Donny didn’t really mind the darkness. The silence, the emptiness of the streets gave everything a taste of excitement. You never knew what would happen in the night.
In the daytime, this part of Birmingham looked neat and trim; better-class houses, women with pride. But those same women were not above spending a good part of the day queuing up for something or other. When he’d gone out earlier, he’d passed a long line outside the butcher’s shop on Broad Street. He’d noticed a handwritten sign in the window. today, FRESH MINCE. HALF A POUND PER CUSTOMER. Rumour had it that the butchers were mixing in horsemeat with the mince, but Donny thought it was stupid to care where the stuff came from as long as it was edible. What was the difference, really? Dead meat was dead meat. The women in the queue were waiting patiently with their shopping bags and baskets. They were docile as sheep, and he despised them for it.
Donny had met Patrick only once before, also at night. He’d been almost literally dragged there by a black-souled Welshman who’d nabbed him as Donny was coming out of this very church. The taffy had deduced that he, Donny, was up to no good. Not surprising, as it was midnight and he had a suspicious bulge under his coat – the poor box, as a matter of fact, that he’d just nicked. Taffy had given him a cuff across the head and a talking to. Essentially Taffy said he wouldn’t throw Donny to the dogs as long as he made himself useful. There was this group of blokes, see, who were against the war and wanted to do whatever they could to make things difficult for the government. Donny could understand that, couldn’t he? “I’m no bolshie,” Donny had blurted out. The taffy had laughed. “That’s not what holds us together, boyo. Some is bolshie, some isn’t. But I know we’ll find a suitable job for you to do.” Donny had no recourse but to agree, and the next day he’d had a meeting with the bloke called Patrick. If the taffy was scary, this man was worse. He hadn’t said much, but at the end of the meeting he said, “He’ll do.” That’s it. “He’ll do.” And Donny felt as if he’d been given a sentence of death. So far he hadn’t been called on. Somebody else had done the dirty. But his turn was coming; he knew it was.
Donny had a torch but the battery was fading and the beam was weak. It was bloody dark and he might have gone right past the alcove in the church wall if he hadn’t seen the faint glow of a cigarette. He kept on walking as instructed, then at the gate turned around and retraced his footsteps. At the alcove he could just make out the shape of a man.
“Got a light, chum?” he asked.
“Sure.”
Still not turning, the man handed over a box of matches and waited while Donny went through the ritual of taking out his cigarette makings, rolling his fag, and lighting up.
“Everything all right, then?” the man asked. He was wearing a workman’s cap pulled down over his forehead and the lower part of his face was obscured by a thick scarf that he moved only to drag on his cigarette. Donny didn’t think he’d recognize him if he passed him on the street. Even his voice seemed phony, sort of gravelly, unnatural. It was impossible to say where he was from.
“Right as rain,” Donny answered. “By the way, don’t know where I can get hold of some pliers, do you? I’ve got a mate who’s in the electricity business and he’s agreed to do a bit of work for me. He’s lost his. Somebody must have bleedin’ nicked them.” He smirked, enjoying his own private little joke.
He could feel the anger running through the other man’s body as if he’d actually touched him, but when he spoke, his voice was the same, low and even. “Is that why you’ve come here? To ask about frigging pliers? I don’t call that an emergency.”
“No, right, sorry. What I wanted to let you know was that this bloke can make timers. They’re useful things, they are. They’ll set off bloody anything you want them to at any time you pick.”
“Yes, I know what timers are, sonny.”
Suddenly they saw the light of a torch and two men emerged out of the fog. Comrade Patrick shrank back into his alcove and Donny held himself very still. Both of them automatically hid their cigarettes. The men going by didn’t seem to notice them. Both had posh educated voices. God knows where they were coming from at that time of night. Or going to, for that matter.
“He’s worth listening to, in my opinion. He knows things the government won’t tell us about.”
“I consider him a traitor … pile of rubbish …”
They faded out of earshot.
Donny jerked his head, trying to find something to ease the situation. “Stupid ponces. They’re talking about that bloody Lord Haw-Haw. He don’t know nothing. It’s our bloody government puts him up to it, if you ask me. Riles up the bloody people ’gainst Jerry.”
The other man shifted slightly. “You’ve got one more minute, then I’m going. What’s on your mind?”
Donny dragged deeply on his fag. “This bloke’s in a spot of trouble, see. He’s deserted from the army and he needs to get away from here. I told him if he helped me out, I’d get him some papers that’ll get him into Ireland.”
The comrade coughed, a harsh, dry cough. “My, my, that’s big of you. You have access to false papers, do you, then?”
“No, but I thought you might know where I could get them.”
Another cough, worse this time. “If I had such stuff I frigging wouldn’t hand it over just like that. That’s no bargain. Timers aren’t that hard to make.”
Donny quailed. He’d come to the meeting jaunty, like a young wolf laying his prize catch at the feet of the leader. It didn’t seem to be such a prize after all. He fished in his pocket and took out a grubby piece of paper, which he gave to the other man. “Last time there wasn’t much damage if you look at it. The bloody factory’ll be up and running soon as spit. With my plan, it’ll be all over. Boom. No more factory whatsoever.” He pointed to the paper, which the man was studying. “See, I drew a diagram. We’d only need small bombs. Two at the most. One here, in the boiler room. It’s right under the factory floor and would wipe out the machines totally. The second one is here, in the men’s change room. That would be set to go off a few minutes later. And the change room is right underneath the bleedin’ office.”
That got Patrick’s attention. He half turned towards Donny. “And?”
“That’s where we can get lots of lovely moolah.” He smirked. “Every cause could do with money, don’t you think?”
“You’re right about that, Comrade Bolton.”
“I made sure I kept my peepers open when I was working there.”
Patrick’s eyes flickered over to him. “And when was that, sonny?”
“Few months ago. Unfortunately I got the boot. I was accused of being light-fingered, you see.”
“Why aren’t I surprised.”
“Yes, well, they couldn’t prove anything, could they? I was in the mailroom. Nice cushy job. Too bad. Anyways, I noticed Endicott always trots off to the bank on the morning of payday. He takes out money and brings it to the office. We don’t need to worry about a safe – there ain’t one. Just a tin box. At noon, his poncey secretary takes out this same money box, goes into the canteen, and hands out the wages to the first shift. He’s always on time. Never fails. It would be easy as pie to time the bomb to go off just as Miss Nancy Boy is walking across the hall. Our comrade, who is all safe and waiting for the bang, could just go and nick it, snip-snap. Stick it in a bag. Nobody’s going to notice him in all the botheration that’ll be happening. He can walk outside and hand the bag over to … to whoever is waiting for it.”
Donny was getting excited as he talked. He’d been working on this plan ever since Jack had revealed that his brother was in hiding.
Comrade Patrick was still looking at the sheet of paper. It was impossible to tell whether or not he liked the idea. Donny felt like rolling another fag but made himself wait.
Finally the other man spoke. “How do you see these objects being put in place?”
“It’s easy. First, Comrade Chopin can put one down in the boiler room. He gets out. Tick, tick … bo
om. Up it goes. Ta-ta factory. The second bomb, same thing. Comrade Cardiff works in the caf. All he has to do is hide the bomb in his bait tin, put it in his locker, and Bob’s your uncle …” Donny could feel that a fleck of saliva had appeared at the corner of his mouth but he ignored it. This was almost as good as a bit of shagging. “So what do you think?”
“Sounds possible. I’ll have to show it to the Chief.”
“I thought that was you.”
“Me, I’m just a foot soldier.”
Donny didn’t know if he believed him, but he didn’t pursue it. “We would time it so the two comrades could get well out of the way.”
“Maybe.”
Donny felt a stab of fear in his gut. He knew what maybe really meant.
The comrade stashed the paper in his pocket. “You’re a lad who takes the initiative. That could be a good thing or a bad thing. Depends on whether or not you’re going off half-cocked. To pull this off properly, we’d need the wherewithal.”
“I’m telling you I can get it. Well, at least I can get the timer part. You’d have to come up with the bangers. He’s desperate, is this bloke I mentioned. He’ll do anything. We’ll have the friggin’ factory on its knees, and make us a bit of dosh on the side.”
“Do you know anything about making bombs, Comrade Bolton?”
“Er, no. But I thought as somebody else would.”
The man tapped his arm. “I am starting to like the idea. To tell you the truth, I was casting my mind around for something just like this. Smart lad.”
Donny felt himself actually blush with pleasure. Praise indeed.
“But we’ll have to move fast. Can your pal be ready with the goods by tomorrow night?”
“Piece of cake. Take him no time at all. He’s not doing anything else, is he.”
“It’ll cost him. Timers are cheap, papers aren’t.”
“How much?”
“Forty pounds.” The man dropped his fag end and crushed it with his shoe. “Meet me tomorrow. Same time. And no word to anybody. The future success of our enterprise will depend on everybody keeping their traps tight shut. Including you, me boyo.”
Donny shivered; he couldn’t help it. Initially he’d thought this kind of talk was a pile of tommyrot, but he had the feeling that if it suited his purpose, his so-called comrade would wipe out opposition with no more hesitation than killing a fly. Donny also knew without a shadow of a doubt that his own survival depended on his usefulness. Once that was over, so was he. Dead men have a way of keeping their mouths shut.
Patrick moved off. “Two days until payday, Bolton.”
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 26
CONSTABLE EAGLETON HAD ARRIVED IN THE EARLY hours of the morning, the train having been delayed for two hours. Nevertheless, bright and chipper, he was waiting for Tyler in the canteen at breakfast.
“What do you think you are, Eager? Young?”
“Er, yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
They had weak tea and toast made palatable by the scones Eagleton had brought with him from Sergeant Gough’s wife.
“That woman is a national treasure,” said Tyler as he munched.
He filled in the constable as to what he had done so far, including his visit to Sylvia Sumner.
“She was a fine-looking girl,” said Eagleton. “What a terrible shame.”
“Indeed.”
“Are we seriously looking for criminal activity, sir?”
“I don’t know, but we can’t rule out the possibility, not these days. The war has given all the crackpots in the country a chance to play out their grievances. On the other hand, the matter could be personal. Somebody wanting to kill one of the operatives.”
“Crikey. Why would they?”
“You don’t know much about the ways of love, Eager. Rejection can twist a person inside out.”
“Even if you kill many other innocent people?”
“Even that. Anyway, I’m going to set you up in the section where the explosion took place. Go through everything with a sieve. You’re looking for anything that might have caused the explosion. Metal, jewellery, that sort of thing. When you take your tea break, go to the canteen and chat up the girls. Young women will always talk to good-looking young coppers like you.”
Eagleton looked doubtful. “Do you think so, sir? I haven’t had that experience yet.”
“This isn’t Whitchurch, this is the big city. They’re more broad-minded here.”
“I suppose it doesn’t help that I know virtually everybody in Whitchurch. I’m not new to them either.”
“Exactly. Now let’s get going. I’m in a cubbyhole on the factory floor. Just room for me and a mouse. Fetch me at once if you come across anything. By the way, lad, it’s all right to wear your specs here. I won’t tell.”
Eagleton blushed. He’d surreptitiously slipped a pair of spectacles into his pocket while they were getting their tea tray.
“Thank you, sir. I only need them for close-up work, but I thought I might get kicked out of the force if anybody knew.”
“Not a chance, Eager. Even half-blind you’re a better police officer than half the constabulary. I wouldn’t allow you to get the chop.”
They walked over to the factory. It was another overcast, chilly day. Tyler was beginning to forget what a sunny day looked like. He directed the younger man to the site of the explosion and left him to his task.
He’d just seated himself at the desk-cum-tea-table when Cudmore came in carrying an envelope. He cleared his throat in a self-deprecating way. “Here are my notes from yesterday. I think you’ll find them all in order.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cudmore.” Tyler put the envelope on the desk.
“Did you sleep well, sir?” Cudmore asked.
“Not really.”
“Strange bed, most likely. I’m rather like that myself.”
Tyler didn’t add that he’d also been tormented by bad dreams. Something that should have been getting better but clearly wasn’t.
“Did you have the opportunity to interview Mr. Pavely?” asked Cudmore.
“I did but he doesn’t remember a thing. His memory literally stops just before the accident happened.” Tyler rubbed his hands over his head. “Make a note, Mr. Cudmore. I’d like to know who instructed the men to work on the bench.”
The secretary glanced up in surprise. “It was I myself, sir. I got a note about a small tear in the linoleum cover that needed to be repaired. I passed that along to Mr. Pavely, who is our senior maintenance man.”
“Did you see the tear yourself?”
Cudmore raised his eyebrows. “I did. I have to ensure that these requisitions are indeed necessary.”
“How did the tear get there?”
“I don’t understand your question, Inspector.”
“As I understand it, no instruments were being used in Section B that were sharp enough to put a hole in linoleum.”
“Ah, yes, quite so. This particular damage was at the corner of the bench. The lino was probably not glued down sufficiently and had come loose. It was not a big job but did necessitate the entire cover being removed and re-glued in place.”
“When did you receive this requisition?”
“On Saturday, sir.”
“And who reported it?”
“Mr. Riley. He discovered it that morning.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cudmore. Underline that, will you.” Tyler tipped back as far as his chair could go before he connected with the wall. Serious as the subject was, he was rather enjoying this process of dictation. Previously he would have liked it even more if the madly scribbling secretary had been an attractive young woman. But then that was a different Tyler, and in another time.
“Right. Let’s just jot down what we’re trying to determine here. Question one, first and most obvious: what caused the detonators to explode? Were they incorrectly loaded? Mishandled by one of the girls?” He paused. “There is the rather puzzling fact that the change-room door was locked. This meant a delay in the aft
ernoon shift’s getting to their section.” He pointed at Cudmore for emphasis. “Question number two, underlined: is this delay significant or irrelevant? Did it put undue pressure on the girls to hurry with their tasks? They should have waited for their supervisor before they trayed up but they chose not to.”
Cudmore shook his head disapprovingly.
“If the operatives had got to their benches on time,” continued Tyler, “the workmen would not have been allowed to remain. Did they somehow contribute to the explosion? If so, how? I told Pavely it wasn’t his fault. They couldn’t have caused a spark with what they were doing, and they weren’t handling the pots.”
“But their presence did mean the women who were normally at Bench Two had to move over,” said the secretary. “That might have caused undue congestion.”
Tyler paused and pinched the bridge of his nose. A familiar throb was beginning its tune in his temples. “Too many bloody variables, Mr. Cudmore. I feel like a dog chasing its own tail. I’m going in circles, with nothing to show for it but a dicey smell.”
Cudmore peered at Tyler. His blue eyes were sharp. “There is one thing that might be added to the mix, as it were, Inspector. With this new quota system that Mr. Endicott introduced – with the best of intentions of course …”
He paused while Tyler nodded his support for Endicott’s intentions.
“He said he would give a bonus of five pounds to whichever shift produces the most work by the end of the month. The competition among the employees has become intense. I wondered to myself if somebody from the Red shift – the first shift, that is – I wondered if one of the young women had locked the door so that the Blue shift would be delayed and fall behind on their quota.”
“Ah, a good thing to wonder about, Mr. Cudmore. I’d better have a word with those girls. Did they all come in today?”
“Not all of them, but I can fetch the ones that are here and send word to the others.”
“Let’s do that, then. Where is the change-room key usually kept?”
Beware This Boy Page 13
