abruptly and then started again. And suddenly people were running in the street, materializing as if from nowhere, and the park sprang to life as the white searchlights camouflaged in the bushes shot their beams high into the sky, crisscrossing one another as they searched for the as-yet-invisible incoming planes.
Albert had his key in his hand. In a moment he’d be home. He always felt safe inside his flat; he didn’t need to take shelter, cowering in the basement with his neighbours. It was people that unnerved him, not bombs.
Everything was going to be all right. With a surge of relief he pushed open the heavy front door of his building and was halfway over the threshold when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and the muzzle of a gun thrust into the small of his back, propelling him forward into the hall and up the stairs towards his empty flat.
Ava went and got her coat as soon as she heard the siren. She knew that her father would ignore it just as he’d done before, sitting alone in his flat among the tottering piles of books, peering at old papers in the candlelight while the bombers passed overhead and the ack-ack shells burst like useless white fireworks in the sky all around them. Perhaps he was right and his neighbours huddled in the basement were wrong — perhaps Gloucester Mansions would come through the war untouched while all the surrounding buildings were blown apart. But she couldn’t take the risk. She couldn’t accept the responsibility for him not taking shelter, so she set out across Battersea with her torch, heading for the park. She kept her eyes fixed on the sidewalk as she walked, hunching her shoulders against the cold, trying to ignore the first spatterings of rain on her face.
The wailing siren had done its work, destroying her fragile self-possession, and she cursed her father under her breath as she walked. Always demanding, always complaining, expecting her to minister to his every need and yet giving nothing back. She couldn’t remember when he had last asked her a question about herself. He just seemed to assume that she would always be there, cooking for him, darning his socks, taking over her mother’s duties when the poor woman had inconsiderately upped and died four years earlier. The doctor had said it was her heart, but Ava sometimes thought that it was her father who’d killed his wife with his endless demands. At the very least, he’d given her nothing to live for.
But she hadn’t stayed at home. Instead she’d married the doctor who wrote her mother’s death certificate. She didn’t love Bertram Brive, wasn’t attracted by his portly figure and thick-featured face at all, in fact, but she’d jumped at his proposal when he’d awkwardly popped the question over tea and cake across a rickety table at the back of the Lyons Corner House on Coventry Street one Sunday afternoon. He was her passport to a new life away from her father, or so she’d thought. She’d wished Bertram’s surgery were a little further than three streets away from her old home, but she’d hoped that in a few years they might move — across the river into Chelsea, perhaps, where the people were better off and there was more money to be made from general practice.
Except it hadn’t worked out that way. For some reason, Bertram didn’t seem able to get ahead. Quite the opposite in fact. He had debts, spiralling debts that he tried to conceal from her by locking all his papers inside the bureau in the sitting room of their tiny flat. And his practice was suffering just when he needed to work harder. He was heavy and humourless and lacked the bedside manner that was so crucial to inspiring confidence in patients; but what made it worse was that he didn’t seem to want to try, except with his father-in-law, who’d become far and away Bertram’s most lucrative patient in the last year or two. Albert had embraced a new career as a professional hypochondriac since his retirement from the job in the City that he’d always refused to tell anyone anything about. Ava smiled bitterly at the irony: her marriage had only served to make her more beholden to her father than ever before.
He telephoned day and night, but never to say anything significant. He’d lost this, he needed that; he was feeling pain or he wasn’t feeling anything at all. It was all a means of controlling her, she felt: a slow revenge for having left him to marry Bertram. He wasn’t really worried about his health; he’d take shelter when the bombers came over, if that was the case. And in her heart she believed that his interest in Bertram was just another way of hurting her, of making her jealous. The two men had nothing in common, yet her father had Bertram round there day and night, treating him like a long-lost son.
She knew her father was angry, knew that since his retirement he’d become disappointed with his life in some fundamental way, but he wouldn’t tell her why. The two of them were like dancers who never touched, circling each other endlessly in the same slow, metronomic step. She raged against her sense of responsibility to him, yet she couldn’t escape his hold over her. It would have been easier to bear if her husband had been fun or sympathetic, but he was neither. Now that it was too late, she wished that she hadn’t married him. She knew she was still attractive. Not as pretty as she had once been — Bertram and her father had seen to that — but her long brown hair when brushed out was still luxuriant, and there was a gleam in her green eyes on good days that could make men stop and take notice. But really it didn’t matter if she looked like Greta Garbo, she thought bitterly. She was a prisoner of her marriage — the wedding ring on her finger was her personal ball and chain.
Life was passing her by, but she couldn’t reach out and take hold of it. She thought sometimes that it was as if she were watching the world from inside an empty train that she had caught by mistake and couldn’t get off — a train moving slowly but steadily in the opposite direction from where she needed to go.
And the war had made it worse. All around, London was a hive of activity. Women were working in jobs that no one would have heard of them doing a year earlier. Driving the buses that Ava took to go shopping across the river; putting on steel helmets to work as ARP wardens. She’d even heard that there were female operators of the mobile anti-aircraft gun batteries. It was a new world with new opportunities, but they all seemed out of reach. Bertram wouldn’t hear of her working, and neither would her father. ‘A woman’s place is in the home’ was one of their favourite sayings. ‘Looking after us,’ they might have added, except there was no need. Ava knew exactly what was expected of her.
She reached her father’s apartment block without incident. The searchlight beams crisscrossed the sky, but there was still no sign of the enemy. Perhaps they were coming into London by a different route; probably Battersea wasn’t even the target tonight. You never knew — that was the problem.
After taking out her key, she opened the door and stepped into the hallway. It took her a moment to get used to the darkness. Above her head somewhere there were voices — one soft, almost inaudible; the other angry, frightened, getting louder. She recognized the second voice — it belonged to her father.
‘No, I won’t. No, no, I tell you.’
Ava stopped with her hand on the newel post of the banister at the bottom of the staircase, craning her head to look up. There was a little light now up above where there had been none before. It was leaking out onto the landing two floors up, the landing in front of her father’s door. It had to have been opened, the noise drowned out by the sound of her father’s shouts.
Now all at once she could see two entangled shapes by the railing at the top of the stairs. They swayed back and forth, a contortion of shadows, and she tried to cry out, to make what she was seeing stop. But her voice wouldn’t come and her legs wouldn’t move, and she remained rooted to the spot, standing with one foot on the ground and one foot on the bottom stair as the smaller shape rocked back and forth in mid-air for a moment and then with an inhuman cry of agony fell down through the darkness, transforming itself into her father as he landed with a terrible thud, spread-eagled at her feet.
The noise released her. She screamed, a gut-wrenching cry torn from deep inside her body. But she knew in the same instant that her father was dead. She stared immobilized at his body, recording in an X-ray photograph seared forever on her mind’s eye the contorted way his limbs splayed out on the carpet as if he were some child’s discarded puppet.
The sound of running feet on the landing above her head recalled her to her surroundings. Her father had been pushed — he had been murdered. The man who’d done it was in her father’s flat. Now, in this instant.
She wanted to go up the stairs, but she couldn’t. Her feet wouldn’t move. People were coming up from the basement, saying things to her to which she could not respond. Someone was holding her; someone was going to call the police. And from far away, as if coming to her through water, she heard the sound of the all clear. The bombers weren’t coming to Battersea tonight, but then they didn’t need to. Somebody had already done their work for them, at least as far as Albert Morrison was concerned.
CHAPTER 2
Not that he had any intention of admitting it, but Detective Chief Inspector John Quaid was on the whole rather enjoying the war. Perhaps he suffered from a lack of imagination, but it never seemed to have occurred to
