Without the Moon (7 page)

Her audience drew their breath in. Miss Moyes found her voice first. “And how did you come to know that?” she asked.

“An old friend of mine,” Duch smiled grimly, “is in charge of the Murder Squad. He was round our gaff last night asking questions. See, Lil heard some talk down the hairdresser's Tuesday morning, about an RAF man with a kink for blondes, nearly done a girl in the night before. She was so frightened, she was having her hair dyed dark brown. The two of us ran into Mr Swaffer soon after, so I had Lil tell him what she heard and then give our address to send for Ted Greenaway.”

Madame frowned. “I never knew you were friends with a policeman.”

“Well,” said Duch, “maybe ‘friends' ain't quite the right word for it. But my point is I've known Ted for donkey's. I know exactly what kind of a man he is. If anyone can catch this maniac, he …”

The sharp trill of the doorbell made all three women jump.

“Oh,” Miss Moyes's hand fluttered up to her chest. “Oh, I'd better see who that is.”

Madame turned to the Duchess. “So it wasn't Nina's boyfriend,” she said. “That is some kind of relief, I suppose. But do you really think your friend will catch the one who did this to her? It would mean a lot to me if he did.”

“You know the old saying?” said Duch. “Send a bastard to catch a bastard.”

The parlour door opened and Miss Moyes came back in, ushering a tall, nervous-looking woman in a grey coat and matching felt hat.

“Ladies, may I introduce Miss Maitland?” Miss Moyes said. “A friend of our dear Mr Swaffer's. She's come to offer her services to the refuge. Isn't that grand?”

– . –

Mari Lambouri left her flat at eleven o'clock for her first cleaning job of the day. As she locked her front door and turned towards her neighbour's, she noticed the postman had been and left a parcel outside Phyllis Lord's front door. She tutted to herself, imagining the woman would have been too fast asleep to hear him call, after the night she had no doubt had. Shaking her head, she went on her way.

10
YOU ALWAYS HURT THE ONE YOU LOVE

Thursday, 12 February 1942

The rest of the debris having been sifted through and discounted, Cherrill was left with a green propelling pencil and a pair of size-ten rubber-boot soles. He didn't hold out hope of the former being much use, but the latter were certainly of interest. Crammed into the tread were particles of dust and cement that brought his mind back in an instant to the scene of Evelyn Bourne's murder.

He rang Greenaway at Tottenham Court Road. “I'm sending them to the lab for analysis against the samples we took from the shelter at Montagu Place. If I remember rightly, the newspapers reported us finding footprints in the snow that morning, and if this fellow is as stealthy as you think he is …”

Greenaway, sat in front of a desk awash with statements taken from the prostitutes of Soho and Paddington, snapped the pencil he was holding clean in half.

“You beauty,” he said. “How long will that take?”

“Hard to say,” Cherrill glanced up at the clock on the wall in front of him. It was coming up to seven. “Even at top priority I'd be amazed if we got it back before the morning. There's just too few people with too many jobs to do.”

“Don't worry,” Greenaway's voice came back, “we can keep it up our sleeve for when I take the bastard in. Anything else?”

Cherrill picked up the propelling pencil and described it. “The sort of thing a sub-editor might use,” he concluded, “or a draughtsman.”

“Doubt Ivy'll recognise it, then,” said Greenaway. “But keep hold of it, anyway.”

The minute they had ended their conversation, another phone rang in Greenaway's office. This one wasn't a line from the Yard, but a private number he gave out to snouts, paid for out of his own pocket to ensure the confidence of his sources. The voice on the other end belonged to a member of a South London firm, who was not averse to a little cavort amongst the stalls of Berwick Street market when supply and demand required.

“Got some gen for you, Inspector,” he came straight to the point. “A girl I know reckons she can put the finger on this sex maniac you're after.”

“What,” said Greenaway, “shopping you at last, is she?”

“Oh very droll, Inspector, very droll. Nah, but seriously, she had a run-in with him on Piccadilly, night before last.”

“So did half the girls in London,” said Greenaway, eyeing the mound of paperwork before him, his afternoon spent sifting witness reports that concurred with Ivy's description, and still only halfway done. “What's she got to add I ain't heard before?”

“He's an airman, ain't he? RAF?”

Greenaway picked up the remains of his pencil. “That's what she says, is it?”

“Yeah, reckons she could pick him out of any line-up,” the voice went on. “She can even draw you a picture of him if you want. She's quite clever that way.”

“All right,” said Greenaway. “Send her down to Tottenham Court Road and I'll make sure I see her right away. What name she go by?”

“Ah, well, see … there's a bit of a problem with that.”

“Oh, really?” Greenaway put the jagged half into his desk sharpener, began to turn the handle.

“Well, she's a bit shy, ain't she?” the voice wheedled on. “She don't want to come down the West End, not after what happened. She don't feel safe, like what you said yourself in the paper yesterday. She asked if you could meet her somewhere local, where I can introduce you to her proper.”

“How local?” Greenaway's hand turned faster. “Your manor, I take it?”

“That's right, Inspector, the Effra Arms. You know it, dontcha?”

“Brixton,” said Greenaway. “Ain't you heard of petrol rationing, son?”

“But that don't apply to you gentlemen of the Yard, surely?” the voice feigned wonder. “And anyway, I thought you wanted this maniac behind bars, pronto?”

Greenaway picked the pencil back out and examined the sharpened lead, thinking. He had been about to go back to Abbey Lodge, bring Cummins in to parade in front of Ivy. But, if he were to try to overturn the evidence of the Corporal's passbook, it would strengthen his case to have another good witness he could use, regardless of what Cherrill might come up with. It was seven now, but the Corporal had promised to detain his suspects until he called and surely this wouldn't take that long?

“All right,” he said, “I'll be half an hour.” He put the pencil back into his pocket. “Tell her to start drawing.”

– . –

Duchess saw Lil's last client out and waited at the top of the stairs, making sure this one closed the door behind him. Then she went back to her empty parlour. Business was as dire tonight as it had been the evening before.

“It's like the
Marie Celeste
in here,” she called out. “Want a cuppa char while we're waiting?”

Lil opened her bedroom door, wrapped in her robe without bothering to wash up after herself, her mascara smudged on her cheeks and her hair a tangled mess. She picked up an ashtray from the table, but instead of taking a seat there, she plonked herself down on the loveseat, swivelling sideways to stretch her bare feet onto the upholstery.

Duch tried not to look askance as Lil placed the ashtray on her belly and produced her cigarettes and lighter from the pocket of her robe. Instead, she busied herself filling the kettle and spooning tea leaves into the pot. Even so, she couldn't help cringing as she heard the click of the flame igniting and imagined a shower of embers falling.

“Well how many have I done today?” Lil finally asked. “Four or five? Ain't that enough to keep us ticking over?”

Duch kept her eyes on the crockery. “'Course it is, love,” she said. “It's bitter out, and it's crawling with bogeys. That's what'll be keeping the regulars away.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it ain't just Tom, eh?” Lil clicked the lid of her lighter open and shut. “Maybe they've all gone right off me.”

“Oh, don't say that, love,” Duch was forced to look over at her now, to try to keep the recrimination from her eyes. Lil was staring at her mutinously.

“Don't keep dwelling on it,” Duch urged. “You don't know what he's doing out there, do you? You know how clever he is with the undercover work. He probably got chosen to go on some secret mission and he ain't allowed to write to no one.”

“So you keep saying,” Lil snapped the lid of her lighter shut and screwed out her cigarette. “You think I'm a baby, don't you? Well, what do you know? You and your bleedin' cards and your bleedin' tea leaves, you can stuff the lot of it. You don't know nuffink about real life, that's for sure.”

She stood up, smacked the ashtray back down on the table and stomped back to her room, slamming the door behind her.

– . –

Greenaway parked around the corner from the Effra Arms, on a residential street. The car pool at the station had been virtually empty and the Austin he had taken was not his usual marque, so he took the precaution of disabling the starting motor before he walked around the corner to the redbrick Victorian tavern on Kellett Road.

He found his contact with his arm around a young blonde in the otherwise empty snug. She was clutching a pink gin; with a similar fervour he was patting her shoulder, the pair of them putting on a fair performance of the concerned boyfriend comforting his moll. His snout's head shot up as Greenaway came through the door.

“This is him, Doris, love,” he said, getting to his feet.

Greenaway walked over to their table, scanning the frosted glass behind it that separated them from the saloon, noting the hatch was up behind the bar. The landlord here was an old face from the track who had run with the Elephant Boys in his youth, before coming into the rights to this property via another type of gaming endeavour. No doubt he would be somewhere within listening distance.

“A pleasure, I'm sure,” Doris raised her head demurely and offered him the hand that had been clutching her gin. It was cold and damp.

Greenaway ignored the snout's outstretched paw and sat down opposite the girl. She was done up in the approximation of a starlet, but her bleached hair and red lips could not disguise her spotty cheeks. These, coupled with the long teeth revealed by her nervous smile, had him wondering if she couldn't be more like a relative than a close friend of his informant. Still, the fact that she was blonde gave her credence.

“This is him.” From the black handbag that sat on her knee Doris withdrew a crumpled betting slip, on which was sketched the face of a man with wide-spaced eyes and a pencil moustache, wearing a forage cap with a slip in the side of it. Greenaway had to admit the drawing did display a certain degree of skill. Better still, it adequately portrayed what Ivy had seen and what Lil had reported to him.

“You say you ran into him last night?” Greenaway looked back up at Doris. She nodded, her grey-brown eyes wide.

“On Piccadilly,” she whispered.

“He come up to you, did he?” asked Greenaway. “What did he say?”

Her fearful gaze stole over to her boyfriend.

“That he liked blondes,” she said. He nodded his approval.

“Piccadilly your usual beat, is it?” Greenaway asked. She looked back at him, startled.

“It's all right,” her companion reassured, patting her knee. “He ain't gonna do you for it, Doris love. You're helping him, remember?”

“Well, yes,” Doris said. “You got to go where business is good, ain't you?”

“So why d'you turn him down then?” Greenaway asked.

“Well,” Doris shifted in her seat, playing with the clasp on her handbag. “I'd got to talking to some other girls, earlier on. They told me to be careful if anyone in an RAF uniform came up to me, on account of me being blonde. That's what this sex maniac wants, they said, blondes. And … well … I'm quite new to the bash, to be honest. When this fella comes up to me I got scared and went home.”

“She done the right thing, didn't she?” the snout returned his protective arm to her shoulder. “She could be dead by now if she didn't, eh?”

“Yeah,” Greenaway's sleepy eyes became hard as he stared at his informant. “Money ain't everything, is it, son?” He was wondering whether some other woman might not have taken Doris's place. All day long he had been expecting another summons to a murder site.

“What did he sound like, Doris, when he spoke to you?” he asked.

“Well,” she said, “he was posh, weren't he?”

“I have to say, you got a good likeness from a few moments' conversation.” Greenaway studied her drawing again and held it back up to her. “You'd know this face again as soon as you saw it, would you?”

“'Course,” said Doris.

“That's good,” said Greenaway, “'cos I'll need you for a lineup. There's no need to be worried, once I have this man in custody, he won't be going nowhere except the court and then the gallows. You got my word on that. And as your friend here knows,” he nodded across the table, “I am a man of my word.”

He smiled, patting his jacket pocket.

“Oh,” said Doris, looking perplexed, “all right. When will that be, then?”

“Now,” said Greenaway, getting to his feet. “If you don't mind?”

“Now?” Doris repeated. She turned to her boyfriend. “But you didn't say nuffink …”

He withdrew his arm from her shoulder rapidly. “Go on, Doris,” he said. “You heard the man, he said you'll be all right. Go on and do your duty – for all the other girls on the bash.”

“But,” Doris got to her feet, clutching her handbag, “I …”

The snout's eyes narrowed just for a second, long enough for his meaning to be conferred to both people present. Greenaway picked up Doris's rabbit fur coat from the back of her chair and helped her into it.

As he steered her towards the door, he clocked the landlord hovering behind the hatch on the other side of the bar. His informant made no move from his seat.

Out on the street, Doris dragged her heels. “But mister,” she started to whine, “Johnny didn't say nuffink about me coming with you now. I got places to go …”

“It won't take long,” Greenaway's grip on her tightened and his own pace increased so that he was pushing her along beside him round the corner. “I'll make sure you get a lift home if that's what you're worried about …”

He stopped short of where he had parked the Austin.

The car was gone.

– . –

Duchess looked up, startled. Lil stood in her doorway now perfectly made-up, her hair teased into a roll and clipped under a black pillbox hat, blonde curls in a cloud around her shoulders. She wore her best beaver lamb coat and high-heeled black suede shoes and had a small, snakeskin clutch under her left arm.

“If they won't come to me …” she began.

“Aw c'mon, love.” Duchess got to her feet. “It ain't that bad, surely? I don't want you out there this weather and with a bleedin' maniac about. Be sensible.”

Lil waved a hand dismissively. “I am being sensible,” she said. “I ain't got no work and we ain't got enough money. I've always been able to pull in a good crowd after a few minutes' stroll, you know that. All's I have to do is go down the train station, I won't be more than ten minutes.”

Duchess walked tentatively towards her. Lil's voice had regained its usual matter-of-factness, all the insolence of their last exchange vanished along with the slutty appearance. Something else had changed, but you had to get close enough to see it. Her pupils were like pinpricks.

“Lil,” Duchess said, mentally recapping all the men who had been up the stairs today, stopping on the face of a jazz drummer who played for the house band at the
Entre Nous
. “You ain't been back on the bennies, have you?”

“So what if I have?” Lil's top lip curled, the challenge back in a flash.