Murder at Down Street Station Read online

  MURDER AT DOWN STREET STATION

  JIM ELDRIDGE

  To my wife, Lynne, who has been my rock and my support for so many years.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BY JIM ELDRIDGE

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  Wednesday 25th December 1940

  Detective Chief Inspector the Right Honourable Edgar Saxe-Coburg and his wife, Rosa, known to the public as the jazz singer Rosa Weeks, raised their glasses of red wine and toasted one another across the dining table.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ said Coburg.

  ‘At least for one day,’ said Rosa. ‘Do you think they might extend the truce?’

  A truce for Christmas Day had been agreed between Berlin and London. After three months of constant bombing, mainly at night, the skies above London were clear of enemy planes. Most people had spent Christmas Eve in their deep shelters, which for Coburg and Rosa meant the air raid shelter in the basement of their small block of flats in Piccadilly, while most Londoners had sought refuge on the platforms of the capital’s Underground stations. For all of them sleep had been difficult to achieve with the heavy bombing pounding the city, the vibrations felt deep below ground, making everyone worry that at any moment the shelter may collapse and tumble down on them, along with thousands of tons and earth and bricks and rubble from the buildings above them. And then, almost as if someone had thrown a switch, at midnight the pounding ceased. There had been talk of a truce between the two warring nations, Britain and Germany, but most people had been sceptical. ‘You can’t trust Hitler,’ was the phrase on most people’s lips, with the word ‘Blitzmas’ being used to describe this festive season. The year before, 1939, Christmas had been normal, despite war having been declared at the start of September: festivities, parties, presents, carol singers in the streets, Christmas lights, turkey with all the trimmings for Christmas dinner, followed by Christmas pudding. This year there were no Christmas lights, no carol singers, the blackout was strictly enforced and rationing had meant no turkey for Christmas dinner. Instead, it was very small portions of lamb or mutton or – if you knew a butcher who had some – rabbit. With no dried fruit available, Christmas pudding was made from carrots.

  Most people had refused to believe there really was a truce and had remained in their Underground station shelters rather than risk coming out. After all, it was now after midnight; the streets were completely dark due to the blackout and torches were forbidden and there was always the risk of someone falling into a bomb crater in the darkness. But as dawn came and still no more bombs fell, gradually people emerged from the shelters and made their way home.

  Coburg and Rosa opted to leave their underground shelter at half past midnight and made their way up the stairs to their flat by the light of a torch, deciding to risk it, although it took a while for them both to get to sleep.

  When they woke on Christmas morning they listened to the wireless for a while, the news to get confirmation that the Christmas Day truce was still holding, then music, while they made breakfast of toast. They’d decided to leave opening their Christmas presents until they sat down for Christmas dinner, so the morning was spent telephoning Rosa’s parents in Edinburgh to wish them happy Christmas, then Edgar’s elder brother, Magnus, the Earl of Dawlish at Dawlish Hall, before they settled down to prepare the Christmas dinner together: roast mutton, roast potatoes with cabbage and carrots. The meal eaten, they each handed the other the presents they’d bought, wrapped in thin brown paper because restrictions meant there was no actual Christmas wrapping paper available. Rosa had bought Coburg a diary for 1941, and Coburg had bought Rosa a bath set with special scented soaps.

  ‘This is fantastic!’ exclaimed Rosa as she undid the wrapping. ‘Exactly what I was hoping for. They said in the papers that soap was in such short supply, anyone hoping to receive it as a present was going to be unlucky. How did you manage to get this?’

  ‘The Eton network.’ Coburg smiled. ‘An old school chum of mine is married to a woman who’s someone important in a big cosmetics company.’ He looked down at his empty plate and said, ‘I’m feeling guilty. It’s Christmas Day. I should have taken you to The Savoy or The Ritz or somewhere for Christmas dinner. Or we should have made the trip to Dawlish Hall. Magnus and Malcolm will be sitting down to roast chicken with all the trimmings with a spread by Mrs Hilton that will have nothing spared. It’s one of the advantages of living in the country. Fresh eggs, bacon, vegetables. We could have driven there on Christmas Eve late afternoon after I’d finished work and then come back this afternoon.’

  ‘No,’ said Rosa. ‘I wanted our first Christmas together to be just us, here at our own home. But, if there really is a truce in place, we can go out for a walk this afternoon.’

  ‘Putney,’ proposed Coburg. ‘A peaceful stroll along the river before midnight comes and we’re once again under the bombers.’ He grinned. ‘Or, before that, we could return to our bed and take advantage of an absence of air raids to disturb us.’

  Rosa got up and took his hand.

  ‘This is what I call a perfect Christmas.’ She smiled as she led him towards the bedroom.

  Deep below ground at the Down Street Headquarters of the Railway Executive Committee in the disused Underground station, Edward Pennington walked through the empty offices towards the small section of railway platform that had been added on when the former Underground station had been reallocated. As a senior officer of the REC, Pennington was able to flag down a passing train to get to the next station on the Piccadilly line for onward travel. He was glad to be finishing his twelve-hour shift and get home. Not that Christmas Day held any special meaning for him. He was a bachelor, so there was no young family that needed him at home to entertain them, nor a wife to share the day with, just his very elderly, housebound mother waiting for him so that she could moan to him about their neighbours. Pennington had always found the neighbours on both sides to be amenable, not unduly noisy, polite whenever he passed them in the street, but his mother was convinced they were doing their best to make her life a misery.

  ‘They make faces at me as they pass our window,’ she complained to him. ‘You ought to report them to the police. They could be German agents.’

  In vain he had tried to reason with her that none of their neighbours were Germans, nor were they sympathetic to the Nazi cause, but she resolutely refused to be convinced. If only I had a sister, or Mother had relatives, who could take her in, thought Pennington.

  He passed through the outer office into the smaller one with the door that would take him out onto the small railway platform. He stopped beside the door marked ‘Access To Track’ and pressed the red switch on the wall, before opening the door and stepping out onto the platform. The blue light requesting the next train to stop was now alight, and in its blue haze he could see what looked a bundle of rags lying on the platform by the edge.

  For Heaven’s sake, he thought, outraged. Who’s dumped their rubbish here? One of the train drivers, he supposed.

  He stopped by the pile of rags and prodded it with the toe of his shoe, and was surprised to strike something solid. Curious, he peeled a piece of cloth back, and was shocked to uncover a woman’s white face. He saw at once that she was dead; he’d seen enough dead people since this war had started to recognise death.

  He turned and ran back to the door and into the office. Once inside he pressed the red switch to turn off the blue light, then hurried to the telephone and dialled 999.

  ‘Police,’ he said urgently when the operator answered. ‘There’s a dead woman here at Down Street.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Thursday 26th December 1940

  Coburg pulled the police car in to the kerb outside Ted Lampson’s terraced house in Somers Town and slid across to the passenger seat to let his detective sergeant get behind the wheel. Lampson loved cars, but couldn’t afford one of his own. The journeys he and Coburg made gave him a rare opportunity to drive, sharing driving duties as they did.

  ‘How was your Christmas, guv?’ asked Lampson as he put the car in gear and made for Scotland Yard.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Coburg. ‘How was yours? Did Terry have a good day?’

&
nbsp; ‘He did,’ said Lampson. Terry was Lampson’s ten-year-old son, who Lampson, a widower, was bringing up on his own with the help of his elderly parents. ‘Me and my dad took him to White Hart Lane.’ He gave a broad grin. ‘We thrashed Everton. Good old Spurs!’

  ‘It’s a strange day to have football matches,’ mused Coburg. ‘Christmas Day.’

  ‘It’s traditional,’ said Lampson.

  ‘But with so many teams having players away in the services, I don’t see how some of them can field a team.’

  ‘Well, that’s true,’ said Lampson. ‘Did you hear about Brighton and Hove Albion?’

  ‘No,’ said Coburg.

  ‘They played Norwich, but Brighton only had five players, so they had to cobble together a team from the crowd who were watching.’

  ‘Spectators?’

  Lampson nodded. ‘It was a brave effort, but hardly worth it.’ He chuckled. ‘Norwich won eighteen–nil.’ Then, thoughtful, he added, ‘It seems strange going to work on a Boxing Day. I know we used to do it if we drew that kind of shift, but everyone’s going back to work today. It don’t seem like Christmas.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Coburg. ‘This year was a one-day Christmas. They need to get the munitions factories back to work.’

  ‘Still, at least we were spared the bombing for a day. Pity they can’t make it longer.’

  ‘It will be once one side wins the war.’

  ‘You mean when we win the war,’ Lampson rebuked him.

  ‘Of course,’ said Coburg smoothly. ‘The alternative is unthinkable.’

  When they arrived at Scotland Yard, they found Superintendent Allison in their office, writing a note.

  ‘Ah, good,’ he greeted them. ‘I was just about to leave a note for you.’ He screwed up the piece of paper and threw it in the wastepaper basket. ‘There was a murder yesterday at Down Street Underground station. Or, rather, what used to be the Underground station. It was picked up by Inspector Best, who was on duty on Christmas Day, but unfortunately he was injured last night when a building damaged by bombing collapsed near him.’

  ‘Was he badly hurt?’

  ‘A broken leg, which will put him out of action. He’s in hospital and is likely to remain there for a few weeks, at least. It was a bad break. I’d like you to take over the case. You’ve had recent experience of dealing with a dead body found on the Underground, and, like that one, the victim was found at a Tube station that’s been discontinued from active passenger traffic. Although trains still pass through it.’

  ‘Did you say Down Street?’ asked Coburg.

  ‘I did,’ said Allison.

  ‘That’s the one that the Prime Minister’s currently using as an underground bunker, I believe.’

  ‘You believe right. Which is another reason I’d like you to take on the case. I understand your elder brother, the Earl of Dawlish, is an old friend of Churchill’s.’

  ‘Yes, sir, he is.’

  ‘Which might help if there are complications concerning national security. The former station’s been converted into the headquarters of the Railway Executive Committee, the outfit set up to run the country’s railways.’

  ‘Where was the body found?’

  ‘On a stretch of platform there.’

  ‘Does it still have a platform? I thought it had been abandoned as a working station.’

  ‘Inspector Best will have the details. I’m sure he’ll be able to answer all your questions.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘At University College Hospital. I’ve telephoned ahead to alert them that you’ll be coming in to see him so you shouldn’t meet with any of the usual problems about calling on patients out of visiting hours.’ He picked up a cardboard file from the desk. ‘I brought this along for you. It’s the file Inspector Best opened on the case before he was injured. There’s not much there, but I’m sure he’ll be able to fill you in.’

  As Lampson drove them to University College Hospital, Coburg read through what little information there was in the slim file. The fact there was so little was understandable; Richard Best had only just caught the case and had little time to make any notes from his visit to the scene to look at the body, before he’d been injured.

  ‘The victim was a woman in her twenties called Svetlana Rostova,’ Coburg told Lampson. ‘She’d been stabbed. She was a fortune-teller, known as Lady Za Za.’

  ‘I guess she didn’t see this coming,’ commented Lampson wryly.

  The bed Inspector Richard Best was in at UCH had a canopy erected at the foot of it to protect his broken leg. Best was in his fifties and Coburg and Lampson found him leaning back against his pillows and obviously in pain.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive me if I drop off to sleep while we’re talking,’ he grumbled. ‘They’ve pumped all this morphine into me to ease the pain but it makes me keep nodding off.’

  ‘We won’t keep you long,’ promised Coburg. ‘How are they treating you in here?’

  ‘The same way they treat everyone,’ Best said with a scowl. ‘They’re officious and the ward sister is a right tyrant. And don’t get me started on the matron. Awful woman. I’m sure she’s got a moustache. It wouldn’t surprise me to find she’s a draft-dodger posing as a matron.’

  Coburg settled himself down on the chair beside the inspector’s bed and opened the file.

  ‘I’ve read your report,’ he said.

  ‘That must have taken you all of two minutes,’ said Best. ‘I’d jotted down a few notes then left the office intending to enlarge on it today. Instead of which, this bloody building came down as I was walking past it.’

  ‘It could have been worse,’ said Coburg sympathetically. ‘You could have been killed.’

  Best scowled.

  ‘Don’t worry, this place’ll finish me off,’ he grumbled. ‘I thought nurses were supposed to be all lovey-dovey and caring.’

  ‘The ones I’ve experienced have been,’ said Coburg.

  ‘You were lucky,’ grunted Best. ‘I reckon this lot were trained by the Gestapo. So, what can I tell you?’

  ‘The body was found on a platform.’

  ‘That’s right,’ confirmed Best.

  ‘By a man called Edward Pennington who went out on the platform to catch a train home after his shift had ended.’

  Best nodded.

  ‘As I understand it, his shift had ended and another man had arrived to take over.’

  ‘Right again,’ said Best.

  ‘Why didn’t this other man spot the body when he arrived?’

  ‘Because it was on a different platform,’ said Best. ‘I’m guessing you haven’t been to Down Street since it got rebuilt.’

  ‘No,’ said Coburg.

  ‘A platform was added so the senior staff could grab a train to get home, or go somewhere. There are two platforms on opposing sides of the railway tracks: westbound and eastbound. Pennington was leaving on the eastbound platform. The bloke who took over from him arrived on the other platform, the westbound.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the other man?’

  ‘No. I didn’t even get a chance to get his name. They’re pretty tight-lipped there, think they’re some kind of secret service. Bunch of petty bureaucrats.’

  ‘Where was the body taken?’

  ‘Here,’ said Best. ‘UCH. Dr Welbourne was the attending medic.’

  ‘Yes, we know Dr Welbourne,’ said Coburg. ‘A good bloke.’

  ‘I don’t know him well enough to say,’ said Best. ‘He seemed alright.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’ asked Coburg.

  ‘No. Like I say, I was intending to start on it properly today, but that bloody house falling on me put a stop to that.’

  ‘Did she have any next of kin?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Best. ‘That was another thing I was going to look into. She was Russian.’

  ‘Yes, I gathered that by her name,’ said Coburg.

  ‘According to her ID card she came here in 1937. I went to the address on her card, which was a house of rooms for rent, but the landlady said she’d left there two weeks before and left no forwarding address. That was as far as I got before I copped this.’

  Coburg and Lampson left Best and made their way down to the mortuary in search of Dr Welbourne.

  ‘Well, there’s one bloke whose Christmas was ruined,’ sighed Lampson.