Without the Moon (3 page)

4
THE MOOCHE

Monday, 9 February 1942

The dull afternoon light did not penetrate the windows of the first-floor rooms of 153 Wardour Street. The windows themselves, hanging in their frames like the bleary eyes of a heavy drinker amid a sagging façade of shell-shocked masonry, were covered with the accumulated dirt of so many bomb blasts that the sun would have had a difficult enough job even on the brightest of days. But this was not the reason for the dim aura of the room occupied by Mrs Evelyn Bettencourt, or, as she preferred her friends to call her, Nina Oakley, this Monday afternoon. Nina had drawn the blackout curtains early in order to best facilitate the atmosphere necessary for the services of her friend and confidante, Madame Arcana.

Madame – or Flo, as she was known by her fellow expatriates in the community that dwelt around Berlemont's pub in Dean Street – was a petite woman in her thirties, who dressed in black astrakhan and a flamboyant red hat with a feather in it. Thus she announced her profession as an occultist: palms and tarots read, fortunes told, spiritual assistance given for 1/6 an hour – a little above the average rate, but, as Madame would impress upon you the first time you met her, holding your hand tightly with red-manicured fingers and gazing with a solemn intensity through a pair of huge, black eyes, that was because she had studied under Madame Blavatsky herself, as a young girl in Paris.

Very few of her clients, including the peroxide blonde sitting next to her, had insight enough to realise that, were this to be true, Madame Arcana would have had to have been at least sixty years older than she appeared to be. Perhaps, even if they had, they might have put it down to awe-inspiring magical powers, for very few of Madame's regulars were ever disappointed by her.

Nina had been seeing her on and off for some months now, since she had first made her acquaintance in the aforementioned hostelry one slow October evening. At first it had been the crystal ball Madame had consulted through, but today, because she was anticipating a change in her luck, Nina had asked her to read her cards.

Nina drew from the Marseilles Tarot by flickering candlelight, while a lump of Indian incense, bought especially from the Atlantis Bookshop, smouldered in the ashtray. Even the most amateur of readers would have found the three cards she chose a challenge, but Madame was skilled enough in psychology not to let her dismay at the chaos she saw revealed transmit itself to her client.

“Tell me,” she said, lifting her head, “how was your husband when you last saw him?”

Nina, who had fled to London six years previously, to escape the life of a Lancashire poultry farmer's wife, gave a resigned sigh before she answered. Her trouble, as she had often confided to Madame before, was that her husband still paid her regular visits, always hoping – yet never bold enough to actually ask – that they might be reconciled.

“My Harry?” she said. “He was all right, I s'pose. Same as he always is. Oh, he's a good man right enough, he's kind, considerate, goes to church on Sunday; he's just—” she shrugged, pursing lips around which the first little fissures of middle-age were beginning to show, “boring. You've no idea what it's like trying to make a living out of chickens, love. They smell bloody rotten, they make a right flamin' row and they fix you with their evil little eyes all the time. I'd sooner face Hitler …”

Madame shook her head curtly. “I assure you, you would not,” she said.

Nina blushed, remembering too late from whence Madame had fled. “Eee, I'm sorry, chuck, I let me mouth run away with us sometimes. No, course I wouldn't. But what are you talking about Harry for? You know I've not changed me mind about him. I thought you were gonna tell us some more about my Canadian …” Nina's expression took on a simpering air and she wriggled in her seat, the patched and faded eider-down she had placed on top of her single bed.

Madame looked back down at the third, most damning card in the sequence. What she wanted to say and what Nina wanted to hear were two separate things that her mind strained to reconcile.

“Your soldier friend,” she began to recall their previous conversations. “This is why I ask. You said you were going to introduce him to your husband, no?”

This was not a course of action Madame would have advised, but advice was not really what Nina sought from her. She paid her shilling and sixpence mainly just to air her bewildering plans aloud to someone who was obliged to listen.

“Oh, aye.” Nina shrugged. “Well, they got on all right, I s'pose. Nowt Harry could do if he didn't like it, is there? But leave off about him now, will you, love? Tell me about my Joe. Is he gonna sweep me away to Canada once all this is over?”

Fortunately, Madame was saved from pronouncing on the likelihood of this by the loud arrival of Nina's neighbour, whose room was separated from the one they were in only by a pair of wooden doors acting as a shutter. There was a banging, followed by a mewling, as one of the doors came ajar and a huge tabby cat came barrelling through it and pounced upon Nina's knees.

“Hello, Bertie!” Nina greeted the animal effusively, stroking it as it padded around in circles on her lap. “Is that you, Ivy?” she called. “Come through and meet a friend of mine.”

Madame's gaze turned to the door. The woman who stood there resembled some kind of ageing variety turn, wearing a fur coat that appeared to have been fashioned from a succession of Bertie's predecessors and a felt Stetson hat. A cigarette protruded from the corner of her mouth and she spoke without removing it.

“Hello, ducks,” she said, the fag beginning to droop as her eyes travelled from Nina to the extraordinary creature sat beside her on the bed, with her scarlet hat and piercing, coal-black eyes. To Ivy, Madame looked just like a witch and it was all she could do not to cross herself.

“Ivy, this is Madame Arcana,” said Nina, waving her hand and then returning her attentions to the tabby on her lap, who had made himself comfortable and was now sizing Madame up with a hostile green-eyed glare to rival that of his mistress.

Madame gave Ivy a curt nod before turning back to her paying client. “Nina,” she reminded her, “our time is almost up for today.”

“Oh, course, silly me.” Nina gathered the cat into her arms and stood up. “Sorry, love,” she said to Ivy. “Can you take him? I'll not be more than five minutes, then I'll make us both a brew.”

Ivy nodded, took the furry bundle from Nina's arms and left, closing the door behind her as firmly as the landlord's woodwork skills allowed. Madame thrust the cards back into the pack as quickly as was dignified, snapping her handbag shut over the top of them.

“What were you saying, now, love?” Nina sat back down on the bed. “He's gonna take me away to Canada, was it?”

“Nina,” Madame looked into the hopeful, smiling face of this woman who had come to London to make her fortune on the stage and had spent the past six years sliding further away from the variety theatres to hostess clubs and bottle parties and finally the streets around her. A silly woman, many would judge, who stubbornly refused to give up her dreams of stardust and handsome leading men, but who nonetheless had survived all the knocks her aspirations had taken along the way and still managed, in the candlelight, to retain her handsome features and her sense of hope. A face which seemed to Madame as wholesome as a freshly baked loaf of bread. A wave of sympathy rushed over the fortune-teller and with it came the loosening of her tongue.

“If you would just listen to me, for once, please take some advice.” Madame took hold of Nina's hand as a puzzled expression crossed the blonde woman's features. “I don't want you to go out with any more servicemen,” she said. “In fact, it would be better for you if you went back with your husband now, at least until the war is over. You know I don't like to give advice that is contrary to your hopes, but believe me, it is for the best.” She gave the hand a squeeze. “There are worse things than chickens out there,
ma cherie
.”

Nina's mouth fell open. “Well,” she began, shaking her head, “I don't know what to say …” Then a change came across her features and she pulled her hand away. “Has he put you up to this?” she said, scowl lines appearing on her forehead.

“
Quoi
?” Madame was thrown. “What do you mean?”

“Harry,” said Nina. “Has he told you to come here and say this? Did he pay you?”

“No, of course not, where ever did you get that idea from?” Madame sprang to her feet. She had never seen an enraged Nina before. Luckily, her client had crossed Madame's palm with silver before the session began and, equally fortuitously, Madame had chosen to sit on the side of the bed that was nearest the door.

“'Cos that's all you've bloody talked about,” Nina glowered over her. She was at least a foot taller than the little Frenchwoman. “Him and his flamin' chickens! Even if it's not, what right have you to tell me what to do and who to see?”

Madame stuffed her handbag firmly under her left arm. Her eyes flashed, defying the other woman to come any closer.

“Nina, you asked me to read your cards for you and that is what I have done. If you don't want to take my advice, you don't have to. But I can assure you,” she stepped backwards, feeling behind her with her right hand for the doorknob. “I have never so much as met your husband. I cannot be paid to do anything so despicable as you suggest and I will not stand being treated like this.”

“Is that right?” Nina jutted her chin. But the anger was cooling in her almost as quickly as it had ignited, replaced by a feeling of despair. She had been so sure Madame would tell her that a new future awaited her in Canada. Even though it was better than the farm, the life she had here was taking its toll on her.

“I'm sorry, chuck,” Nina said, sinking back onto the bed. “Don't mind me, I just …” She twisted her hands, as if wringing out an imaginary rag. “I've just got too much on me mind, that's all. You go, I'll be all right.”

“If you are sure?” Madame was caught between the remnants of her sympathy and the urge to flee.

“Be seeing you,” Nina said, turning her head away.

– . –

Next door, sitting at her kitchen table, Ivy tried to keep her eyes on Swaffer's column in the
Herald
. But she couldn't help overhearing the conversation taking place between Nina and her strange little friend. She reached in her drawer for her rosary beads and didn't put them down again until she heard the fortune-teller leave.

5
PAPER DOLL

Tuesday, 10 February 1942

“Bleedin' nice, ain't it?” Lil flopped back in the hairdresser's chair, rolled her unmade-up eyes at the ceiling. “My local bogey stops me on the way into work last night, tells me to be up bright and early for Bow Street in the morning; my turn on the rota, he reckons. Then he goes and invites himself in for a cuppa Rosie, scares off all my regulars clomping up the stairs in his size ten boots and makes himself at home in the kitchen with Duch – all before I've even had time to make a couple of quid. Talk about being a lady of easy virtue,” she huffed on. “I ain't seen nuffink easy about it yet.”

“Oh dear,” Gladys, the Cardiff-born chief lady of the rollers at the basement salon in Shaftesbury Avenue, sympathised. “We'd best get you a nice cuppa on before we get started, eh?”

“Thanks, Glad.” Lil wrinkled up her nose as she smiled, like a mischievous child. She kicked off her high-heeled shoes and stretched out on the chair, settling into the lazy, steamy warmth of the place, the sound of Peggy Lee slinking out of the wireless.

Getting pinched by the local, friendly bogey on the beat was an occupational hazard that cut both ways: he got a few extra shillings in his pay packet for bringing her up to court, she pleaded guilty and got off with a two-quid fine. Justice was seen to be done, at least for the next month or so, and the Crown got its form of tax on Lil's earnings. Plus, it made sure she never got mentioned to any of PC Plod's superiors.

On such occasions, Lil always came down to Glad's for a trim, set and manicure after they let her go. It was an in-between time, too late to go back home, too early to get back to work. This made a treat out of an inconvenience for her.

“Wonder where she's got to?” Lil mused, meaning the Duchess, whom she had arranged to meet here. She glanced around the small, cluttered room and her gaze stopped on the woman sitting to her left. There was something familiar about her, but it took Lil a few moments to work it out.

“Lorn?” she said, watching one of Gladys's apprentices, a girl called Dot, who had arms like a docker and a fag hanging out of the corner of her mouth, applying a tube of brunette hair dye to the woman's previously platinum locks. “Is that you, girl?”

The woman, with whom earlier in her career Lil had once shared a West End corner, swivelled red-rimmed eyes at her and grunted an affirmative.

“What you doing to your hair, love?” Lil looked aghast.

“Here you go, my lovey,” Gladys plonked a cup and ill-matched saucer in Lil's hand. Lil's expression didn't change as she looked down into dark brown depths. Strong, Glad always made her brews strong. Not refined and perfumed like the Duchess poured them.

Gladys patted her on the shoulder, bent down and whispered: “Don't bother Lorna right now, lovey. She had a bit of a bloody shock last night, is all. Don't think she really wants to talk about it …”

“It's all right, Glad,” Lorna's voice was croaky. “I don't mind telling Lil. Probably should spread the word, case we ain't seen the last of him.” Her eyes travelled back in Lil's direction. “I got a right bastard last night,” she said. “RAF, he said he was.” A shudder travelled up her body. “Oh, you tell her, Mol. It hurts to speak.”

Lorna's companion, a short, stout brunette with a round face, her hair already set in rollers, had been sitting quietly on a chair in the corner, reading a magazine while Glad's daughter, Angie, painted her toenails. She looked up, fixed Lil with a steady gaze. “All of it?” she asked. She had a strange, high-pitched voice, like a little girl's, that was at odds with her matronly appearance.

Lorna nodded. Molly put her magazine down on her lap.

“All right,” she said. “We was outside The Monico, you know, on Piccadilly Circus, 'bout half-past ten last night. Business was slack and we was starting to get royally pissed off with these Canadian soldiers hanging about being all mouth and no trousers. Lorn was just saying to me, if they can't afford the merchandise then move along, this ain't Madame Tussauds.”

“I should cocoa,” said Lil, unable to nod now that Gladys was brushing back her hair.

“Then these other geezers came along, like Lorn said, RAF blokes in uniform. Aha, we thought, that's more like it. Surely our boys'll know the score? We start shining our torches and one of 'em, this strapping great tall fella – looks a bit like Douglas Fairbanks Jr, I thought – comes up to Lorn. He had this funny little white slip sticking out of his cap. She asks him what it is, and he says it means he's training to be an officer. Right plummy voice he had to go with it, and one of them little moustaches. So, we thought
ooh
, we are going up in the world.

“He said his name was Gordon and his mate, the one I got talking to, was Felix. Felix had a slip in his hat an' all, only not such a posh voice, reckon he was more local. And he weren't like them Canadians, this one got straight down to business. Well,” Molly looked down at her toes as Angie moved onto the next foot, “my room's closer than Lorn's, so I said I'd show him the way back after to wait for his friend.

“But he never showed up. Felix weren't bothered, he went off to get pissed, and I s'pose it ain't all that unusual, but I suddenly come over all queer, thought I'd better just go over to Lorn's, see how she was getting on. Good job I did an' all. She was in a right state.” Molly looked over at Lorna to make sure it was all right to go on. Lorna gave the flicker of a nod.

“What happened was, this Gordon couldn't get it up. Lorn said he was half-cut anyway, stank of booze, so she starts to get worried about what's gonna happen next, you know, is he gonna take it out on her? First of all, it seems like he's all right, he laughs it off and gives it another try. This don't work neither, and now she's starting to get annoyed with him, wasting her time.

“She tells him to get off and he does, still sort of bashful like, apologetic. So Lorn takes pity on the geezer, tells him to come and sit with her by the fire. He likes this idea, starts stroking away at her hair, telling her how much he likes it, and she can see he's coming round again, so she sticks another French letter on him quick as you like, don't want him making a mess all over her carpet.

“Soon as she does it, he starts getting rough. Winds all her hair up into his fist and starts pulling her head back, going on and on about how much he loves her hair and how he could tell she was a dirty bitch when he saw her, how he can always tell. He puts his hand around her throat and starts squeezing, really hard.”

Little Angie, sitting at Molly's feet, stopped painting and sat up, staring at the storyteller with her huge brown eyes. “My godfathers,” she whispered.

“What happened then?” straining against Glad's rollering hands, Lil was on the edge of her seat.

“Well,” said Molly, flicking her glance around all the women in the room, “thank God, at that moment he manages to get himself off. He drops her like a stone, puts his head in his hands and starts rocking back and forth like a baby. Stays there for a while, moaning to himself, like he's not even in the same world as she is. Then he snaps out of it, tells her he's sorry for keeping her and hopes she makes lots of money tonight. Drops a
five quid
note on her and leaves. Now, what the bleedin' hell do you make of that?”

“Sounds like he was going to kill her,” Lil's voice came out a whisper.

“Don't it just,” said Molly. At her feet, Angie crossed herself.

“So that's why she's changing what she looks like? In case he comes back after her?” Lil asked.

“No,” croaked Lorna, “'cos he said he liked blondes. All that stuff …” she broke off and started coughing, loud, wretched hacks.

“All that stuff about her hair,” Molly finished the story for her, “was 'cos she was blonde.” She raised her crescent moon-shaped eyebrows. “You better watch out, Lil. Don't go with no fella in an RAF uniform, if you know what's good for you.”

– . –

“Yes. That's her.” Carolyn Jones stood in another basement room, a quarter of a mile east of Gladys's salon, in Gower Street. A room that was large, white and antiseptic. The goosebumps that pricked her skin as Sir Bernard Spilsbury pulled back the white sheet were caused not just by the mortuary conditions, but by the recognition of the woman who had checked into her boarding house only two nights previously. “That's Miss Evelyn Bourne,” she said.

“Thank you,” said the pathologist, replacing the shroud.

Carolyn Jones put a hand up to her mouth.

“Let me drive you home,” said Greenaway.

A detective from Marylebone doing house-to-house enquiries had called on Mrs Jones's establishment that morning and ascertained that Miss Bourne had rented a room there at 10.30pm on the Sunday night previous. Miss Bourne had come back downstairs twenty minutes after she'd been shown to her room and asked if there was anywhere nearby where she could get a meal. Mrs Jones directed her to the Lyons Corner House at Marble Arch – and that was the last she had ever seen of her.

They drove back to Gloucester Place in silence, Mrs Jones staring out of the window in a daze. Greenaway didn't trouble her with any more questions, let her try and get over her shock. He thanked her as he dropped her off and headed straight to the restaurant.

Outside Lyons was a world of bomb craters, sandbags, barbed wire and windows bound up in tape to stop them from shattering in the event of a blast. More barrage balloons swayed above Hyde Park, restless in the wind.

Inside, however, the atmosphere resembled that of the ocean-going liner the building had been designed to resemble. A curved, mahogany tea-bar ran the entire length of the ground floor, fringed with ornate stools. Behind it, gigantic copper cauldrons stretched from floor to ceiling, a network of pipes gurgling and steaming between them, brewing a constant supply for the thirsty masses. From one of the three floors above came the sound of a live jazz band, doing their best impression of Benny Goodman's repertoire.

A Nippy with a loaded tray swung out from behind the bar as Greenaway approached. He flashed his warrant card at her by way of introduction.

“You weren't by any chance working here on Sunday night, were you?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said without missing a beat. “I was.”

“Good. Would you mind having a chat after you've got rid of that little load?”

Ten minutes later, he was back in his car. The waitress had remembered Evelyn Bourne all right, said she had come in around midnight, alone. She hadn't served her herself, but could recall the evening's menu – the contents of which matched what Spilsbury had found in the dead woman's stomach – a lot of beetroot.

As he started the motor, Greenaway thought of Evelyn Bourne's wristwatch, stopped at one o'clock. She must have taken nearly an hour to walk from the Three Arts to here. The label on the small case she had brought with her did not have an address, but Greenaway was sure his initial feelings about her were right. Even though getting around in the blackout was often arduous, slow progress, she couldn't have known London very well.

She didn't belong here.

The waitresses at Lyons weren't called Nippys for nothing; they would have had her fed and out of there within half an hour, forty minutes. She'd got back to Regent's Park a lot faster than she'd reached Lyons. Had almost made it …

But the killer had moved fast. Spilsbury's autopsy revealed that he had crushed the bones in her neck quickly and powerfully, perhaps before she could even have made a sound. Had he followed her out of the restaurant, tracked her until they came to terrain that suited his purpose best – the empty airraid shelter, the deserted street? Then that would imply he knew the area much better than she did.

Greenaway parked around the corner from the station on Tottenham Court Road. Deep in his thoughts, he didn't register the Duty Sergeant's call until he was halfway towards the stairs and the man had left his desk and run up to him.

“Chief Inspector, sir! DCS Cherrill just called. He wants you immediately – he's at 153 Wardour Street. He said to tell you it's the Left-Hand Man again.”