Murders in the Blitz

by Julia Underwood

  ‘Shut up, Charlie. Come on. Let’s go and get a pie in the caff. I’m starving and I’ve stuff to tell you.’

  They skirted the market stalls and entered the steamy interior of Gladys’s Cafe. Many of the stallholders were already eating their lunch, but a table at the back had room for two. Eve pushed her shopping under the seat and Charlie sat opposite. He leaned across the table, eager to for news.

  His face fell, disappointed, when she had divulged the information she had.

  ‘What? Is that all? I’d have thought you’d have some idea of who’d done it by now. They haven’t even identified the body. You don’t know the result of the PM. What’s the good of that? You’re not much of a sleuth. Haven’t you got any idea who might ‘ave done it?’

  ‘Not yet, Charlie. We haven’t got enough information, have we? But by the end of today we may know a lot more.’

  ‘I bet you that baker knows more than he’s telling. And what about those girls –jealous, you can be sure. Maybe one of them did it. Or the secretary, she doesn’t like them, does she? Come on, Eve, it’s got to be someone you’ve met.’

  Eve deflated by his attitude, realised how right he was.

  Chapter Nine

  When she arrived at the mortuary, slightly late, Eve saw that the others were waiting. Two of the Polish girls were there - the little blonde, Anna, had another, dark-haired girl anxiously towering beside her. Eve was surprised to see Borys with them as well.

  ‘Thank you all for being on time,’ said Eve. ‘I didn’t know you were coming, Borys.’

  Boris stared at her with a strange expression that might have been fear, sorrow or malice. Eve couldn’t make it out.

  ‘I come for the ladies,’ he said simply. ‘Is very sad for them if is Zoya. She was friend. I help.’

  Eve nodded understanding and pushed open the morgue’s door. They were directed along cold, tiled corridors to where identifications occurred.

  A man in a buff coloured overall ushered them into a bare room. A body covered in a sheet lay on a wheeled stretcher.

  ‘Are you ready?’ asked the man.

  ‘Yes,’ Eve answered for everyone, thinking, let’s get this over with. She knew that the girls were quaking with nerves and probably couldn’t utter a word.

  The Polish girls approached the covered body; their hands entwined in fear. Borys followed and Eve went to the other side, hoping to observe their reactions when the body was revealed.

  The technician pulled back the sheet. The victim’s face looked less ghastly than when Eve had first seen her in the street; you could almost imagine that she was sleeping.

  The girls gasped in unison and immediately began to cry. Great wails of grief burst out and they clung together and rocked.

  Borys was the first to speak. ‘Yes, is Zoya,’ he said, his voice brimming with sorrow. ‘Cover her now please.’

  Eve learned nothing from their expressions except that they were distraught, although it had been an almost foregone conclusion that the body was their friend’s. Borys’s face was equally enigmatic, nothing more than a stern frown crossed it.

  The technician covered the body and the sad group turned towards the door. One of the girls ran back and, wrenching back the sheet, bent and kissed Zoya’s forehead. She whispered a Polish benediction and followed the others to the corridor.

  ‘Could you wait here a moment, please?’ the mortuary man asked. ‘There are a few formalities.’

  The group sat on wooden chairs until the man returned with a file. Anna signed a form confirming the identity of the body, witnessed by the dark-haired girl. Borys hung back, his face creased in grief. His hands were clenched, trying to hold back strong emotion.

  ‘Do we know the results of the post mortem? What exactly happened to her?’ asked Eve.

  ‘The post mortem report’s gone to the police station, miss. You’ll have to ask there,’ the man replied and gestured for them to follow him to the exit.

  Eve said goodbye to the sad trio and watched them start homewards. She hurried towards the police station, needing to find out from Inspector Reed what the post mortem told them about how Zoya died.

  The panic about the factory seemed to have subsided and the station was relatively calm when Eve arrived. She stepped into Inspector Reed’s office within minutes and reported the result of the identification.

  ‘Oh,’ said the inspector. ‘They recognised their Zoya then? Sit down, Miss Duncan. I expect you want to find out what the PM says. Well...’ he picked a card folder from his desk and riffled through. ‘The pathologist says he was struck by the fact that, though the young woman’s neck was broken, there was little external sign of strangulation. Just one tiny bruise under her hair at the back. A very professional job, he says, probably carried out by someone with training.’

  ‘Training?’

  ‘Yes, unarmed combat, that sort of thing. The stuff they teach soldiers.’

  ‘So it must have been a man then?’ said Eve.

  ‘Yes, almost certainly. You’d need strength to do this and large hands. There wasn’t another mark on the body; no sign of a struggle. It was over very quickly. She must have been taken by surprise. Those girls at the PRC wouldn’t have the strength or speed.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Eve. ‘There aren’t many men to choose from. There’s the two Polish airmen, and one of them’s got a bad arm. Borys, he’s really strong. Simon -Major Parkes, - I suppose. Rachel Archer might have the strength. She’s a big girl and I think she may have training; she’s seconded from the Ministry of War. But she had a grudging respect for Zoya, so why would she want to kill her?’

  ‘It needn’t be one of the men from the PRC, Miss Duncan. It could be someone Zoya knew outside the refuge.’ He tapped the PM report. ‘There’s something else in here. It seems that Zoya was pregnant.’

  Eve gasped. Someone had said over lunch the other day that Zoya had a boyfriend, so of course she might be pregnant. Who could be the father? Perhaps the inspector was right and a man Zoya knew outside the PRC might be the culprit. Zoya had a job; she must have met lots of men at the bakery. They sold sandwiches at lunchtime. Surely it couldn’t be Mr Drummond, the baker. He was strong, but he looked harmless. Eve couldn’t wait to talk to Charlie; he might have some ideas.

  But after Inspector Reed had given her further instructions and Eve left his office and found Charlie, he wasn’t helpful.

  ‘Told you she was a good time girl, didn’t I?’

  ‘I think you may have mentioned it, Charlie. But I don’t think that’s it. I think Zoya had just one boyfriend. It’s sad and rotten luck that she got pregnant.’

  ‘And got herself killed too, don’t forget.’

  ‘Yes, that too,’ sighed Eve. She turned to leave. ‘Look, I’m going home now; I need an early night. It’s been an emotional day. I’ll see you tomorrow. Reed’s asked me to look through Zoya’s things to see if there are any clues there. She may have something that’ll help us.’

  She slowed, deep in thought. A trolley bus clanged past, but she paid no attention because she had an idea. Perhaps there was someone at the PRC who might be able to help her.

  Chapter Ten

  Eve woke early, not as refreshed as she had hoped. Images of a brutal murderer strangling defenceless Zoya in the alleyway had haunted her throughout the night. No face had attached to the assassin, but something that troubled her was nudging her brain, straining to make her remember.

  She presented herself at the PRC just after the residents had finished breakfast and Katya was, as usual, single-handedly washing up. As neither Miss Archer nor Major Parkes were around when she arrived, Eve had walked in and gone straight down to the basement kitchen.

  ‘Good morning, Katya,’ she called when she reached the bottom of the stairs, not wishing to startle the woman.

  Katya turned from the sink and smiled mournfully. ‘Ah, Miss Duncan, it is you. You have brought sadness to our little community I think.’

  ‘Of course, you w
ill have heard. I am so sorry. How are the girls? They must be taking it badly.’

  ‘Poof,’ said Katya with a dismissive gesture, ‘they are still in bed. Too upset to get up and have breakfast. I hope they do not expect me to take anything up to them.’

  ‘No. I’m sure they don’t. Look, I need to search through Zoya’s things. Perhaps I could take up some tea, and then you won’t have to go to the trouble.’

  Katya shrugged. ‘As you wish. I was not going in any case.’

  She put the kettle on and began to set a tray with cups. Soon Eve was negotiating the stairs, narrowly avoiding a spillage at the tight corner on the way up from the kitchen. It became easier on the wider, straight staircase to the first floor. Katya had told her that the room Zoya had shared with the blonde Anna and the dark girl, Sonya, was at the front left hand, overlooking the street.

  All the doors were closed. Eve put the tray on the floor before knocking and heard a muffled groan from inside.

  ‘Hallo. It’s me, Eve Duncan. Katya’s sent me up with tea for you. Can I come in?’

  From within a voice mumbled louder. Eve took this to be a yes, and entered the room. Morning sunlight lit a scene of remarkable chaos. Eve did not consider herself to be particularly tidy, but even she was shocked by the mess. It was hard to distinguish the shapes of the girls under their bedclothes for the heaps of discarded garments scattered over the beds. Walking across the room, ankle-deep in shoes, underwear, magazines and other rubbish, she had difficulty in holding the tray steady. She manoeuvred to the window and, pushing aside a myriad pots and bottles of makeup, nail varnish and creams, put the tray on the chest of drawers.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ she sang out cheerfully, ‘rise and shine. Here’s hot tea for you. It’ll make you feel better.’

  After more groaning and stretching, the girls emerged from beneath the covers. Their faces were bloated from an excess of weeping and lack of sleep. They’d probably been up half the night talking and crying. Perhaps it was the best thing to get it out of their systems, thought Eve.

  They sipped the hot sweet tea and certainly looked better afterwards, when they had donned dressing gowns and run combs through their hair.

  The bed against the wall farthest from the window had obviously been Zoya’s. It and its surroundings were marginally less untidy than the others. But this may have been because she had been absent for a couple of days. Eve reminded herself that these girls were still very young, none over 21, and had been away from their families for over a year. They hadn’t got a mum like hers to yell at them.

  ‘I need to look through Zoya’s things. The police think they may give a clue to who her boyfriend was and any other friends she may have had.’

  ‘She told us she had boyfriend, but not his name. I think he was a man of money; he gave her expensive things.’ Anna giggled, obviously intrigued about the mysterious boyfriend. A shadow crossed her face as if she knew something she did not want to share.

  Eve soon saw why the revelation had made the blonde girl laugh, for Zoya’s lower bedside drawer held a collection of some of the most exotic and expensive underwear Eve had seen. She would have loved some of these lacy, delicate garments herself. Pastel silks and fine lace adorned the bras, the French knickers and camisoles flowed through her fingers like water and she felt a wave of envy. Pete would love to see her in things like this. Whoever bought this stuff for Zoya must have a few bob. They probably came from one of the big stores in Knightsbridge; Woollands, or Harrods. Perhaps Anna was feeling guilty because she hoped to own them.

  Eve regretfully slid the underwear back into the drawer. A good poke around beneath the clothes had revealed nothing of interest. She looked for a diary or letters amongst Zoya’s possessions in the top drawer. It was the absence of things that worried her.

  ‘There are no papers here. Where is her passport, her ration book, her identity card?’

  ‘Miss Archer, she has our travel documents and Katya holds the ration books, for the shopping. Zoya must have had her identity card with her. You are in trouble if you don’t carry it always; especially us foreigners. They put you in prison - as a spy.’

  Eve knew that the girls would have heeded such a dire warning. It couldn’t be much fun being a foreigner in London at present with all the paranoia and everyone watching for spies or fifth columnists.

  But Zoya had no identity card with her when she was found. There had been no sign of anything personal. No keys, no handbag, no purse; no papers, nothing.

  There was little else in the drawer. Just a few sweets, Sharps toffees, and a souvenir box of matches from a famous London night club, the Blue Angel. Lucky girl, thought Eve, forgetting Zoya’s fate for a moment. Pete kept promising to take her there, but it was terribly expensive. She could imagine Zoya, a beautiful girl in a rich, sophisticated evening gown, gliding into the club, dancing on the tiny dance floor.

  ‘Where are her other clothes?’ she asked.

  The girls pointed to the solid wardrobe in the corner.

  ‘Her things are on the left,’ said Sonya.

  Eve pulled back the garments. Most were strictly utilitarian: a work suit, cotton frocks, skirts and blouses, but at the end, shrouded in a protective cotton cover, hung the beautiful evening gown she had expected to find. Navy blue satin, cut on the bias, with a low neck and back, smooth and narrow until the bottom of the skirt where it flared out dramatically. With her slim figure and dark hair Zoya must have looked stunning in that dress.

  Well, Eve thought when she had examined everything - even the pockets of the jackets - there’s nothing much to show the police, just a few expensive clothes that Zoya couldn’t possibly have afforded herself. Someone well off had provided them. Eve wished that there was something definitive, something in writing, a diary or at least a love note. It seemed strange that there was nothing. And where was her handbag?

  Chapter Eleven

  As Eve was walking down the main stairs she heard a harsh, rasping sound. Borys was seated on the bottom step weeping noisily, with great sobs of despair. He leapt to his feet when he became aware of Eve descending towards him.

  ‘Goodness, Borys, whatever is the matter?’

  The man wiped his face on his sleeve.

  ‘Zoya, my Zoya,’ he bellowed. ‘It is my fault she dead.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She is having a baby; my baby. Miss Archer has told me. I have lost them both.’

  The huge man was engulfed in tears again. Eve felt the urge to stretch a comforting hand towards him, but suppressed the impulse. It crossed her mind that she hadn’t told Miss Archer about the baby. How did she know? Perhaps someone from the police station had been round. But that seemed unlikely as Eve was acting as liaison with the PRC. She would have to look into it.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Borys. I know it’s a terrible loss.’

  This doesn’t make sense, Eve thought. Borys can’t be Zoya’s boyfriend. He couldn’t possibly afford those expensive clothes. There must be someone else. Poor Borys, no wonder he was stricken with grief. He had lost Zoya to another man before she died. Perhaps the baby was not his. Or perhaps, and Eve regarded the tear-stained giant more closely, perhaps he was full of fierce jealousy and had killed her in a fury. He was certainly strong enough to have done it. These could be tears of remorse.

  Eve reported the lack of written evidence amongst Zoya’s possessions to the inspector.

  ‘But her collection of clothes is a treasure trove,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it outside the expensive shops. Someone’s been buying them for her.’

  The inspector was not surprised. He seemed to take it for granted that a lover would buy a girl costly underwear.

  ‘And I think you’re right, Miss Duncan. There should be something in writing. No young woman conducts an affair without keeping some billets doux. I’ll get someone to search for her bag and ID card. Though I expect it’s been pinched and sold by now. Some people are desperate for ID.’
>
  ‘There was nothing in the alley, sir. I had a butchers in the dustbin, but it was half full of rubbish – looked like pig swill, nothing else.’

  ‘Never mind, it may turn up. Meanwhile I suggest you go and ask that baker chap if Zoya talked to anyone in particular at work.’

  ‘Righto, sir.’

  As she left something was niggling at the back of her mind. There was something she wanted to ask Inspector Reed, but she couldn’t think what it was.

  Eve’s second visit to Drummond’s Bakery was fruitless except in one respect: Drummond himself was not there. Apparently it was his habit to go home in the late afternoon for a rest as he started work at some ungodly hour in the morning. A darkly handsome young man that reminded Eve of Charlie, though he looked rather more respectable, was cleaning the place up and preparing for the following day’s trade.

  ‘Hallo,’ said Eve. ‘I’m Eve Duncan. I’m helping the police with their enquiries into the death of Zoya. I believe you’ve been informed of her death.’

  The young man stopped sweeping and looked at Eve with a speculative grin; an expression she was familiar with. She hoped he wouldn’t try it on.

  ‘Hallo. Alfred Drummond. Yes, Dad told me about Zoya. It’s a damn nuisance, we really need help in the shop,’ then he realised what he was saying, ‘and it’s terrible for poor Zoya too, of course. Such a lovely kid. What can I do to help?’

  ‘Do you work here full time, Mr Drummond?’

  ‘No. I just come and help out in the late afternoons when there’s no-one else, and Dad’s resting. He got me in today now Zoya’s not here. I work in the munitions factory normally, out Slough way.’

  ‘You shouldn’t tell me that, I might be a spy.’ Eve softened the remark with a smile.

  ‘You don’t look like a spy, miss. Anyway, I shouldn’t think there’s many don’t know where the munitions factory is. So, what can I help you with?’

  ‘As you’re not here every day I don’t suppose you’ll know the answer to my question. I wanted to find out if your father knew of any men that Zoya talked to. Anyone in particular, that is.’