REBECCA BAKER IS A PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR ── in her late 20s, with an eye for glamour, and a brain seeking more complex challenges budding in the streets of 1950s london. So far, except a localised exposure in a vanity magazine, the young sleuth hasn'...
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London, England. 12th June, 1953.
IT HAD RAINED INCESSANTLY OVER THE PAST FEW DAYS. Beyond the window, a thick, grey fog loomed over a London desperate for visibility. Below, a low rumble of scanty traffic only meant that offices were not going to be impeded by the current crisis. Work would continue, like any other day. For Rebecca Baker, this meant nothing. Because, neither did she hold an office, nor was she in one. For an average London-dweller, and that too a woman, there were only but a limited range of interests one could choose from, with the hope of turning them into a profession one day. Hers, eluding the range⸻happened to be crime. After graduating from University with a degree in Journalism, her first case as an inconspicuous junior reporter in tracking a burglary earned her quite the reputation⸻an exposure in a local vanity magazine. Succeeding these events, she gave up her job and welcomed her arms wide to the world of money, power, blood and fame, under a new credential. That, of a Private Investigator. But luck this time, seemed to have left her side. Save a few dull cases hither and thither; she found nothing that kept her hunger fed.
On an ordinary summer day, she would normally be outside. Perhaps looking for a second hand radio set at a good price at the charity shop, or hunting for the perfect pair of stockings to go with a particular red skirt. But today, with the rain galloping down and the other options being pushed way out of possibility, she could now indulge in a hobby she had almost given up over the months⸻newspaper cuttings. And it seemed, one page in the depths of the English Chronicles had piqued her interest⸻a man murdered in the streets of Croydon.
Bent over the glistening piece of paper under the study light, a thin curl of smoke escaped from the loose end of a cigarette hung between the cherry of her lips. Her hands moved steadily, cutting through the borders of the news as she hummed to a tune, muffled by the torrent outside. Underneath the desk, her socked toes rubbed against each other in the basking radiation of the room heater. For Rebecca, this was essentially reconnecting with her element⸻specially after the letter that arrived the previous evening. The contents of which she first gobbled up in disbelief, then read again carefully to guarantee its authenticity, and then, dissected it with a pacing heart as she was met again with the prospect of something she'd hoped for too long⸻a new case. So along with the news on the paper today, it felt, something her secular, non-theist self would hardly love to put it that way⸻a good omen; a higher call.
Currently, however, interrupting her cerebration, an expected footstep was heard outside her door. Seconds later, the door knob turned, and in came a gentle, mellow whiff of the Brooke bond.
"Well, that, has to be a surprise." A sharp, familiar voice called out from the end of the room, and in with her came the low rumble of a trolley on wheels and a clutter of numerous trays and cups.
