‘I’m off,’ he announced, washing down his last mouthful of food with a swig of tea. ‘Expect me when you see me.’
‘Yes, Eamonn.’
‘And — at all costs — don’t let those coppers over the threshold.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘You’ll do as I bloody well say.’
On that truculent note, he hauled himself up and walked out. Diane heard him putting on his coat and his cap before letting himself out of the house. The door was slammed even harder than usual. Other wives might have baulked at such brusque treatment but she was accustomed to it, always finding an excuse for her husband. It was not simply his underlying anxieties about their sons this time. The main cause of his anger, she told herself, was his concern for Maureen. Their elder daughter had escaped being blown up by the skin of her teeth. It was a shattering experience for her and Quinn was struggling to come to terms with it. As in all crisis situations, he reverted to aggression and bullying. His wife forgave him as a matter of course.
Diane had her own fears for Maureen. Just when the girl was starting to blossom and mature, she’d been thrown into disarray. There was no telling if she’d ever be quite the same again. She’d survived a disaster but would be scarred by it for life. It had already kept Diane awake in the small hours. It would, inevitably, cause Maureen nightmares. The loss of Agnes Collier would be particularly wounding because the two of them saw each other every day. A massive gap had suddenly opened up in Maureen’s life. Diane felt an urge to console her and went padding upstairs in her slippers, expecting to find her elder daughter lying in bed. When she tapped on the door and opened it, however, she was given a profound shock.
There was no sign of Maureen. Her mother flew into a panic. She searched the rest of the house in vain, recruiting Lily to help her and even dashing out into the tiny garden. It was bewildering. Without any explanation, Maureen had vanished.
Quick to criticise Marmion whenever the opportunity arose, Claude Chatfield had to acknowledge that the inspector knew how to control a press conference. Marmion remained calm and even-tempered throughout, winning the crime correspondents over by referring to each of them by their Christian names and producing the occasional quip. He fed them enough information to fill their columns while holding back some significant details. Chatfield knew what those details were because he’d seen the full report that Marmion had put on his desk earlier that morning. He marvelled at the way that questions were fielded and answered. What irritated him was the exaggerated respect that everyone was showing Marmion. It was not always the case. During a previous investigation — the brutal murder of a conscientious objector — the newspapers had been highly critical of what they saw as inertia on the part of the police. Marmion had been the scapegoat. When both the crime and a subsequent murder were solved, however, he was given full credit and his reputation was greatly enhanced. It remained to be seen whether he could succeed with what, on the surface, appeared to be a more complex investigation.
A hand went up and another question was fired at him.
‘Are you certain this is not the work of foreign agents, Inspector?’
‘I’m absolutely certain,’ replied Marmion, levelly.
‘Yet the women were canaries. Killing them was a way of weakening the workforce at a munitions factory.’
‘I can see that you’ve never been to Hayes. It’s an enormous factory, employing well over ten thousand workers, the vast majority of whom are women. Blowing up five of them will hardly have an adverse affect on production.’
‘Point taken, Inspector.’
Keen to get back to the investigation, Marmion wound up the session by reminding them that an urgent appeal for help needed to be made. He also stressed that it would be both unkind and unproductive of them to pursue the families of the individual victims. They — and Maureen Quinn — needed to be left alone at such a sensitive time. Though everyone in the room nodded in agreement, Marmion was not sure if they’d actually obey his instruction. There was always one journalist who’d go to any lengths to get an exclusive story.
When it was all over, Chatfield stepped in to congratulate him.
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘That was exemplary.’
‘Thank you, Inspector.’
‘You’ve obviously picked up a lot of tips from me.’
‘Of course,’ said Marmion.
It was not true but there was no point in arguing about it. In fact, Chatfield was not at his best during a press conference. He was too bossy and kept far too much back. Instead of wooing the press, he usually managed to antagonise them. Sublimely unaware that his manner was condescending, he always wondered why he received less than lavish praise in the newspapers.
‘What’s your next move, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘My first port of call is the Golden Goose. I want another chat with the landlord.’
‘What will Sergeant Keedy be doing?’
‘He’s going to talk to Mr Kennett, the works manager at the factory.’
‘I wish I could put more men at your disposal.’
‘We’ll manage, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘One trained detective is worth half a dozen uniformed constables who’ve spent most of their time pounding the beat and arresting drunks. We’ve a small but experienced team.’
‘But will it deliver a result? That’s my concern.’
‘All that I can guarantee is that we’ll do our utmost.’
‘I suppose I’ve no need to ask this,’ said Chatfield, raising an eyebrow, ‘but I hope you haven’t discussed this case with your daughter. I know that she’s followed in your footsteps and joined the police but she’s a complete novice and has no part to play in a murder investigation.’
As he looked Chatfield in the eye, Marmion’s face was impassive. ‘As you say, sir, there’s no need to ask that question.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it. In any case, she’s probably too busy thinking about her forthcoming marriage, isn’t she? Talking of which, I trust that the prospect is not distracting the sergeant in any way.’
‘Joe Keedy is a true professional, Superintendent.’
‘Yes — he reminds me of myself at that age.’
‘I can’t say that I see any similarity,’ said Marmion, waspishly. ‘You are quite unique, Superintendent. The car is waiting,’ he went on, moving to the door. ‘If you’ll excuse us, we have five murders to solve.’
Bernard Kennett was a tall, stooping, middle-aged man in a crumpled blue suit. He looked rather careworn and had a habit of running his hand through his hair. Invited into his office, Keedy was quick to make an appraisal of him, deciding that the works manager was more or less exactly as he’d imagined him to be when they spoke on the telephone. Kennett was polite, educated and eager to be of assistance. He waved his visitor to a chair, then sat behind a desk piled high with invoices and correspondence.
‘Let me get one thing clear, Sergeant,’ he began. ‘I’m not in overall control of production here. That duty falls to Mr Passmore. He’s the factory manager. I’m in charge of the section where the five unfortunate young women used to work.’
‘And you actually remembered one of them.’
‘Oh, nobody could forget Florence Duncan. She was their spokeswoman. I recall her sitting in that very seat and demanding a longer lunch break.’
‘Did she get it?’ wondered Keedy.
‘That’s immaterial.’ The older man combed his hair with his fingers then reached for a folder on his desk. ‘Knowing that you were coming, I did a bit of detective work on my own behalf. I spoke to some of the women who worked alongside the five victims and made a few notes.’
‘That will be extremely helpful, sir,’ said Keedy. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s only anecdotal, of course, but it will tell you something about their characters.’ He opened the folder. ‘I need hardly say what the mood is like in the Cartridge Section. Those five young women were very popular. The whole place is in mourning for them.’
‘That’s understandable.’
Kennett glanced at his notes. ‘The one I feel sorry for is Enid Jenks.’
‘We were told that she was a fine musician.’
‘That’s why she would have been so disappointed to miss the occasion. We’re not just slave-drivers here, Sergeant. Productivity must, of necessity, be kept up to a high level but we do try to take care of our workforce. They’re engaged in rather dull and repetitive work,’ he continued, ‘so we endeavour to take their minds off it by giving them periodic treats during their lunch break.’
‘What sort of treats?’
‘The one I have in mind is the visit of Madame Tetrazzini. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ confessed Keedy.
‘Then I can see that you are not an opera lover. Madame Tetrazzini is a famous Italian soprano. She has an international reputation. We were lucky enough to secure a booking with her. She’s due to entertain our workers here next week. I fancy that Enid Jenks would have been thrilled to have the opportunity to hear the lady. It’s a complete contrast,’ said Kennett with a note of pride. ‘The women go from filling shells for long hours to listening to arias from Verdi and Rossini. We may tire their limbs but we also feed their souls.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir. I’ve never been to an opera. But I’m glad that it’s not uninterrupted toil here.’ He extended a hand. ‘Can I see your notes, please?’
Kennett passed them to him. ‘Take them away, Sergeant. My handwriting is not too atrocious. Now, then, what else can I do to help?
‘I’d be interested to see what the five victims actually did when they were here,’ said Keedy, careful not to reveal that he believed the bomber might also work at the factory. ‘I’d like some insight into their daily routine.’
‘That can be arranged.’
Before he could stand up, Kennett was diverted by the urgent ring of his telephone. Apologising for the interruption, he picked up the receiver and listened. Keedy watched his expression change from interest to sudden concern.
‘Yes,’ said the works manager at length. ‘By all means, allow her in. I’ll see her immediately.’ He put the receiver down. ‘That was the security officer at the gate. There’s a Mrs Quinn asking to see me. She seems quite desperate.’
‘Would that be a Mrs Diane Quinn?’ asked Keedy.
‘It is, indeed. It appears that her daughter has disappeared from the house. Mrs Quinn is wondering if she came to work in spite of the fact that she was ordered not to by her father. Excuse me,’ said Kennett, moving to the door, ‘while I instruct my secretary to establish the facts. I want to put Mrs Quinn’s mind at rest.’
Keedy took the opportunity to glance at the notes he’d been given. They were written in a neat hand and consisted largely of a series of quotations from friends of the deceased. They fleshed out the portraits that he and Marmion had been given at the Quinn house. He noted the kind words that were said about Maureen herself. Most of the praise was reserved for Florrie Duncan but Enid Jenks was admired for her musical talent — she also played the piano — Agnes Collier was remembered for her girlish giggle and Jean Harte was liked best for her morose humour. Keedy was very interested in a snippet of information about Shirley Beresford.
It was minutes before Kennett reappeared. When he finally did so, he had an anguished Diane Quinn with him. She was startled to see Keedy there. He stood up so that she could have his chair and listened intently to her tale of woe.
‘It’s my fault,’ she said, chewing her lip. ‘I should have checked the moment I got up. Better still, I should have heard her sneaking out of the house. It never crossed my mind that she’d go anywhere. Maureen was dog-tired last night. After what she’d been through, it’s not surprising. But, when I went into her bedroom this morning, she simply wasn’t there!’ Apprehension darkened her features. ‘My husband will be so cross with me when he finds out. I must get Maureen back before he comes home. Where on earth can she be, Sergeant?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Quinn. I assume that you’ve conducted a search?’
‘I’ve been everywhere. I even called on Sadie Radcliffe and that was a mistake. She was very spiteful about Maureen — don’t know why. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I remembered reading this article once about people who have a dreadful experience being drawn back to the place where it happened. So I caught the train to Hayes and asked where the Golden Goose was. It was frightening. Well, you’ve seen the mess that the bomb made, Sergeant. It made my knees go weak. If Maureen had been caught in the blast, we’d never have been able to recognise her remains.’
‘That is posing a problem,’ admitted Keedy, ‘and I’m sorry that you had to see that pile of debris. What made you think your daughter may have come here?’
‘It was what she wanted to do but Eamonn, my husband, forbade it.’
‘I’m fairly certain that’s she’s not here,’ said Kennett, ‘because the other girls would have mentioned the fact when I talked to them. We’ll soon know the truth. My secretary will find out if she clocked in.’
‘She has to be here, sir. Where else can she be?’
Diane continued to insist that her daughter was in the factory somewhere and the two men consoled her as best they could. When the telephone rang, Kennett moved across to pick it up. The conversation was over within seconds. After putting the receiver down, he shook his head sadly.
‘Maureen is definitely not on the site, Mrs Quinn,’ he said.
She was devastated. ‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Yes, I am. If she had turned up here this morning, she wouldn’t have been allowed to carry on as if nothing had happened. For her own sake, we’d have turned her away.’ He looked at Keedy. ‘People sometimes think that we force our employees to work until they drop but we’re very humane. We always try to show compassion.’ His eyes flicked back to Diane. ‘You’ll have to look elsewhere, Mrs Quinn.’
‘But where?’ she wailed. ‘There’s nowhere else left.’
‘Yes, there is,’ said Keedy, ‘and it’s possible that it never occurred to you. If you were thrown into a panic, you probably just ran around in circles.’
‘That’s exactly what I did, Sergeant. I was like a dog with its tail on fire.’
‘Let’s see if we can put that fire out, shall we?’ He moved to the door and opened it. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Kennett. I’ll be back in due course. At the moment, the search for Maureen takes priority.’ He smiled at Diane. ‘Are you ready, Mrs Quinn?’
Harvey Marmion was pleased to hear that many bomb fragments had been found and that they were being carefully pieced together. He would eventually know if they were dealing with an amateur or with someone who had some expertise in handling explosives. Looking at the rubble, he found it difficult to imagine where the bomb had actually been placed or what sort of timing device it must have had. The scene was a graphic illustration of cause and effect. A knot of people looked on with ghoulish curiosity. Uppermost in the mind of Leighton Hubbard was revenge. Standing beside Marmion on the pavement opposite his pub, he was quivering with fury.
‘Catch him, Inspector,’ he urged. ‘Catch him then hand him over to me.’
‘Let the law take its course, sir.’
‘Hanging is too good for an animal like that.’
‘We may be talking about more than one person,’ said Marmion. ‘It’s something we can’t rule out. Planting a bomb in its hiding place would have taken some time. The bomber might have needed a lookout.’
‘He needs a hand grenade up his arse, if you ask me.’
‘How did he gain access to the outhouse, that’s what puzzles me? You claim that it was kept locked.’
‘It’s supposed to be,’ said Hubbard, ‘and I always make sure that it is. So does the missus, for that matter. We protect our property. Because he only works here now and again, Royston is not so careful.’
‘Royston?’
‘He helps us out, Inspecto
r. He’s a willing lad but he’s not very bright. When he tried to join the army, they turned him down on medical grounds but it could equally have been because of his stupidity.’
‘What does he do, exactly?’
‘He fetches and carries. That’s about all he can do. I’d never let him behind the bar and he’d be hopeless dealing with money. What he can do is donkey work. Royston cleans beer glasses and moves crates of empty bottles.’
‘Where does he store the crates — in the outhouse?’
‘Yes,’ replied Hubbard.
‘Does he ever forget to lock it?’
‘I’m afraid that he does. Every time it’s happened, I threaten him with the sack but …’ the landlord hunched his shoulders ‘… well, the truth is that I feel sorry for the lad. You can’t help liking him.’
‘Where is the key to the outhouse kept?’
‘It hangs on a hook in the corridor.’
‘Where does the corridor lead?’
‘It’s the way to the Gents — that’s out in the courtyard. Well, it was,’ said Hubbard, bitterly, ‘but that went up in smoke as well. It’s only a shed with a corrugated iron roof. Thank God nobody was taking a piss out there at the time.’
The landlord was still simmering. Marmion gave him a few minutes to expel his bile about the temporary loss of his livelihood. Hubbard blamed everyone he could think of for the disaster, ending with an attack on the police for not guarding his premises. Marmion leapt to their defence.
‘How were they to know that your outhouse was in danger?’ he challenged. ‘Police resources are very stretched, Mr Hubbard. They have to identify the most vulnerable targets and keep an eye on them. No disrespect to the Golden Goose but your pub hardly merits comparison with the munitions factory. Had a bomb been planted there, far more deaths would have resulted.’
Hubbard had the grace to look shamefaced. He even shrugged an apology.
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