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 will 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?
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.’
‘No idea, Miss Duncan, but I’ll ask Dad when I see him later. She was such a pretty girl. What a waste.’
‘Did you ever see her yourself, Mr Drummond? As you thought she was so pretty?’ Eve said, again trying to blunt the question with a cheeky grin. She didn’t want him to think he was a suspect, though, of course, he could be.
‘Yeah. She was pleasant enough, for a foreign girl. Not my type really; a little too exotic, if you know what I mean.’
To Eve this sounded like typical Londoner’s xenophobia. Some young men did not want to get mixed up with the foreign girls that had descended on London since the invasion of countries in Europe. She wasn’t sure if their aversion was a good thing or not.
‘Well, thank you, Mr Drummond. I won’t take up any more of your time.’ Eve turned towards the door. ‘But please ask your dad if he knows any men who were particularly friendly with Zoya.’
‘Any time,’ he paused, ‘...I don’t suppose you’d like to come for a drink with me later?’
‘No thanks. My boyfriend’s taking me to the Palais. See you around.’ She gave a friendly wave as she left, catching a glimpse of his disappointed face.
It was nearly six and Pete was to pick her up at 7.30. They usually had a drink in the pub before walking into Hammersmith. She hurried home to prepare, put on her glad rags, sadly not as glamorous as Zoya’s, but the best she had.
By seven thirty, primped and polished and wearing a swirling black skirt, a tight pink top and a pair of high heeled shoes for a change, she was ready. Pete arrived promptly and waited, cheerful and happy on her hearthrug as she put on her jacket. Such a good, solid citizen, Eve thought. This is what I need, someone steady to look after me. At the back of her mind something was telling her that that would not be very exciting, but she suppressed the thought ruthlessly.
‘At least it’s not raining,’ said Pete. ‘God, it’s good to have a night off. I seem to have been on duty forever.’
With the staff shortage, shifts at the police station were longer than ever and double shifts were often a necessity. Pete had been victim to this and fatigue lined his homely face but had done little to suppress his cheerful nature.
Eve hugged his arm to her as they climbed to the pavement.
‘We’ll have a good time, love, and try to forget about work, murders and wrongdoers; even lost dogs. We might forget about invasion, if we’re lucky.’
‘We will, darlin’,’ said Pete, but he still insisted on hearing all the details of Zoya’s murder over a drink.
‘Boy, Evie, are you sure you want to be mixed up in all this? Your Mum’s right, you know, it could be dangerous.’
Eve dismissed his warning. ‘It’s more fun than wading through paper at Mount Pleasant.’
Mr Weismann, the owner of the pawnbroker’s shop, was playing chess in the back bar. Eve wondered if he might know anything about the emblem she had seen on Simon Parkes’s cigarette case. It was the sort of thing he might recognise in his line of business. But it would have to wait; she wasn’t going to let the residents of the PRC spoil her evening.
On their way to the Palais they passed near the PRC building. Eve saw Major Parkes hurrying out. He was moving fast for a man with a wounded leg. She was tempted to yell a greeting, but stopped as he stepped into a large black car. There were several other men inside, but Eve couldn’t see them clearly. Where could Major Parkes be going? Perhaps he was visiting that club he had told her about.
As the evening was fine it didn’t take long to reach the Palais. Eve and Pete chose Wednesdays because the dancehall was less busy than Friday or Saturday nights. The polished floor was not thronging with barely moving dancers. By the time they arrived the evening was well under way. Dancers came early and left soon after ten as they had work the next day.
How lovely it was to see everyone dressed up and enjoying themselves, somehow managing to forget the threat from across the Channel and the aerial battles going on over the east coast in ‘The Battle of Britain’, as Winnie called it. Everyone was convinced that Britain would prevail, the alternative was unthinkable.
The band, loud with brass and rhythm, charged Eve’s mood and she grabbed Pete around the waist and dragged him to the floor. A glitter ball rotated in the warm air, casting a sparkling pattern over the revellers as they swirled into the crowd. Eve spotted Charlie in the distance, whirling one of his sparkling blondes around with abandon.
‘Come on, Pete. There’s no time to waste. Let’s enjoy ourselves while we can.’
That seemed to be the philosophy of everyone present; the rich perfume of hedonism was in the air and no-one was going to be sad tonight. Soon everything might be very different.
After a characteristically brief interlude of love-making, Pete was asleep on his back. His mouth gaped and his breath whickered noisily; not quite a snore, but nearly.
Eve scrutinised him closely in the thin spear of light peeking through a gap in the blackout curtains. He had rather too much body hair for her taste, but he was very sweet. What he lacked in sexual skill he certainly made up for in enthusiasm, even if it was short-lived. A memory of a poem they had read at school crossed her mind. Something about ... “He no Orpheus and she no Eurydice”. Well that was true, neither of them would be much competition in a beauty contest.
Eve sighed. Was this what she wanted? A nice, safe lad to settle down with. Mum would approve. With a steady job, Pete was likely to go far if Eve prodded his latent ambition. But she couldn’t help feeling that she’d prefer someone a little more exciting, more daring; someone to have adventures with.
She went and made herself a cup of tea before returning to bed and snuggling close to Pete’s warm body. Before dozing off she reviewed everything she knew about Zoya’s death and reminded herself of things she needed to find out. How did Miss Archer know that Zoya was pregnant? What had happened to Zoya’s personal possessions, her handbag and papers, and why had Anna looked guilty when asked if the girls knew who Zoya’s boyfriend was? Did she know more than she wanted to tell?
She planned to visit the PRC again to see if she could find out anything from Miss Archer. With luck she might bump into the major; that would brighten her day. If she discovered anything new she would see Inspector Reed later.
Pete left early. His sleepy face greeted Eve with a cup of tea into which he seemed to have shovelled the last of her sugar ration.
‘Good God, Pete! You know I don’t like it sweet.’
‘Sorry, love. I thought it would help wake you up.’
‘What time is it?’ Eve scanned her watch blearily. ‘Christ, it’s only six. Go away. I can get another hour’s kip.’
Pete had dressed in uniform, which he had brought with him the evening before so he didn’t have to go home before work. He dropped an awkwardly aimed kiss on Eve’s face. Minutes later she heard the front door slam and she turned over again. But Jake decided it was time for a walk, so she had no choice but to get dressed. The dog danced around her feet whilst she completed her rudimentary toilette.
Early sun was lighting the Green except where the barrage balloon sailing overhead cast a looming shadow. Eve watched as a party of men winched the device to the ground from the back of the lorry and started to refill the top half from a tank of hydrogen. This had to be done every day to keep the thing in the air as the gas gradually leaked away. These huge contraptions, each covering an area the size of a football field when deflated, were designed to stop enemy bombers from flying too low. Eve had heard that there were about fourteen hundred in all, over London and other cities throughout England. She considered them a stately sight, but they did cut out the sunlight.
After walking Jake around the Green, she returned home and dressed for work. She couldn’t think what she was going to do today that would advance the case, but she hoped to spin the job out long enough so she didn’t have to go to Mount Pleasant for the rest of the week. Today was Thursday. Surely she could find enough to occupy her until Saturday. Who knows, she might even discover something that would help find the killer.
There was something to do, but it was not welcome.
‘Ah, yes, Miss Duncan,’ said Inspector Reed, unusually distracted and vague. ‘I need a report of everything you’ve found so far. Typed by the end of today, please, two copies. Sergeant Godfrey will show you which typewriter to use. I’m out for the day.’
He put on his cap, strode from the police station and stepped into the waiting black Wolseley, the headlights covered with the mandatory tube-like masks to minimise the beam during the blackout.
Eve groaned; she hated typing. At Mount Pleasant, when there was any, she was senior enough to delegate it to one of her girls. Still, though rather slow, she was capable of the task. She found Sergeant Godfrey, who took her to a desk holding a heavy-looking Olivetti machine in the general office. Some men were working there, but they ignored her after a casual greeting. Pete was at Hammersmith today, so she couldn’t even pass the time of day with him.