Without the Moon by Cathi Unsworth Read Free Book Online

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?”
    â€œSounds like he was going to kill her,” Lil’s voice came out a whisper.
    â€œDon’t it just,” said Molly. At her feet, Angie crossed herself.
    â€œSo that’s why she’s changing what she looks like? In case he comes back after her?” Lil asked.
    â€œNo,” croaked Lorna, “’cos he said he liked blondes. All that stuff …” she broke off and started coughing, loud, wretched hacks.
    â€œAll 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.”
    â€“ . –
    â€œYes. 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.
    â€œThank you,” said the pathologist, replacing the shroud.
    Carolyn Jones put a hand up to her mouth.
    â€œLet 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.
    â€œYou weren’t by any chance working here on Sunday night, were you?” he asked.
    â€œYes, sir,” she said without missing a beat. “I was.”
    â€œGood. 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