the culprit.
‘Do you have any idea where Amy was going when she went out today?’
‘She’s living with us while Johnnie’s at sea,’ Mrs Grainger piped up from the chair. ‘The baby will be born before he gets back from his tour of duty.’
‘She didn’t say exactly where she was going,’ said Mr Grainger, ‘just said she was going to visit a school friend. I thought she meant one of the girls, Barbara or Patricia, one of them. But they haven’t seen her and weren’t expecting her.’
Mr Grainger’s remarks piqued Eve’s attention. She was going to visit a school friend.
‘How old is Amy, Mr Grainger?’
‘21. 21 when last Johnnie was on leave. We had a little party for her. Mother made a cake out of some of the last dried fruit. We had to save up the eggs for it.’
Eve was even more intrigued. ‘Tell me, Mr Grainger, what school did Amy go to?’
‘Well, she started at Ellerslie Road Elementary; all the kids from round here did. And later she went to the big secondary school in Acton.’
‘Was she in Miss Broadbent’s class at Ellerslie Road by any chance?’ Eve asked, her breath coming faster, her hands beginning to feel clammy with excitement.
Mrs Grainger answered her. ‘Yes, that was it. Miss Broadbent, Amy was always talking about her. Such a lovely teacher she was, all the kids loved her.’
Eve snatched up her bag and gas mask, which she had placed at the foot of the bed.
‘Thank you both very much,’ she said. ‘You have been extremely helpful. I’m sorry, I’ve got to dash.’ She turned out of the cubicle, away from the bed and made to leave the ward.
Mr Grainger called after her, ‘What do you mean? Have you got an idea? Tell me if you know who did this to Amy.’
‘Try not to worry. I’ll do what I can.’ Eve called back, and waved at the anxious parents, but ignored their anxious questions as she left the hospital and made her way back to the police station. She urgently needed to speak to Inspector Reed. She was convinced that she had found the link between the attacks, even if she had no idea who had carried them out or why.