My Name is Eva An absolutely gripping and emotional historical novel - Suzanne Goldring Page 0,49
call you Eva?’ He smirked, then said, ‘Why did you give yourself that exotic name, I wonder? To add to your romantic notion of what post-war work should be?’
‘Be quiet,’ Evelyn said. ‘I saw you. You tossed Hugh’s life away as if it meant nothing. He was merely a pawn as far as you were concerned. You gambled with his life in your game with the Germans. You used my husband in your double-crossing, caring nothing for his existence. And I saw how you enjoyed your work. Humiliating, hurting, punishing. It wasn’t just about obtaining the information for you, it was about the power you felt. You loved every revolting second of it.’
‘My God, you are so naive! You were then and you are now. You just don’t realise what a money pot you’re sitting on here. I could have helped you make a fortune. You’d have been comfortable for the rest of your life, if you’d let me help you.’
‘Money, land, possessions, they’re not important,’ Evelyn cried. ‘Life is important. Respecting it, protecting it, caring for the living. You killed people for their beliefs, but colluded with others who had killed hundreds and thousands.’
He laughed and for once it was real laughter, mocking her and her beliefs. ‘I just don’t believe this. You are so deluded. There were losses on both sides, you stupid woman! The Germans killed thousands in the camps; we killed just as many when we bombed their cities. What’s the difference? That’s the reality of war. We’re all killers in the end.’
‘Not cold-blooded killers,’ she said. ‘I’m doing this for all those you hurt and for all they hurt too. For all those who committed war crimes but were not punished and for all those who were let off lightly.’ She raised the gun and fired, hitting him full force in the chest. He staggered back, his hand wavering over his heart, then she fired again at his head. He was right, she was a good shot. He fell and was still.
She stood over him, watching until she was quite sure. Then she looked around. The fields were quite empty; no one called out in alarm at the noise. A pheasant had flown off squawking in alarm when she fired and she could hear a motorbike in the distance, but there were no other unexpected sounds to make her think she had been seen. It wasn’t the silent killing she had been taught, but it was accomplished at last.
Evelyn bent down and pulled off his wellington boots. They belonged in the boot room and would be missed if she didn’t replace them. She’d deal with his shoes in the house later. She slipped his arms from his jacket and pulled at his trousers, revealing skinny, almost hairless, white legs; she’d need to check all the pockets thoroughly and the fewer the layers the better for the wildlife. Rummaging in her pocket, she found her newly sharpened pruning knife and sliced through his sweater and shirt. Underneath, his grey vest and Y-fronts, worn elastic showing through holes in the waistband, emphasised his pitiful genteel poverty, but did not elicit her sympathy. Grabbing his ankles, she heaved and pulled. Years of hauling dead sheep, hay bales and bags of manure had kept her fit and he wasn’t a big man, barely taller than her and of spare build, despite her wholesome Sunday lunches. She dragged him a couple of feet, inches at a time, into the thickest part of the undergrowth, then scooped leaves over his body. It was barely noticeable.
36
Evelyn, 4 February 1986
Covering Tracks
Evelyn hung the shot pheasant in the cool of the boot room and put the Hunter boots Stephen had borrowed back in their rightful place. She was fairly certain that every time he’d come to Kingsley, he’d said he hadn’t seen anyone on the way. He was naturally observant, with the ingrained habits of one used to surveillance, both as follower and followed. But what if a neighbour had seen him on one of his visits, what if someone else usually caught the same train from Waterloo on a Sunday and often went back around the same time?
Evelyn helped herself to a portion of the beef casserole with dumplings. Such a good idea to have something hot and nourishing waiting for her after her stressful morning. She sat down at the kitchen table and, while she ate, she began to analyse the details as far as she could remember them.