Murders in the Blitz
© Julia Underwood 2015
Julia Underwood has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
When considering what happened later, Eve realised that things would have been very different if it hadn’t been for the rain. She and Charlie would have gone out earlier, and the miserable, cold body of the brutally murdered girl would have been found long before they had walked home. The universal opinion that the death was of little importance – just another tragedy added to the myriad tragedies that War had brought – meant that Eve would never have been involved; would never have had her life changed beyond recognition.
Earlier that afternoon, before that murder first came to light, Eve was sat at home. She stirred the puny fire with the poker and saw that she would soon have to go outside for more coal. Where did it all go? The chilly August and the tension that everyone is under must make us feel cold. She sometimes wondered why she had chosen this damp, squalid basement to live in but, despite its drawbacks, she loved it.
The best part of thirty years had passed before she escaped the stifling stranglehold of home. Many battles were fought before she finally broke to freedom.
‘Why d’you want to leave us, Evie?’ her mother had asked over and over; hurt bafflement colouring her voice. ‘Aren’t you happy here? A little dab of a girl on your own. It isn’t natural, it isn’t safe. What will the neighbours say? Stay and someone is sure to marry you, if you don’t let on what a temper you’ve got.’
‘I’m not a baby any more, Mum. I have no intention of sitting around waiting for someone to marry me.’
Eve’s strong will prevailed and, a couple of years ago, before War was declared at the end of 1939, she moved to these two rooms in Shepherd’s Bush. The family’s bewilderment was palpable, but they finally accepted her wilful independence. No-one stood against Eve’s persuasive tongue for long.
‘If it’s what you want, Evie,’ said her father with a wheeze, legacy of gas damage in the Great War. ‘We won’t stand in your way, love.’
Mum stood aside, biting her lip, harsh words held back behind clenched teeth. All her three girls had fled the nest and the loss rankled.
Now Eve sank into the plush of the old sofa, reclaimed from Mum when she threatened to chuck it out.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Eve. ‘There’s life left in that old thing, the springs are fine. I’ll have it for my place.’
She’d got Charlie to bring it over from Wembley in the back of his brother’s van. With a bright knitted blanket, courtesy of her industrious sister Grace, and a couple of cushions, it looked almost stylish; comfy anyway. Her little terrier, Jake, snuggled up beside her and gazed with eloquent eyes full of adoration and pleading. It must be time for a walk, he seemed to be saying.
Boring, wet Sunday. Restlessness impelled her to pace the room and Jake followed hopefully at her heels. It was not a lengthy circuit as the room measured barely twelve feet each way and that was taken up by the sofa, an armchair, a bookcase and Aunty Vi’s old sideboard; the repository of Eve’s chipped crockery and other paraphernalia.
Even on the brightest day little sunshine penetrated the room whose only window was high on one wall. Through it you could see only a cast iron railing and the brisk ankles of people passing by outside. Then every evening, as daylight faded, Eve was obliged to arrange the mandatory blackout curtains over the windows, sealing every crack where a chink of light might escape and alert the enemy.
Why did she feel so uneasy? It wasn’t just the weather. This was her day off, why couldn’t she relax and enjoy it? It may have been boredom; life was not exciting. But that was ridiculous. They were at war and everyone lived in constant fear. Since Dunkirk in June and the rescue of the army from the French beaches, the population had been under threat of German invasion. Fear stalked the streets and here, in darkest Shepherds Bush, things were no different. On the East coast, particularly in Kent, with fighter aircraft skirmishing overhead daily, the threat was even more apparent.
September the first today and the war wasn’t ‘phoney’ anymore, real danger tainted the air. The population had to always carry gas masks. Ugly concrete communal shelters had sprung up in the streets since March, in preparation for air raids. They were intended for people caught in the streets when an attack started. So far they hadn’t been needed, but everyone expected something to happen soon. Now and then the shriek of the siren being tested split the air, followed shortly by the all clear signal, but it was nerve-wracking nonetheless.
None of this explained Eve’s dissatisfaction. With a well-paid job - four hundred pounds a year - she should be happy. The Post Office, for whom she had worked for years, had appointed her supervisor in the Censor Section at Mount Pleasant. She oversaw the opening of mountains of letters scrutinised daily. The staff obliterated passages in thick black ink that might be useful to the enemy. Eve knew that she would never have been given such a responsible job in peacetime.
Women repeated the daftest things in letters to boyfriends, about the aircraft they had seen and where their cousins’ regiments were being posted. It was demanding, fascinating work and Eve felt that she was contributing something to the war effort.
She heard feet on the basement steps. Jake’s head shot up and inclined to one side with a tiny whine. Who was that on a wet Sunday?
‘Oi! Evie! It’s me,’ a voice shouted from the enclosed area by her door.
‘It’s open, Charlie, come on in.’
In a few moments Charlie Spalding strode into the room, bending his head to clear the door frame and bringing with him boundless energy. Jake greeted him, all wriggling body and wagging stub of tail.
‘Blimey, Evie, it’s raining stair-rods out there,’ Charlie said, shaking drops off his gabardine raincoat like a dog and removing his hat, which shed yet more water onto the floor. Charlie had style, even dripping wet. A silk scarf was tied around his neck and his expensive shoes were burnished. The effect was somewhat spoiled by his darkly piratical looks and five o’clock shadow.
‘Don’t mind me visitin’, do you? You on yer own?’ He peered around as if someone might be hiding.
Eve grinned, happy to see him. ‘Yes. Thanks, Charlie. Pete was here, but he went at lunchtime; afternoon shift. Try not to get the rug too wet, could you?’
Charlie nodded idly, making a ‘don’t care’ face. Pete was Eve’s boyfriend and Charlie didn’t like his profession of Police Sergeant, though he didn’t mind earning a few bob from him when he could. Use people and make money where you can, was Charlie’s motto. He removed the wet coat and draped it over the fireguard.
‘You wanna go for a pint? The Bush is open soon and I’m gasping.’
Perhaps that’s what I need, thought Eve, to spend time with friendly faces, have a laugh and a natter. The walk might help too; I could do with some fresh air.
‘Righto. But it’s only half past five, a while till opening. Have a cuppa and tell me what you’ve been doing. Nothing I couldn’t tell Mum, I hope.’
‘Give me a break, Evie. What could I be up to on a rainy Sunday afternoon?’
‘Well, knowing you,’ Eve said, moving towards the kitchen and putting the kettle on, ‘you could find mischief almost any time.’ She pushed aside the breakfast things cluttering the wooden draining board. Her tea ration was depleted, there wouldn’t be any more for a week; so much for a spoonful each and one for the pot.
‘Once you enjoyed mischief. Remember going down the market Saturdays and pinching apples? And the sweets from Woolworths till they got that manager with the eagle eyes?’ Charlie leaned against the doorframe with Jake in his arms, ruffling the dog’s ears.
‘We were just kids then, Charlie, and there wasn’t a War on. You’ll be in the shit if you get up to anything now – they’ll bang you inside, or worse, send you to the Front.’
Charlie quailed at the thought. He had blagged his way out of conscription because of his rotten eyesight, flat feet or breathing difficulties, depending on whom he was explaining his absence from the Army to. He worked as anything from a market stallholder to a bookie’s runner, keeping his eyes and ears open for snippets of information he could sell to the coppers. Nowadays his activities were legal and the police prized him as a valuable source of intelligence. New, previously unheard of crimes had sprung up like weeds. Black market traders, dealing in illegally acquired rationed goods, were everywhere, as well as suspicious characters, possibly enemy spies or just dishonest refugees from countries overrun by the Germans. London teemed with strangers, refugees, evacuees and itinerant servicemen.
Charlie felt no sense of guilt for his absence from the battlefields. He was proud of joining his Uncle Len in his cutter crossing the Channel at the beginning of June. They rescued ten survivors from the Normandy beaches amidst a terrifying barrage of artillery fire, somehow managing to get everyone home in one piece. He knew that eventually he would be forced to be more useful in the war. For now he hoped for the best.
Eve put the tea tray down. The fire had found a spark and sent feeble warmth into the room.
‘Could you get some coal, Charlie, when you’ve had your tea? There’s a new delivery in the shed.’
The coal hole was in the basement area beside Eve’s front door, next to a cupboard where she kept her bicycle and stuff she didn’t want indoors.
Charlie sipped his tea. ‘In a mo’. It’s a bit early for a fire, init? It’s only just September. You’ll run out before the winter.’
‘They say they’ll be rationing coal soon because there won’t be enough miners to dig it up and then it’ll all be needed for the ships and power stations,’ said Eve. ‘We may as well enjoy it while we can.’
‘Nah. War’ll be over before that happens. We’ll have them Nazis on the run once we get back to France.’
Eve regarded him doubtfully, wishing she had his faith. The Battle for Britain was not prospering and Mr Churchill thought they could expect bombing soon. How long would they last, isolated from the rest of the world and with the Germans knocking at the door? They might all starve to death if things went badly. Who could they expect to rescue them? The Americans didn’t look as if they would, as they had no interest in the War. All the European allies had capitulated to the Nazis, except for struggling Russia. What hope did poor England have against such a mighty enemy?
Eve put the fireguard around the hearth. Charlie and she put on coats and hats and ventured into the street, where the rain had eased. Eve wore brown corduroy trousers, a hand-knitted jumper, Grace again, and a slick waterproof like those worn by fishermen, topped off with a woollen hat pulled over her ginger curls. They strolled to the Green and into the welcoming Bush pub, with Jake prancing beside them. As they opened the door the ghosts of a million cigarettes escaped into Shepherd’s Bush.
Jake curled up by the fire, while Charlie bought the drinks. Eve had taken to drinking beer. She didn’t much like it and made a pint last. But other tipples had become expensive and scarce. She had not been brought up in a household where alcohol was consumed regularly. Some drinks sat in the oak sideboard from one Christmas to the next, sacrosanct. The suggestion that a glass of something stronger than orange juice might be supplied met with dismay.
‘Are you feeling poorly, love? Coming down with a cold?’
So, medicinal purposes only.
The rain had eased off by the time they waved goodbye, leaving The Bush at 8.30.
‘See you soon,’ Bill, the landlord, shouted.
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ some wag yelled from the bar.
‘Cheerio!’ called Eve, ignoring that last remark as they stepped into the street and she slapped her hat onto her head. ‘Everyone thinks we’re a couple,’ she said to Charlie.
‘Well, no wonder. You spend more time with me than with Pete.’
Eve couldn’t dispute this. Pete visited twice a week, his shifts permitting, and even then he often left Eve’s warm bed at 5.30 am. At least he worked at the local police station and didn’t have to travel across London. Charlie was her best friend and always had been. He may have been a good-looking devil, but there had never been a hint of romance between them. They knew each other far too well and too long, having shared a desk at Stonebridge Park Elementary School for years. He was the reason she had chosen Shepherd’s Bush, because he also lived here, in a room above a barber’s shop on the Uxbridge Road.
Eve tucked her hand into Charlie’s elbow. The top of her bright head barely reached his shoulder and she trotted to keep up with his long strides. Typically, he didn’t slow down to accommodate her. The rain had almost stopped and through the remaining drizzle they heard a disturbance ahead. Curious, they hurried towards the sound.
Near the corner of Shepherds Bush Road, where an alleyway joined the street, a group of people was arguing loudly.
‘I told you not to touch her,’ a voice niggled.
‘But she looked so cold; sitting there with her dress all rode up like that,’ said a woman. ‘I only tried to pull it down a bit.’
Even someone with less curiosity than Eve would have stopped to discover what was going on. She could not resist it.
Eve and Charlie reached the group and peered into the gloomy alleyway. Jake strained on his lead, pulling them forward.
‘Calm down, Jake,’ she said, handing the lead to Charlie.
Behind a dustbin to their left, a young girl was seated on the ground, her back propped against the fence that marked the rear boundary of someone’s garden. She didn’t look a day over twenty, maybe because she was so pale, and utterly still. Her clothes were dark with water and her head, the long hair soaked, hung forward over her chest. Her cheeks were white as her blouse. The bare legs stretched out in front looked almost blue in the dim light and, as the woman said, her thin cotton skirt was pulled up to the top of her thighs, almost exposing her knickers. How forlorn and vulnerable she looked; how cold.
Eve moved forward, struck by fascination and compassion. Who could have left this poor girl like a discarded parcel, as if she was of no account at all? Charlie followed, holding Jake in his arms.
‘Do you think it’s a murder?’ a woman asked.
‘Hard to tell. Some doctor will be able to say I expect.’
‘Is she even dead?’ someone whispered behind them.
‘Yea, I think she must be,’ said Charlie, bending down and running his fingers gently across the girl’s cheek, ‘she’s stone cold, poor kid.’
‘How’d she die?’ asked Eve. ‘I can’t see anything wrong with her. Except... well, except for her being here like this.’
‘Dunno,’ said Charlie, standing and addressing the gathering. ‘Has anyone sent for the police?’
The group had diminished to three people; several had gone, probably not wanting to get involved.
‘No, mate, didn’t want to walk to the Police Station in the rain. I didn’t think it was that important.’
Charlie shook his head, exasperated. ‘Bloody hell, mate, that’s the first thing you should have done instead of standing around talking. Eve, you stay here with the body. I’ll run across the Green to the Station. Don’t let anyone else touch her.’
Eve stood near the girl, scanning the ground around her body. The cobbles shone in the meagre light, slick with muddy water. Almost nothing marred the surface of the alleyway – everything had been washed away in the storm. She saw a couple of cigarette butts, a discarded bus ticket and a waxed Sharps toffee paper caught in the weeds at the base of the fence, but nothing else. The odour coming from the dustbin was unpleasantly ripe. She wished someone would hurry and cover the poor girl’s legs; she looked so cold and abandoned. How long had she been there? Surely she would have been found earlier if it wasn’t for the rain; everyone must have been indoors, trying to keep warm. Why had this poor creature come out alone on such a horrible evening so inadequately dressed?
Then Eve thought: no, she wouldn’t have been alone; there must have been someone with her – the person who had killed her.