“And strangled.” Mrs. Sharma rocked back and forth. “My Nilima. My beautiful Nilima.”
Aleida’s throat swelled for the vivacious woman she’d longed to befriend, for the family grieving a beloved daughter and sister. “The police—what do they—”
“Police.” Mrs. Sharma spat out the word.
Indira winced. “The police say Nilima’s helmet must have caught on something when the trench collapsed. I don’t think it would have caused—” Her face buckled.
“Someone killed her.” Mrs. Sharma pounded her fists in her lap. “I know it.”
Louisa harrumphed. “I hope they find the monster that did this.”
“I do too,” Aleida said. “Nilima was always kind and friendly, and she was very good at her job. I will miss her dearly. I am so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Indira gave her a shaky nod.
Aleida and Louisa said goodbye, and Indira walked them out. Heading back to Willesden Junction Station, Aleida twisted her purse strap. “Another murder. Do you think it’s connected?”
“Connected?” Louisa frowned at her. “To the murders of Hastings and Jouveau? Why do you ask?”
Aleida chewed on her lower lip. “It just seems...”
Louisa cocked her head. “Did Nilima know either man? Have a connection to the BBC French Service or to Hastings’s work or to the French community?”
“I didn’t know her that well. One day she did mention Elliott Hastings and his bill to help refugees, but come to think of it, she didn’t remember his name.”
“It’s the biggest city in the world.” Louisa swept her hand. “Eight million people in Greater London. I don’t know how many murders are committed here every year.”
“I know.” So why couldn’t Aleida shake off the sensation? The sensation that they were related.
32
RAF SULLOMVOE, SHETLANDISLANDS
MONDAY, MARCH31, 1941
Microphone in hand, Hugh peered out a round window. “This is Hugh Collingwood reporting from inside a Short Sunderland flying boat of the RAF Coastal Command. That roar you hear is the Sunderland’s four mighty engines as our aircraft plows through the icy waters of this inlet and releases—ah, do you hear it!—releases from the water into the sky.”
Since seeing a Sunderland patrolling on the Lofoten Raid, Hugh had angled for this story. He’d spent the past week at the airfield of RAF Sullom Voe in the Shetland Islands, and he’d sent a series of recordings to London about the men of No. 201 Squadron. Now he could capture their work in the air.
“We are soaring above our airmen’s remote base in a land of stark beauty, a land iced in the sugar of snow, in blatant defiance of the Ministry of Food’s prohibition on iced cakes.”
Above him on a scaffold platform, the two beam hatch gunners snickered at Hugh’s joke.
“Now that we are airborne, shall we tour this fine aircraft,my dear listeners?” Hugh pushed to his feet and braced himself against the plane’s metal hull, more unsteady than he cared for.
“You’ll be happy to know the Sunderland offers a great deal of comfort for our boys on their long patrols. I am not a short man, but I have ample room to stretch. The aircraft contains bunks, a galley for preparing meals or a pot of tea, and a lavatory—my apologies to my more delicate listeners.”
Hugh worked his way aft, spooling out cord as he walked. “Of course, our airmen are not here for comfort. They’re here to fight. And fight they will. The aircraft bristles with machine guns, should any German fighter pilot test his chances. And a full load of bombs awaits any Nazi U-boat that might meander beneath us.”
He peeked out another window. He would not mention that for every German ship sunk, about ten Coastal Command aircraft were lost. “Now we are flying over open seas. Hours will pass until we reach our destination, but our crew of eleven will remain ever vigilant.”
He faced his BBC engineer, Robert Ferguson, and gave him a signal.
Rob nodded and stopped the recording machine.
Hugh leaned against the riveted beams forming the internal framework of the plane. Blue-gray seas rippled below, and the Shetland Islands diminished behind him.
He’d taken the assignment in Scotland to escape and to revive his career. At least he’d achieved the latter. His report from the Lofoten Raid had been widely praised, and also his reports from the devastating Luftwaffe air raids in Glasgow and Clydebank during the Clydeside Blitz earlier in March. In between, he’d found intriguing stories at the naval base at Scapa Flow and with Scottish farmers and shipbuilders.
