Murders in the Blitz (11 page)
The muted welcome that Eve received at the dairy the next morning seemed to indicate that they weren’t happy to see her. A sharp frost the night before meant that there was still a chill in the air at eight o’clock and the breath of the horses in their stalls fogged the air. Eve had arrived early because she hoped to catch as many of the staff as possible before they went home or to their day jobs if they had them.
Eve drew herself up to her full five foot two inches, wishing she could stand on a chair to make herself more imposing, but feeling that this might be too much. She didn’t want to intimidate them into silence. As it was, much whispering was going on behind hands and, after she’d explained who she represented and why she was there, the dairy staff’s attitude did not improve. Within minutes Eve came to the conclusion that these people had something to hide. She had arranged for the men, and a couple of women, to gather in the manager’s cramped office.
Eve plunged in as she did not feel that she had any alternative. Better get on with it, she thought.
‘When did any of you last see Malcolm?’ she asked.
The men shuffled their booted feet and rubbed their hands together to ward off the cold. Some folded their hands across their chests, still wearing their long white milkmen’s aprons, clearly wishing to fend off this stranger’s questions. A malodorous and ineffective paraffin stove spewed fumes but little heat into the restricted space. No-one answered Eve’s question. She noticed that many of the men were over forty at least and no longer liable for military service; at twenty-one Malcolm must have been the youngest of them. The two women were probably unmarried and this was their contribution to the war effort. Everyone was expected to do something to help.
‘You do know that he hasn’t been seen since early yesterday morning, don’t you? He abandoned his float in the street and disappeared.’ Eve had a feeling that she wasn’t going to get much out of this lot.
‘Maybe someone’s finally got the little toe rag,’ a gloomy voice from the back of the room suggested.
‘Perhaps someone’s topped him,’ said another.
‘Good bloody riddance,’ was another vehement comment.
An atmosphere of malevolence tainted the room.
‘We don’t know that Malcolm’s dead,’ said Eve. ‘He’s just down as a missing person. I’m trying to find him. I thought one of you might have an idea of what’s happened to him.’
The manager came to her aid. ‘I don’t think any of the men have seen him since he came to get his horse and milk early yesterday and loaded up. It was bloody parky so everyone was working fast to get away. That would be at about half past two – a.m. that is.’
Eve shuddered at the thought of such an early, cold start to the working day.
‘We all go in different directions then you see, miss, so we only speak to each other when we come back to the depot after our deliveries and see to the horses before going home. Malcolm often comes in later than the rest of us. He has other fish to fry.’
This information was greeted with subdued laughter and glances full of meaning and malice. It was clear to Eve that Malcolm was not popular with his work mates and she wondered what he had done to upset them all. She doubted if he had a friend amongst this disgruntled crowd. Still, she didn’t think she’d have a very good temper if she had to get up so early every morning.
‘He was probably held up by his sugar delivery,’ a voice piped up.
‘Ssh!’ said another. ‘Don’t tell her that.’
Eve couldn’t see who had spoken, but this nugget of intelligence was just the sort of thing she was looking for.
‘What sugar delivery? Was Malcolm selling sugar?’
‘Now you’ve done it, Fred. The young lady’s from the cops don’t forget.’
The manager looked embarrassed and as if he wished the speaker had not mentioned the sugar. It looked to Eve as if nefarious dealings were going on amongst the local milkmen. The selling of rationed goods to residents at inflated prices had gathered momentum recently, since shortages began to bite. Sugar, along with bacon and butter had been rationed since January of 1940, over a year now. Food stores were often broken into and sugar waiting for despatch to the shops was stolen from warehouses. A vigorous black market economy had sprung up and people desperate for scarce commodities were prepared to pay over the odds for them. A milkman would be ideally placed to distribute goods to his customers as he visited their homes on a regular basis. In some ways Eve couldn’t help admiring Malcolm’s enterprise, even though the activity was illegal, probably traitorous, and carried a heavy fine or even imprisonment if he was caught. I wonder where he got his supplies from, thought Eve. She had better find out more details.
‘Was Malcolm selling black market sugar?’ A direct question seemed the best approach.
‘Yes, miss. Well, it’s no secret now is it? Might as well tell her,’ the man excused himself to his mates. ‘He’s been doing it for some time now – makes a bit of extra that way.’
‘He’s probably saving to get a little home of his own.’
‘Where does he live now?’ asked Eve. ‘I’ll have to go round and see if he’s been home.’
‘He lives with his mum. He doesn’t need his own place, he’s got hers. She’s ill – handicapped in some way. That’s his excuse for not being in the Army, compassionate grounds they call it – said he had to stay to look after her.’
‘Yeah, but now the little bastard’s put her in a home, ain’t he? No excuse now not to be at the Front, strapping lad like him. His dad died years ago. He would never have stood for it.’
Now that they had started the men seemed unable to stop talking and were now bombarding Eve with information about Malcolm, most of it negative.
‘And what about you now, Jack?’ one of the men turned to another, a burly taciturn chap at the back. ‘You’ve had problems with him, ain’t you?’
‘I don’t want to talk about that, thank you, Dave. It’s not something to discuss in front of everyone.’
Eve made a mental note to question Jack when everyone else was out of the way. He clearly knew something that did not put Malcolm in a good light; she needed to get to the bottom of it. Perhaps it would be better for her to talk to some of them individually; she might get more out of them that way. So far it seemed that Malcolm was not the cheerful, obliging chap that she had been led to believe. Several people here obviously had grudges against him.
‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. There are a few more questions I have for you. If you don’t mind, I’ll get your names and addresses from your manager and I may come to talk to you at home.’
The milkmen murmured assent as they wandered away from the office to feed and tend their horses before leaving for the day. Later the animals would be released to graze in the meadow down by the river. Eve thanked the manager for his help, saying that she would be back when she had made further enquiries at Malcolm’s home. Putting the list of employees’ names and addresses into her handbag, she returned to Shepherd’s Bush.
*
Malcolm’s mum rented a two up - one down terraced cottage in Arminger Road. The exterior woodwork was in dire need of a lick of paint. That was unlikely to happen for a while because decent paint was already in short supply and reserved for essential work connected with the War. With houses being demolished by bombs almost on a daily basis it hardly seemed worthwhile to maintain intact property that could be destroyed at any time.
Eve tapped on the door using the tarnished knocker fashioned in the shape of a lion’s head. When there was no reply she banged on the door panels with more force and shouted through the letterbox. The neighbour must have heard her bellowing because a woman in a floral wraparound pinafore came to her front door and addressed Eve in quelling tones.
‘There’s no-one in, you know. She’s gone. Taken to the workhouse to die,’ she said with dark relish. ‘That son of hers got rid of her as soon as he could and now he’s gorn off.’
‘Oh, I thought she was in some sort of nursing home.’
‘Hmm. That’s as maybe. Gone to die anyway, I shouldn’t wonder. Poor Dot.’
‘I’m looking for Malcolm, her son.’
‘Not seen him for days; hardly ever do. He’s a bit of a dark horse, that one. Always off all times of day and night. Mighty strange I call it.’
‘Well, he is a milkman, Mrs ...?’
‘Williams. Possibly, but he comes in late too. All hours I’ve seen him coming home. Not always alone, neither.’ She gave a meaningful nod, full of insinuation and spite.
Eve saw no reason to continue discussing Malcolm’s movements with this woman. She obviously hadn’t seen Malcolm since he last left for his milk round. ‘Well, thank you Mrs. Williams. You’ve been most helpful,’ she said with as much sincerity as she could muster while she prepared to move away.
‘And who might you be, miss? Snooping around like this, asking questions.’
Eve decided not to give her the satisfaction of further information. ‘I’m here on official business, Mrs Williams.’
‘Ooh,’ said the woman, her eyes lighting up with curiosity. ‘What’s that then?’
‘Nothing I can talk about,’ said Eve. Let her make what she likes of that, she thought with an inward chuckle as she turned to leave for the police station to report to Inspector Reed. She thought how unsatisfactory it was to have gleaned so little useful information, except for the black market sugar, of course, that was something new. She hoped the Inspector wouldn’t be disappointed.
As it turned out Inspector Reed wasn’t at all surprised by her lack of progress when Eve managed to see him later that afternoon, after going home for a lunch of beans on toast and a quick dash round the block with Jake.
‘Don’t worry Miss Duncan, we often find that in cases like this the missing person has just gone off somewhere with a girlfriend.’ His breezy tone implied that he wasn’t too concerned about Malcolm.
‘But it seems strange that he would go off in the middle of his milk round.’
‘Yes, that is odd. Never mind. Keep asking questions and I’m sure he’ll turn up before long.’
Eve told the inspector about the contraband sugar distributed by Malcolm in the course of his rounds. Reed didn’t seem at all bothered by this.
‘Oh, he’s one of those, is he?’ he said with his customary dour delivery and a shake of his head. ‘Out for the main chance. There’s a lot of it about; that and the deserters. Did you know that there’re thousands of them out there?’
‘Crikey, are there? How do they manage to live?’ Eve asked. ‘Don’t they need an Identity Card and a ration book?’
‘Oh, there are plenty of those floating around, stolen or forged. The villains are getting really good at it and it’s a lucrative business. The deserters just find a place to hide and hope to see out the war out, or they turn to crime. Most of them would rather be in prison than in the Army; less risk of being killed. Anyway, the forces don’t want them back once they’ve got a criminal record.’
All this came as a complete surprise to Eve. The general public had not been made aware that desertion was so rife. Probably to stop others coming up with the same idea, she thought. They couldn’t have too many men copping out of conscription or there’d be no-one left to fight the Germans.
Inspector Reed reached for his phone. ‘Carry on, Miss Duncan. I suggest you go and visit the mother. You say she wasn’t at home? Did you say the neighbour told you she’d been moved to a hospital or nursing home? Try to see where she’s gone; she may know something.’
Eve left his office, worry nagging at her. She didn’t want to distress Malcolm’s mother by telling her he was missing, especially if she was ill enough to be in hospital. What could she say to reassure her? Eve had to find the woman first and she wasn’t even sure what her surname was.
She drew the dairy manager’s list out of her handbag and studied it. Malcolm Miller, that was the lad’s surname. Miller was a fairly common name. She hoped it wouldn’t take her too long to track Malcolm’s mother down. Perhaps she had better try the inquisitive neighbour, Mrs Williams, first. If anyone knew where Mrs Miller had been taken it would be her.
Eve strolled back to Arminger Road and knocked on Mrs Williams’s door. It was opened, after a short delay, by a transformed vision. Mrs Williams was obviously on her way out to somewhere where she wanted to look her best. Her dark hair had been coaxed into stiff, gleaming waves, giving her head the look of a shiny ploughed field. The pinafore had been discarded and replaced by a tight- fitting frock over what was presumably a substantial underpinning of corsetry. A riot of makeup plastered her plain face, including a liberal application of lipstick, eye shadow and mascara that she must have saved up since before the start of the war as there was none available in the shops nowadays.
Eve tried to sustain a neutral expression and not show the amazement that was threatening to overwhelm her face.
‘Good evening, Mrs Williams. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Oh, it’s you. I’m on my way out. There’s a whist drive at the Church Hall; so long as there’s not a raid. Always being disturbed by raids, we are. There’s nothing I can help you with, I’m sure. And besides,’ she shrugged elaborately, as if to realign the straps of her underwear, ‘I don’t see why I should help you; you’re working with the police. I don’t speak to coppers and I don’t see why I should talk to you. My Bert always said...’
Eve had no wish to hear what her Bert had always said and forestalled Mrs Williams’s revelations. ‘I can see you’re about to go out, Mrs Williams. I have just one quick question. Do you by any chance know where Mrs Miller has gone? What nursing home she went to?’
Mrs William’s face softened an iota. ‘Poor Dot. That boy should be shot, sending her off like that. He’s supposed to be looking after her. That’s why he’s not in the Forces, you know.’
‘Yes, Mrs Williams, I’ve heard. But do you know where she’s gone?’
‘Some place in Fulham. She did tell me, in case I might visit some time. But I don’t see how I can, what with me war work and everything, and looking after the house and all the queuing you have to do nowadays to get so much as a morsel of food...’
Once more Eve interrupted the voluble diatribe.
‘Yes, I know it must be difficult, but do you know where she is exactly?’
‘Wait a minute and I’ll pop inside. I’ve got it written down somewhere. Somewhere in Fulham...’ She continued to speak, but her voice faded as she disappeared into the house.
Eve was left standing on the doorstep for another five minutes before Mrs Williams reappeared with a used envelope in her hand.
‘Here it is. I wrote it on the back of the electricity bill. It’s terrible how much it costs nowadays. And the gas too. I’m putting shillings in the meter every five minutes. My Bert would never have believed it possible.’
Eve held out her hand and the envelope was thrust into it.
‘Can I keep this or shall I write it down?’
‘You can keep it, dearie. I won’t be going. I don’t have the time, you see, what with all the things I have to; all my responsibilities and the terrible trouble I’ve had with my knees...’
By now Eve had left, but the garrulous catalogue of excuses followed her to the corner of the street. Having made her escape she paused to look at the straggling scribble on the envelope – St.Brabas, Flhm Pk Rd. - it read in a wavering, uneducated hand. Eve hoped she could make sense of the abbreviations, but at least it was some sort of an address. She’d need to catch a bus to get there, but it shouldn’t take long. It was after five and she hoped it wasn’t too late to visit Mrs Miller; didn’t they put patients to bed early in those places?
It didn’t take long to get to Fulham Park Road and, by walking briskly up the street from the bus stop she soon found the imposing Victorian building with wrought iron gates that was Saint Barnabas Nursing Home. A quietly spoken young nun in a spotless apron greeted her at the door and reassured Eve that it was not too late to visit.
‘You’ll find Mrs Miller in the Day Room with some of her friends.’ She pointed along the gloomy corridor to a room near the end from which leaked the sound of the wireless. It was the early evening news, turned up rather loud, with the familiar voice of the newsreader telling of a battle near a place called Tobruk, somewhere in North Africa.
Eve worried. What was she going to tell the poor woman? She didn’t want to distress her unnecessarily, but she had to find out if Malcolm’s mother had any idea where he might have got to. She straightened her shoulders and approached the brightly lit room.
A group of men and women were seated in armchairs in a rough circle around the wireless, a large modern affair in a shiny walnut casing. The blackout curtains were already secured at the tall windows and a gas fire was fending off the evening chill. The mixed odour of warm wool, carbolic and toast filled the air. The group’s attention was so fiercely directed towards the wireless that they did not notice Eve coming into the room. During a pause in the newsreader’s narrative Eve cleared her throat with more force than was normal, to make herself heard, and several heads turned towards her. The faces showed little surprise or alarm, only mild curiosity.
‘Oh, hello dear. Are you looking for someone?’ one of the men asked.
‘Good evening. I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Mrs Miller.’
‘Here I am, dear.’ A head turned slightly towards Eve. It was obvious that this movement caused the owner of the head considerable discomfort.
Eve had expected an elderly woman, but the woman that she introduced herself to could not have been much over forty. She supposed that made sense as Malcolm was only 21; she must have had him young soon after the end of the Great War. She had obviously once been a pretty woman and full of life. But illness had diminished Mrs Miller and her fleshless bones appeared to have melted into the many cretonne-covered cushions supporting her in her chair. Even the slightest movement seemed to cause her pain. Pity and guilt assaulted Eve for disturbing this poor sick creature.
‘I’m so sorry to bother you, Mrs Miller, but I need to talk to you for a moment. It’s about your son, Malcolm.’ Eve spoke as gently as she could.
‘Oh, dear. What’s he been up to now?’
The rest of the group had moved away slightly to give Eve and Dot Miller some privacy.
‘I’m very sorry, but he seems to be missing. I’m helping the police look for him and we thought you might have some idea where he might be.’
A fleeting frown crossed the woman’s face. ‘Oh, don’t worry dear, he’s always doing this kind of thing. I could never keep track of him when he was a lad. He was often up to no good. Disappeared for days sometimes, he did, off with his friends. It was even worse after his dad died. He’ll turn up like a bad penny sooner or later. He always does.’
‘But he disappeared in the middle of his milk round. Left his horse and float to wander the streets.’
‘That doesn’t sound like him. He needs his job. I haven’t got money to support him. Not now I can’t work no more.’
‘We thought you might know where he had got to. Where he might go if he wanted to skive off.’
‘No, sorry, love. I don’t know all his secrets,’ Mrs Miller lowered her voice. ‘I know I shouldn’t tell you this, but I think he’s got mixed up with some of them black market folk that’s around now. He’s always been a bit bent, my Malcolm, ever since he was a lad. Could never resist an opportunity to nick something or turn someone over. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got into trouble with that lot.’
She didn’t seem to be particularly distressed by this possibility. Apparently Mrs Miller had washed her hands of her wayward son. She may well resent being hived off into this home, thought Eve, although it looked comfortable and the residents seemed to get on well together.
As if reading her thoughts, Mrs Miller went on, ‘I like it here. It’s quite cosy and we get fed well. The nuns are nice too, who’d have thought it? I’m not even religious. We’re all being moved in a day or two, evacuated to the country, away from the bombs. I can’t wait. They say it’s a lovely spot. Northamptonshire somewhere.’
‘I’ve never been there,’ said Eve as she stood up to leave. ‘I hope you’re all very happy with the move.’
She murmured her thanks to Mrs Miller and prepared to say goodbye.
‘Let me know what you find out, dear, about Malcolm. Ask him to come and see me if you like, though I don’t expect he will. He certainly won’t come to Northampton. Never mind, lovie.’
A moment of compassion caused Eve to lightly caress the sick woman’s arm and Mrs Miller clasped her hand in a firm grip. She appeared to feel the need to impart some reassurance.
‘Don’t you worry, love. He’ll turn up. Like I said, he always does.’