Harvey Marmion was on the point of making contact with Scotland Yard when the telephone rang. He pulled his hand back as if the receiver were red hot. Joe Keedy laughed. After shooting him a look of reproof, Marmion picked up the telephone.
‘Inspector Marmion here,’ he said.
‘Why haven’t you been in touch?’ demanded Chatfield.
‘I was just about to do so, sir.’
‘Don’t lie to me. I expected a call an hour ago.’
‘Sergeant Keedy and I have been very busy.’
‘I haven’t exactly been twiddling my thumbs here, Inspector. What have you discovered?’
‘We learnt a number of things.’
‘Well, come on then – spit them out!’
Marmion told him about the visit to Reuben Harte and how surprised he’d been at Brian Ingles’s decision to sell his house. It led on to the information that Keedy had gleaned from Sadie Radcliffe. Normally, every time he rang the superintendent, Marmion’s sentences would be routinely interrupted by Chatfield as he sought greater clarification. Chatfield remained unusually silent now, listening intently. Marmion could hear his heavy breathing down the line. When he came to the end of his report, Marmion added a rider.
‘We must remember that all this is pure speculation, sir,’ he said. ‘We have unsubstantiated evidence of a pregnancy but no concrete proof. On the other hand, I think you’ll agree, a significant new factor may have entered the investigation.’ The silence continued at the other end of the line and he could no longer hear the sound of heavy breathing. ‘Are you still there, Superintendent?’
‘Where, in God’s name, do you think I am!’ said Chatfield’s rasping voice.
‘I’d value your opinion.’
‘My opinion is that you should have rung me the moment this information came into your possession. Is Sergeant Keedy with you?’
‘He’s sitting beside me,’ replied Marmion.
‘Then you can let him take a share of the blame. The sergeant should have insisted that you communicated with me at the earliest possible juncture. Pass that message on to him.’
The order was unnecessary because Keedy could hear his voice clearly.
‘He deserves something other than your strictures, Superintendent. It was during his visit to Mrs Radcliffe that this new evidence was collected. I would have thought it merited praise rather than condemnation.’
‘You’ll get all the praise you want when the killer is caught and convicted.’
‘Who will it be?’ mused Marmion. ‘Is it Herbert Wylie or the nameless father of Florrie Duncan’s child?’
‘It may be neither,’ said Chatfield.
He spoke rapidly to impart some news and Keedy was unable to catch what he was saying, but he judged from the expression on Marmion’s face that something of importance was being divulged. Making notes as he listened, Marmion nodded away and was only allowed to speak when he bade the superintendent farewell. As he put down the receiver, his expression was one of sheer wonderment.
‘What a day!’ he said. ‘This case is moving too fast for me, Joe. There’s only one thing worse than uncovering a completely new suspect to muddy the waters of an investigation. Do you know what it is?’
‘Tell me.’
‘It seems that we now have two new suspects. The superintendent has been burrowing into the Quinn family’s history and he’s turned up a fascinating coincidence – if that’s what it really is. Do you recall a man by the name of Niall Quinn?’ Keedy looked mystified. ‘Think hard, Joe. His picture was on the front pages of the papers a year ago.’
Keedy smacked the table. ‘He was that Irish lad caught planting a bomb.’
‘And where was he arrested?’
‘Remind me.’
‘It was somewhere perilously close to where we’re now sitting.’
‘Is that why Chat is getting so excited?’
‘He discovered an interesting fact,’ said Marmion. ‘It seems that the Irish nationalist has a definite connection with this area. He’s Eamonn Quinn’s nephew.’
‘So what? He was arrested and sent to prison. Niall Quinn is behind bars.’
‘Not any more, I’m afraid. He escaped last week. Chat has been putting two and two together. A known bomber is at liberty and Maureen Quinn, a relation of his, is the only person to escape from an explosion that he might, or might not, have engineered. Was it chance or design?’
‘I haven’t a clue. What are we supposed to do?’
‘We have to look into it immediately so just pray that the car’s been repaired.’
‘Where are we going, Harv?’
Marmion grinned. ‘We’re off to a whisky distillery in Wales.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The pain would not go away. It had subsided to a dull ache but it was always there. The only way that Neil Beresford could cope with it was to throw himself wholeheartedly into frenetic activity. His mother was amazed when he started to clean the house and do a range of odd jobs that he’d hitherto postponed. For the first time she could remember, he even worked in the garden with enthusiasm. His bursts of energy provided a distraction without actually curing the underlying condition. Anguish pulsed away inside his brain, giving him a permanent headache. While the death of his wife might have weakened the football team he’d so lovingly created and coached, he was determined that it wouldn’t falter completely. Thanks largely to the brilliance of Shirley Beresford, they’d reached the cup final. It fell to the remaining members of the team to end the season on a note of triumph.
Beset as he was with worries about the inquest and the funeral, Beresford never lost sight of the importance of the cup final. When he ran out of things to do at home, therefore, he walked to the factory with a football under his arm. Recognised at the gate, he was allowed in and given some words of commiseration. He strolled out to the pitch on which so many training sessions and games had been played. His overriding memory was of the goals that his wife had scored there. Dropping the ball to the ground, he dribbled it the length of the pitch then smashed it past an invisible goalkeeper. Beresford reclaimed the ball from the net and set it on the penalty spot. He did exactly what his wife had been taught to do and aimed for the top right-hand corner of the goal. It left the invisible goalkeeper hopelessly stranded. He was taking his third penalty when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone coming towards him. Beresford broke off and turned to face the newcomer.
He was slightly alarmed when he saw Bernard Kennett, assuming that the works manager had come to scold him on the grounds that, if he was able to play football, he was fit enough to return to his job. In fact, Kennett gave him a welcoming smile tinged with sadness.
‘I saw you walk past my window,’ he said, ‘and guessed that you might be coming here. You have my deepest sympathies, Neil. I was shocked to learn of the death of your wife. Football meant so much to the pair of you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Beresford. ‘Shirley was a wonderful all-round athlete but this was the sport at which she excelled.’
‘Between you and your wife, you put Hayes Ladies’ Team on the map.’
‘It wasn’t only down to us, Mr Kennett. There were ten other players ready to give blood for the team. Shirley couldn’t have scored goals if she hadn’t been given a steady supply of the ball.’
‘There’s a rumour that we may yet take part in the cup final.’
‘We’ll do more than take part, sir – we’ll win the game!’
Beresford’s conviction was absolute. His single-mindedness was inspiring. With huge numbers working in the Cartridge Section, Kennett could only know the bulk of them by sight. Neil Beresford was an exception. Because of what he’d done for the reputation of the factory, he was a familiar figure there. Kennett had often spoken to him and they were on friendly terms.
‘I had a phone call from Inspector Marmion,’ said the works manager. ‘He told me that they’ve identified a prime suspect.’
‘I know,’ said Beresford. �
�I was at Mr Jenks’s house when the inspector arrived. It was good of him to show us such consideration.’
‘It was reassuring to hear that a culprit had been tracked down but, I must admit, that I’d rather he didn’t work here. If this Herbert Wylie really is guilty, it will leave a nasty stain on the factory.’
‘The police have to catch him first.’
‘Inspector Marmion and Sergeant Keedy are both very able.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Beresford, ‘but Wylie would have had a head start on them. Arranging that explosion would have taken a lot of forethought so he’s obviously a calculating man. That means he’d have planned his escape well in advance.’
‘There’s nowhere for him to hide. Police forces all over the country will have been put on the alert. There’s a full-scale manhunt for Wylie.’
‘I still think he’ll prove elusive.’
‘They’ll catch him somehow.’
‘What if he’s gone abroad?’
‘Then they’ll go after him,’ said Kennett. ‘Nothing daunts them. According to Sergeant Keedy, they had two suspects last year who went off to France with their regiment. They were pursued, arrested and brought back to face justice. I have faith in Inspector Marmion and the sergeant. They’ll travel anywhere to get their man.’
The driver insisted on going. Even though he’d be committing himself to several hours behind the wheel, he wanted to atone for what he felt was his incompetence. Knowing that there was a mechanical fault with the car, he should have reported it and taken an alternative vehicle from Scotland Yard. Fortunately, the car he’d been driving was easily repaired and he was able to pull up outside the police station just before Marmion and Keedy emerged. Startled by the news that they were going to North Wales, he adjusted quickly and volunteered his services. It meant that the detectives could sit together in the rear of the car and discuss the case.
The journey was long, cold and uncomfortable. It was late March and the wind still had considerable bite. Since there was no source of heating in the car, its three occupants were soon shivering when evening plucked all vestiges of light from the sky. With headlamps giving them only restricted vision of the road ahead, they were reduced to a moderate speed. Keedy had the uneasy feeling that they’d never reach their destination.
‘This is madness!’ he complained. ‘We’re going to the back-of-beyond in a car that could easily run out of petrol.’
‘Orders are orders,’ said Marmion. ‘Every time we find a petrol station, we’ll fill the tank.’
‘Why couldn’t we go tomorrow in broad daylight?’
‘The superintendent can’t wait until tomorrow.’
‘Then it’s Chat who should be freezing his balls off in here and not us. If he wants answers today, let him come and get them. Better still,’ he went on, ‘why not simply ring this place for the relevant details?’
‘He tried that, Joe. What we’re after is classified material. It won’t be given over a telephone with no safeguards in place. If we want it, we go and get it.’
‘What’s the place called?’
‘Frongoch – it’s a former distillery used as a prisoner-of-war camp.’
‘Why does it have to be so remote?’ said Keedy.
‘To make it more difficult for prisoners to escape,’ replied Marmion. ‘If they do get out, they find themselves in the Merionethshire wilderness.’
‘I feel as if we’re the ones in the wilderness, Harv. If we do have to go there, why didn’t Chat send us by train? Surely, it would have been quicker.’
‘You’re maligning our superintendent unfairly. The first thing he did was to check the timetables and where we’d need to change trains. London to Frongoch usually takes six hours but it would have taken half as long again this evening. Believe it or not,’ said Marmion, ‘this is probably the fastest way.’
Keedy grimaced. ‘Walking would be faster!’
‘Try to be philosophical about it, Joe. There was a time when you liked the adventure of going to strange places and there’s nowhere stranger than Frongoch.’
Marmion passed on the information given him by Claude Chatfield. Over twenty-five years earlier, a whisky distillery had been built beside a clear stream near Bala but it had been unable to compete with its Scottish rivals and went out of business. It was taken over at the start of the war and converted into an internment camp for German prisoners. Its isolation and strict regime also recommended it for use as a prison for Irish republicans who’d launched terrorist attacks in mainland Britain.
‘So Niall Quinn is being held as a political prisoner,’ said Keedy.
‘That’s right.’
‘Then it’s out of our jurisdiction. This is a case for Special Branch.’
‘The superintendent feels that we have an interest as well and he’s managed to secure permission for us to speak to the governor. They want Niall Quinn caught by whoever tracks him down first.’
‘Supposing that he’s hopped on a boat back to Ireland?’
‘Why do you keep inventing obstacles for us?’
‘Because I think we’re on a wild goose chase.’
Marmion smiled. ‘I’m very partial to the taste of wild goose.’
‘I’m serious, Harv. Okay, maybe this Irish hothead likes to set off bombs but there’s nothing to connect him with the crime that we’re investigating. I know that Sinn Fein are taking advantage of the fact that our police force has been depleted by the war,’ said Keedy, ‘but why on earth should one of its members take an interest in an obscure pub in Hayes, Middlesex?’
‘There’s something you ought to know, Joe.’
‘What is it?’
‘Niall Quinn came over from Ireland with the express purpose of blowing up a stretch of railway line near Uxbridge station. Moreover,’ Marmion went on, ‘he was arrested at his uncle’s house with bomb-making equipment in his possession.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Now why didn’t Eamonn Quinn mention that to us?’
When the meal was over, he sent the children upstairs so that he could talk to his wife in private. Maureen and Lily were glad to run off. Their father was in a surly mood and that never boded well. Left alone with her husband, Diane Quinn had a piece of news to pass on.
‘Who told you that?’ he asked.
‘I met Sadie Radcliffe when I was out shopping.’
‘That woman is a witch.’
‘Eamonn!’ she exclaimed.
‘She said some nasty things about Maureen and I’ll always remember that. How did she hear about this Herbert Wylie?’
‘Sergeant Keedy went to see her.’
‘Do the police think that he put that bomb in the outhouse?’
‘They seem to have good reason to name him as a suspect,’ she said, ‘and all because Maureen told them about the man. It’s a feather in her cap.’
‘I’m not happy at the way they keep on at her.’
‘They’ve only been here a few times, Eamonn.’
‘They’re badgering our daughter,’ he argued, ‘and she’s not in a fit state to be questioned time and again. What if she blurts out something she shouldn’t?’
‘Maureen wouldn’t do that. She has more sense.’
‘I’ll give her another warning.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ advised Diane. ‘She’s not feeling well.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘I’m not sure. All I know is that she’s been behaving in an odd way since I got back from the shops. Maureen was fine when I left. Well,’ she corrected herself, ‘as fine as she could be, that is. Later on, she was shaking all over. I thought she’d caught a chill or something and wondered if I should take her to the doctor.’
‘No,’ he decreed. ‘Doctors cost money.’
‘We can’t let her carry on like that, Eamonn.’
‘I didn’t see anything wrong with her.’
‘Well, I did and it worries me. It’s something to do with her mind.’
‘That’s why I want to
keep those detectives at arm’s length,’ he said, jabbing a finger at her. ‘They always ask too many questions. If they keep on and on at her, she might forget what I told her.’
‘She won’t mention Niall, I promise you.’
‘It could be awkward for me, if she did.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Use your head, Di,’ he chided. ‘Niall spent the night here. If the police had found that out, I’d have been in the dock beside him. It was only because I talked my way out of the situation that I didn’t get arrested.’
‘It might have been safer if you’d turned Niall away.’
‘He’s family. I got loyalties.’
‘He frightened me,’ she admitted. ‘He’s full of such anger at the government. Why does he have to get involved in politics at all? He’s Maureen’s age. He should be thinking about settling down.’
‘Niall has a mission.’
‘I know – and it involves killing people.’
‘All he was trying to do was to cause a disruption on the railway. He was going to take great care that nobody was hurt. Niall is not a killer, Di. He’s a brave lad who sticks by his principles.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but what terrible principles they are. He’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants. Why can’t he live a normal life like the rest of us?’
Quinn was peremptory. ‘There’s nothing wrong with what he believes in,’ he said, tapping his chest. ‘I share his convictions. Ireland has been ground down by the British for far too long. We need people like Niall. More power to his elbow!’
Diane was quietly horrified. She’d never heard him speak like that before.
The installation of the telephone at the Marmion house brought many benefits. It meant, for a start, that he could no longer be hauled out of bed in the small hours by a messenger rapping on the front door. A summons from Scotland Yard could be made by telephone. It also enabled Marmion to contact his colleagues directly from home and to arrange for a driver to pick him up. Yet it remained a novelty to Ellen and she still viewed it with mixed feelings. Its loud ring always unsettled her even when she was expecting a call. The sound caught her off guard that evening and she almost dropped the cake tin she was about to slip into the oven. Putting it on the stove, she wiped her hands on her apron and went into the hall. The ring seemed to have an accusatory note. She lifted the receiver cautiously.
Five Dead Canaries Page 22
