Free A Commonplace Killing by Siân Busby Page A

standing in front of their bombed-out slums, shaking their fat fists at Hitler as Bob Danvers-Walker said something meaningless about courage and guts. She was toothless , arms like raw sausages, immense bosom like an overstuffed bolster. She was probably only in her thirties but she had let herself go with years of drudgery relieved by hop-picking or whatever women like her did for amusement: stout-drinking, knees-upping.
    “’Ave a look at that,” she was demanding, thrusting out her basket indignantly.
    There was a small split tin and half a dozen buns lying at the bottom.
    “All stale,” she spat. “Rock ’ard.” She tossed her head back towards the baker’s. “’E’s taking fuckin’ liberties.” A few women gasped. The Cockney’s face was blotchy with indignation. “Fobbin’ us off with yesterday’s unsolds! The lousy rotten sod!”
    Muted, apathetic expressions of dismay came from the other women in the queue, but not one of them relinquished her place in the line. After a little while another woman left the shop, armed with, she told them all, half a cottage loaf, four sausage rolls and a few broken jam tarts.
    “I queued over an hour for that,” she said. “It’s disgusting. They get better treated in Germany.”
    “They got better treated in Belsen,” someone else averred.
    She wondered why people talked such rot.
    Once more, they all moved up a place until there were only four women standing between her and the baker’s. The grimy reality of the coal-carts, the drays, the lorries rumbling past her on the Holloway Road played badly on her nerves; the brick dust weighing down the corner of the tattered awning depressing her terribly. Her eyes strayed once more to the other side of the road, the line of red buses standing out against the relentless grey of everything else. A tuppenny bus ride was all it took, but still it was more than she could ever hope for.
    Oh, pull yourself together, do, she told herself. You’re getting on my nerves. Things were getting better. She didn’t expect men to fall like ninepins for her any more – those days were gone – but she still had sex appeal. Nobody would ever believe that she was forty-three.
    After a few more minutes there were only two women in front of her and she could see inside the shop; she could smell the rolls and loaves.
    She smoothed her skirt and adjusted the hem of her jacket, glancing over her shoulders to check one turned calf and then the other. Her seams were perfectly straight. Everything was going to be alright.

9
     
     
    C ooper was scarcely aware of her coming to stand at his side. He had no idea how long she had been standing there, patiently holding out a tray bearing a plate of sandwiches and, amidst an assortment of dirty crockery, an untouched cup of tea.
    “I do hope fish-paste is acceptable, sir,” she said. “It was the nearest thing to a kipper I could find.” He wondered if she was making fun of him. If so, he didn’t mind. He tamped down his pipe with his thumb, slipped it back into his pocket and reached for a sandwich. A train passed below them, coating everything with thick grey smoke, softening the harsh glare of the sun. She coughed.
    “This is hardly the place for a nice girl like you,” he said over the engine rattle.
    She smiled slightly, expertly.
    “I’d drink the tea while it’s still warm, sir, if I were you,” she said. “It’s been standing for a few minutes. You were terribly busy – I didn’t want to disturb you.” She was to be commended for her correctness, he supposed. He was long out of practice where women were concerned.
    “You should have waited somewhere else,” he said. “I could have come and found you, you know. A murder scene – it’s – well, it’s not pleasant.”
    He drank the tea down, washing away the sandwich, and when it was all gone he asked her if there was any chance of another.
    “I’m sure there is,” she said. “The next-door neighbours are very