Murders in the Blitz

by Julia Underwood

  Eve stood dumbfounded on the pavement, gazing skywards in fascinated horror at the drama being played out overhead.

  ‘Come on, Evie! We’ve got to get into a shelter.’ Charlie pulled her by the hand, his other arm holding Jake close to his chest. ‘Come on! You can’t stand their gawping at them. We’ve got to take cover or we’ll be killed.’

  An air raid warden ran towards them waving his arms and reiterated Charlie’s words ‘Take cover! Take cover!’ The man’s voice and body shook with fear; panicked at this first proper raid on his patch.

  Eve came to life at last and they dashed the length of the street, with their gas masks knocking against their ribs, to the concrete shelter at the corner, but not before Eve had witnessed the sight of a house succumbing to the blast of high explosives.

  It appeared as if the four storey building took a deep breath in and oxygen was sucked from the air. The walls and windows bulged outwards and splayed grotesquely like a broken jigsaw puzzle before imploding in a great roar of falling masonry, glass and timber until the dust obliterated it all from view. After one almighty bellow it seemed as if all further sound was blown away.

  Charlie grabbed Eve’s hand again. ‘Eve, for Christ’s sake, get a move on!’ he yelled over the roar, ‘or you’ll get yourself killed, you daft cow.’

  He dragged her into the shelter and looking back she saw a great lump of masonry land just where she had been standing. Charlie clasped her in his arms, seemingly even more terrified than Eve. He was saying something, but she could only see his lips moving as the blast had rendered her temporarily deaf.

  The next day, when the dusty, smoky morning came, everyone carried on as normal. They travelled, exhausted, to work; to shops and offices, schools and factories as if nothing was happening. The Luftwaffe had left before first light, leaving a trail of destruction behind them. St Dunstan’s Road, Fulham, had taken a beating and one block of Fulham Hospital had taken a direct hit. Luckily, as the hospital was empty of patients, waiting for an influx of bombing victims, there were no casualties. Eve heard that at almost four in the morning a bomb had fallen on Fulham Power Station Turbine House. The ARP warden warned them that they could expect little electricity when darkness fell.

  Eve was relieved not to be going to Mount Pleasant at the moment; only having to walk as far as Shepherd’s Bush nick. So far the building was undamaged. Like windows everywhere these were criss-crossed with a lattice of white tape to prevent blast blowing the glass inwards and injuring those inside. Even if a building was not directly hit, blast from neighbours could cause windows to implode and shards of glass to spin like flying daggers across the rooms inside.

  Eve was still on extended leave of absence from the Censor Department. Poor Zoya lay in the mortuary. No-one quite knew what to do with her as she had no relatives in England and no-one in occupied Poland could be reached. Major Parkes seemed anxious to get her buried and forgotten.

  ‘After all,’ he’d said to Inspector Reed, ‘her parents are probably dead by now, or can’t come to London in any case. We need to have a funeral to put an end to the matter. This has affected morale at the Centre very badly. I want to get the affair cleared up and out of the way so we can go back to normal.’

  ‘I rather feel we should find out what happened to her before we bury her. I can’t help thinking that something further may be revealed. In any case, there has to be an inquest, however cut and dried it may be,’ Inspector Reed said.

  ‘Just as you wish, old man,’ said the Major in rather more familiar terms than Inspector Reed might have wished. ‘I just thought we ought to get the whole matter over and done with.’

  Eve witnessed this exchange and was not happy with Simon’s attitude. Minor inconvenience at the PRC could not matter in the face of the murder enquiry.

  Simon left the police station ahead of her and later she headed towards the pawn shop hoping to visit Mr Weissmann to see if he had any information for her. She noticed the looming presence of Borys in the street outside the nick. The big man scared her and she waited until his back was momentarily turned, to slip away unnoticed. She would leave her visit to the pawnbroker until later. She had almost reached Goldhawk Road when she heard a yell behind her.

  ‘Miss! Miss!’ Borys’s deep bellow sounded across the space between them.

  Eve increased her pace and she was soon running; terrified that the huge man would catch up. She had become convinced that the Polish man had murdered Zoya. Who else could have done it? There was no-one else with the strength and with such a sound motive.

  She hardly noticed where she was going and was soon pounding down Goldhawk Road through a crowd of shoppers. She turned into Coningham Road. The street was littered with rubble and debris. A house about half way along had been hit by a bomb and a great crater gaped between two other buildings that appeared intact. The front door of the one on the left hung open on damaged hinges and she slipped inside. As she looked around she was shocked to see that, although from outside the house appeared unscathed, the entire rear wall was missing. Torn wallpaper, ruined furniture and shattered timber hung in the air.

  Eve’s straining ears could hear Borys thundering up behind her. She had to stop him catching her or she would be like Zoya, dead of a broken neck. Somehow she had to avoid the man. She stumbled through the rubble in the hallway and made for the staircase. Perhaps she would find somewhere upstairs to hide.

  As she started upwards the front door crashed back and Borys stood outlined in the doorway.

  ‘No!’ he cried, ‘I must speak with you. Do not go up...’

  Eve ignored him and ran headlong up the stairs. There must be a way that she could escape the brute. He was coming to kill her. Faster and faster she climbed until she reached as far as possible and discovered, to her horror, that the stairs disappeared. She almost fell into the abyss as she extended her foot to find nothing beneath it. The stairs ended in empty air.

  She grabbed at the shattered banisters to stop herself falling, but her touch dislodged the fragile wood and it came away in her hand. Then she was falling, tumbling through the air towards the jumble of broken bricks, glass and jagged timber lying haphazardly twenty feet below.

  Just as she felt that nothing could save her, a giant hand reached out and caught her arm. In extreme terror her senses left her and the next thing she knew was coming round in Borys’s arms as he laid her gently on the floor of the hallway. He gazed down at her, an almost tender expression in his eyes.

  ‘Why you run away from me, Miss Duncan? You almost be killed.’

  ‘You were frightening me,’ she said, realising how pathetic that sounded for such a tough cookie. She shook her head and struggled to get up, out of Borys’s supporting arm. Her feet almost slipped from under her; her legs felt like jelly. She had never had such a close encounter with death. It had been a near thing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eve and Borys walked into the stricken road with broken bricks crunching beneath their feet. A salvage crew was already clearing the street and helping the owners of the houses to rescue what that could from the wreckage of their homes.

  ‘Was anyone killed?’ asked Eve.

  ‘No, love, they was lucky, they’d all gone down the shelter.’

  Not really lucky thought Eve, gazing at the ruined homes, with all their possessions and memories destroyed. She turned towards Borys, who was patiently waiting beside her.

  ‘What did you want, Borys? Tearing after me like that.’

  ‘You come back to Polish house with me, miss. We have something to show you.’

  Eve could not help but agree. But it was quite a walk back to the PRC, especially on wobbly legs. Eve was astonished at how far from the Green she had run with Borys in pursuit. It showed what lengths fear could drive you to. When they arrived at the Centre Borys led her to the kitchen where Anna and Sonya were seated at the table in urgent debate with Katya. Spread out before them were several documents and what looked like a wash bag. They
looked relieved when Eve and Borys walked in, and they began to gabble.

  Eve held up a hand. ‘Ho, stop! I can’t understand a word you’re saying. One at a time, in English. Tell me what this is all about.’

  Katya looked up. ‘The girls have found Zoya’s journal and some letters.’

  Eve sat on one of the chairs and eagerly pulled the documents towards her.

  ‘This is wonderful. Where did you find it?’

  Sonya blushed and looked sheepish. ‘I so wanted to try on Zoya’s dress,’ she said. ‘I found the bag pinned to the inside, under the petticoat.’

  ‘How stupid of me,’ said Eve. ‘I never thought to look underneath. Have you read these? What do they say?’

  Eve picked a letter from the heap. It was headed with an insignia very similar to that she had seen on Simon Parkes’s cigarette case; the flying eagle and the initials P.J. She still had not found out what it meant. The letter was addressed to him at the PRC. Pinned to it was typed copy of what must have been his reply.

  ‘We cannot quite understand what is written here,’ said Katya. ‘But it seems to be about the Americans being in the war and something called the Right Club.’

  Eve had heard of the Right Club. The wing of the British Fascists had been lead by a Member of Parliament, Archibald Ramsey, and had many aristocratic followers. Ramsey was an associate of Oswald Moseley, the most famous British fascist. MI5 had sought them out and disbanded the Club in May.

  ‘But I thought they were all imprisoned, after Mr Churchill won the election. That was when William Joyce, Lord Haw Haw, fled to Germany and started broadcasting defeatist rubbish. I thought they’d closed them down. This must be a new bunch of fascist Fifth Columnists.’

  ‘Maybe not all are in prison,’ suggested Borys.

  ‘That’s what it looks like,’ said Eve. ‘Let’s have a look.’

  She read the letter slowly, trying to make sense of it. It was couched in strange, belligerent language and ranted about keeping the Americans out of the war at all costs, so that Britain’s defeat was inevitable. Just like the rubbish Simon was spouting the other night. It sounded obsessed and deluded and constantly mentioned something called the International Jewish Conspiracy. In the copy letter Simon Parkes pledged his allegiance to the cause and told of his plans to discredit the Churchill government in the eyes of the Americans.

  Eve took Zoya’s journal and started to read. What she saw on those pages made everything clear. Zoya had been going out with Simon when she realised that he was a traitor. She had found the evidence against him and was going to take it to the authorities. There the diary entries ended.

  Appalled, Eve stood up and gathered the papers and stuffed them into her handbag. ‘I’ve got to take this to the police. I’ll be back later. Is Parkes here? I don’t want to run into him.’

  ‘No, he went out this morning. Probably gloating over the bombing with his friends,’ said Katya.

  Eve hurried across the Green towards the police station and then remembered that she wanted to see Mr Weissmann first. She made a detour down the side street. The bell on the pawnbroker’s shop door rang as she entered. Mr Weissmann was seated in his usual place, sorting stock. He looked up as she entered, but without his habitual smile.

  ‘Ah, Miss Duncan, at last. I urgently need to speak to you. Tell me, where did you say you saw that emblem that you drew for me?’

  ‘On the cigarette case belonging to Major Simon Parkes, the officer in charge of the Polish refugee centre on the Green.’

  ‘This man is dangerous. He is a Fascist and probably a traitor as well. You must stay away from him.’

  ‘What does the engraving mean, Mr Weissmann?’

  ‘The flying eagle with a staff in its talons represents the Right Club, a far right fascist group that I thought was defunct. The initials P.J. are the most chilling. They stand for “Perish Juda”, the watchword of Fascists, who believe in the International Jewish Conspiracy. They see Jews as the root of all evil and mean to wipe them from the earth.’

  ‘My God! That’s terrible. I know he wants to stop the Americans from coming into the war, but I didn’t realise he had other aims. If the Germans win, and occupy Britain, they will try to wipe out Jews here.’

  ‘They certainly will, Miss Duncan. There will be no sanctuary.’

  ‘I must get to the police straight away. I think I’ve got enough to get him arrested for being a fascist, even if I can’t hang the murder on him.’

  ‘What murder?’

  ‘Oh, a young woman he knew was strangled. I’m now almost certain it was he who did it. But it’s going to be difficult to prove.’

  Eve thanked Mr Weissmann for his help and left the shop. As she stepped into the street she was horrified to see a familiar handsome figure coming towards her. His face wreathed in smiles, Simon grabbed her by the arm.

  ‘I think we should go and have a nice drink, don’t you, Miss Duncan?’

  Eve was tempted to wrench her arm from his determined grasp, but somehow managed to remain calm. She was terrified that he would discover the papers she was carrying, but realised that he could have no idea of what was in her bag. She casually slipped the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and held it firmly.

  ‘That would be lovely, Simon. Can we do it later? I’ve got rather a lot on this morning.’

  ‘No, I think now would be a good time, don’t you. After all, it is nearly lunchtime.’

  Simon’s easy charm appeared unabated, but Eve recognised something sinister in his deep blue eyes, a fanaticism that she had not noticed before, and certainly a determination to get his own way.

  ‘Oh, all right then. I don’t suppose there’s anything that can’t wait until after lunch.’

  Simon led her to the bar they had been to before and bought her a drink without asking what she wanted.

  ‘How’s your little murder mystery going?’ he asked. ‘Surely you must have found the culprit by now.’

  ‘It’s only been a week, Simon. Anyway, I think we’re making progress. Inspector Reed is confident that he’ll be making an arrest very soon.’

  ‘Really?’ Simon’s eyebrows rose sceptically and a tiny smile curved his lips.

  He’s a smug bastard, thought Eve. He thinks no-one could possibly be on to him. I’ve got to get away as soon as possible to speak to the Inspector.

  ‘Oh, yes, some very important evidence has turned up. It won’t be long now.’

  Eve watched him carefully. He didn’t seem to be in the least fazed by this revelation, which told her that he had no inkling of the evidence that Zoya had hidden. Of course that didn’t prove that he killed the girl, but he certainly had a motive for it if he knew that she intended to expose him. For all she knew he might have been frantically searching for the incriminating documents and had not thought to look amongst Zoya’s clothes. The girls were probably always in the room, making a hunt impossible.

  She watched with a shudder as he helped himself to a cigarette from the case with the fascist emblem and smoked it with casual ease.

  ‘You’re bright little thing, aren’t you, Eve Duncan? I wouldn’t get too clever if I were you. You never know where it might end up.’

  Eve looked at him blankly. Was that some kind of a threat?

  ‘I can’t think what you mean, Simon. I’ve never done this detecting business before; I’m just an amateur really. But the police know what they’re doing. They’ll get to the bottom of it.’

  Simon stood up abruptly and made to leave even though Eve had not quite finished her glass.

  ‘Time to go. I’ve got things to do as well. You’re welcome to come to the Centre if you like,’ he said offhandedly.

  ‘No thanks. I’ll be off.’ Eve threw back the last of her gin and It and followed him from the bar.

  She watched as he headed back to the Green. Such a handsome British army officer, the epitome of English manhood. It was hard to believe that he was a traitor and a murderer, all she had to do was to prove it
.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Eve was sitting in Inspector Reed’s office and a Sergeant was taking notes. She had explained everything she knew about Simon Parkes and handed over Zoya’s journal and the Right Club correspondence that the Polish girls had given her.

  ‘Well done, Miss Duncan, I knew there must be some written evidence somewhere.’

  ‘It wasn’t really me, sir, the girls found the papers in Zoya’s dress,’ said Eve.

  ‘Nonetheless, they wouldn’t have know what it was if you hadn’t alerted them. No, you must take credit for this.’

  ‘What should I do now, sir?’

  ‘Well, we’ve certainly got enough to arrest him for, for being a member of the Right Club and a traitor. You and Miss Archer are both witness to that. But I’d really like to get him on the murder as well. We don’t have much time. If he gets an inkling that we have something on him he may turn and scarper; escape to France like William Joyce before him. I don’t want that to happen.’

  ‘I don’t know how to prove that he murdered Zoya, sir. We’ve got a motive and I’m sure he’s had the training necessary to carry out the deed so cleanly, but where’s the evidence?’

  ‘I’m hoping that if we can get him cornered he’ll give himself away. This is where you come in, Eve.’

  Oh no. The use of her first name alerted Eve to the fact that Inspector Reed wanted her to do something unpleasant. She dreaded his next words.

  ‘I know you may not like this,’ he said, as if reading her thoughts, ‘but I need you to get close to him, butter him up and try to get a confession out of him.’

  Easier said than done, thought Eve. She shuddered. Her initial attraction to Major Parkes had evaporated and she now despised him for the treacherous killer that he was. Even so, she could see that something had to be done to collar him for Zoya’s murder. She had always been determined to catch the killer and this was her last chance before he realised he’d been found out and disappeared. She was sure his friends in the Fascist club would help him. There was nothing for it. She would have to go and find out one way or the other.