Alice returned the letter. ‘Not at all, Mummy,’ she said, brightly. ‘I’m so glad you did. If Daddy had been in his office, of course, you could have phoned him there from home but he’s out of reach at the moment. He’ll be so pleased.’
‘The same goes for Joe. He and Paul always liked each other.’
‘Yes, they did.’
‘Anyway, I have something else for you as well. Knowing the interest you took in the case, I bought the lunchtime edition.’ Taking the newspaper from her bag, she handed it over. ‘I wish that they could find a better photo of your father.’
Alice studied the front page. ‘It does make him look sinister, doesn’t it?’
‘You’d think he was the bomber instead of the person who’s after him.’
‘Thank you, Mummy. I’ll enjoy reading this.’
‘That’s more than I did. Some of the details are very upsetting and you can see the damage that was done by the explosion. I know I’ve said it a hundred times but I’d never make a detective. I’m far too sensitive.’
‘You have to develop a thick skin.’
‘Then I’ll stay as a housewife. I’m good at that and it suits me.’ She looked Alice up and down. ‘What kind of a day have you had?’
Folding up the newspaper, Alice clicked her tongue then sighed.
‘Oh, it was a lot less exciting than being involved in a murder investigation.’
‘Did you have any trouble with the inspector?’
‘There was a little bit of friction but it soon passed.’
‘She ought to be grateful to have you there.’
‘Gratitude is not her strong suit,’ said Alice, rolling her eyes. ‘She tackled me this morning about the explosion. Had I been discussing it with my father? Did I have any inside information? Was I overstepping my authority? And so on.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I denied the accusations, of course. I admit nothing to Gale Force.’
‘You could always apply for a transfer.’
‘That would mean conceding defeat and I won’t give her that satisfaction. The inspector will get fed up with chivvying me one day and find a new victim. However,’ she added, ‘that’s enough about me. Now that you’re here, I’ll make you a cup of tea. Then we must talk about the welcome we’re going to lay on for Paul. We must really push the boat out for him.’
While he sat in the back of the car outside the police station, Joe Keedy flipped through his notebook to refresh his memory. In terms of gathering information about the victims, it had been a productive day. On the other hand, they seemed no nearer to identifying the bomber. Marmion had told him about the interview with Alan Suggs and how he was certain that the driver wasn’t in any way connected to the crime. A prime suspect had therefore been removed. He needed to be replaced. Keedy could imagine what Marmion was doing. Having rung the superintendent to bring him up to date with developments, he’d now be listening to an irritating series of complaints and commands from Claude Chatfield. Nothing short of an arrest would placate him and that seemed to be a very long way off.
Putting his notebook away, Keedy took out his wallet and extracted the sepia photograph of Alice that he carried everywhere with him. He turned it over to read the message she’d written. After all this time, he still found it touching. It was strange to think that, when he first met her, she was barely into her teens. Neither of them had ever thought for a moment that their destiny was to be together. Turning the photo over again, he let his eyes dwell lovingly on her face until a dark shadow fell across it. Harvey Marmion was standing beside the car with such a look of displeasure that Keedy hastily put the photo away in the wallet. Marmion opened the door and climbed in beside him.
‘What did Chat have to say?’ asked Keedy.
‘I’ll give you one guess.’
‘He wants a visible sign of progress.’
‘He wants more than that, Joe. He’s demanding a blooming miracle. This case has aroused national interest. Chat insists on a swift resolution.’
‘Then he should lend us his magic wand. We certainly haven’t got one.’
‘The phone call wasn’t entirely made up of the usual diatribe.’
‘You mean that he actually had something useful to say?’
‘Yes,’ replied Marmion. ‘Enough of the bomb and the timer were recovered to send back to the lab. First reports suggest it’s a fairly sophisticated device. In short, we’re up against a pro.’
‘Well, there are plenty of those at the munitions factory. It’s their trade. Are you sure that one them wasn’t working hand in glove with Suggs? He could have got an accomplice into that outhouse and kept watch.’
‘The only accomplice that Suggs had was young, compliant and female. He has quite a private life, it turns out. Royston Liddle told me that Suggs took a woman in there on a few occasions but he missed out a significant detail.’
‘What was that, Harv?’
‘It wasn’t always the same woman.’
Keedy laughed. ‘You mean that he’s a ladykiller?’ he said. ‘From what you told me about him, it didn’t sound as if any woman would give him a second glance.’
‘Appearance isn’t everything, Joe. Suggs was coarse, ugly and as cocky as they come but that obviously attracts a certain sort of woman. I feel sorry for them, especially for the regular girlfriend.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘The one who spends the odd night at the house,’ explained Marmion. ‘When he told me that he was in bed at the time of the explosion, he was being honest for once. What he omitted to tell me was that someone else was in bed with him.’
‘He obviously likes variety,’ said Keedy in amazement. ‘You’ve got to admire the man’s stamina. He has a production line.’
‘It’s not the way it looks, Joe. That’s what Suggs kept telling me. He admitted that he was getting rather bored with his girlfriend and has been searching for a replacement. What happened in that outhouse was a series of auditions.’
‘Where on earth does he find all these women?’
‘They’re from the factory. Where else? Look at the numbers,’ suggested Marmion. ‘There must be five women to every man. Suggs said it was like picking apples off a tree.’
‘Did you remind him what happened to Adam and Eve?’
‘I didn’t need to because I fancy that the serpent was named Alan Suggs. He’d corrupt anyone.’ Marmion leant forward to give the driver some instructions then sat back. The car started up and moved away. ‘Let’s see what we can learn about Florrie Duncan.’
‘Yes,’ said Keedy, ‘and let’s hope we actually get invited properly into the house while we’re doing it. Mr Harte didn’t let me anywhere near the living room.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t like the look of you.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Harv. At least I got through the door. When you put a slip of paper through the letter box with your name on it, Harte didn’t believe you were a detective. He thought it was a trick to lure him out.’ Keedy’s grin spread from ear to ear. ‘He said that you were shifty.’
Marmion was offended. ‘Shifty?’
‘That was the word.’
‘I take exception to that.’
‘It’s why he didn’t let you in. You’ll have to take some lessons from Alan Suggs.’ Marmion bridled. ‘He’s obviously a master at turning on the charm.’
Everyone had a good word to say about Royston Liddle. Tolerant of his severe limitations, they found him harmless, likeable and unfailingly helpful. As he walked past the Golden Goose, he exchanged a few words with the glazier repairing some of the shattered windows of a neighbouring house. Farther down the street, two old women were chatting on the doorstep. They broke off when they saw him coming and gave Liddle a warm greeting. One of them slipped indoors to find some lettuce leaves she’d saved for his rabbits. When it was time to move on, there were other cheery waves and kind comments to collect from friends. He felt looked after. Wherever he went in Hayes
, he was given a welcome. Liddle’s famous grin was never wider.
There was, however, one person who had taken against him and he was lying in wait. When Liddle turned down an alleyway, he walked straight into the arms of Alan Suggs and was shoved unceremoniously against a fence. With one hand to his captive’s throat, Suggs held a menacing fist inches from his nose. Caught unawares, all that Liddle could do was to splutter and tremble. The driver was bigger, stronger and much more aggressive than he could ever be. Suggs looked as if he was ready to inflict a terrible beating.
‘Hello, Alan,’ said Liddle, weakly.
‘You’re a numbskull, Royston.’ He squeezed the throat. ‘What are you?’
‘I’m … whatever you say.’
‘You’re a stupid, flea-brained, loud-mouthed, bloody nuisance.’
Liddle was in pain. ‘You’re hurting me.’
‘I ought to cut you into little bits and feed you to those rabbits of yours. They’ve got more sense than you have. They know how to keep their traps shut.’
He released his hold and took a step back. ‘I thought you were a friend.’
‘I am, Alan, I always will be.’
‘Not any more. You landed me in trouble.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ said Liddle, rubbing his throat.
‘Why did you have to talk to the coppers?’
‘But I didn’t — it was that inspector who talked to me.’
‘Yes,’ said Suggs, pushing him against the fence again, ‘and what did you do? You broke your promise and opened your trap. Inspector Marmion grilled me for over an hour. Thanks to you, he thought I’d planted that bomb.’
‘Oh, no, I didn’t say that. I told him that you only went into that outhouse to be alone for a bit with your friend.’ He recovered his grin. ‘What’s her name, by the way?’ Suggs went for the throat again. ‘Sorry,’ croaked Liddle, ‘what have I done wrong now?’
‘You behaved like the imbecile you are. Someone should have locked you up years ago. It’s not safe to let you out.’ He swung Liddle round and smacked the side of his head. ‘Why I trusted you, I’ll never know.’
‘I did you a favour,’ argued Liddle. ‘I kept watch for you.’
‘I paid you to keep your gob shut, not to spill the beans to the coppers. When I came off work today, the inspector was waiting for me. He did everything but slap a pair of handcuffs on me. And it was your bloody fault!’
‘I couldn’t tell a lie to the police.’
‘You didn’t need to tell them anything at all.’
‘But that detective frightened me.’
‘That was no reason to blab about me borrowing that key,’ said Suggs. ‘What happened was private, see? It was nobody else’s business. Then you betray me to Inspector Marmion and he bullied the truth out of me.’
Liddle tried a smile of appeasement. ‘I won’t do it again.’
‘You can’t do it again, you fool. The outhouse was destroyed. I’m not going to be taking anyone into a pile of rubble, am I?’
‘What I meant is that I’ll remember what you tell me next time.’
‘There won’t be a next time, Royston,’ said the other, vehemently, ‘because I’d never trust you again. Keep out of my way from now on or I’ll give you the hiding you deserve.’ He made a threatening move towards him. ‘Now bugger off!’
With a cry of alarm, Liddle scuttled down the alleyway until he felt that he’d put a safe distance between them. Upset at his treatment and wounded by the cruel way Suggs had spoken to him, he felt an uncharacteristic urge to strike back.
‘I know what you did in that outhouse,’ he taunted, ‘because there’s a hole in the back wall. Last time you went in there, I watched the pair of you. She had big tits and I saw both of them wobbling away.’ He giggled at the memory. ‘I’m not that daft. I know what you were up to. You and her were doing what my rabbits do. I saw you, Alan.’
Enraged by the information, Suggs let out a roar of anger and charged down the alleyway. Liddle bolted at once, disappearing around the corner as if a runaway lorry was on his heels. Suggs went in pursuit but he was slower than his quarry and was soon panting at the exertion. Something brought him to a sudden halt. Marmion had warned him not to wreak revenge on Royston Liddle or there’d be repercussions. It was a warning that had to be taken seriously but Suggs wanted to inflict punishment somehow. Liddle would not escape completely.
The detectives were not only invited into the living room of the house, they were given tea and biscuits. In spite of the grief weighing her down, June Ingles was hospitable. Judging by the black-draped photograph of her daughter that stood on the sideboard, she bore a close resemblance to her. Florrie had inherited all of her mother’s salient features. Had she not been so pale and drawn, June would have looked like an older version of her daughter. Both detectives noted with sadness that, when the photograph was taken, Florrie’s complexion had been as clear as her mother’s. She was a lovely young woman with an enchanting smile.
Brian Ingles had bequeathed none of his features to his daughter. He was a tall, well-built man with an expression of despair on a pockmarked face. Head bent forward and eyes wandering aimlessly, he looked as if all the life had been sucked out of him. It was left to his wife to do most of the talking. June sat beside him on the settee and held his hand for comfort. Ingles had a senior position with the Great Western Railway but he was bereft of authority now. Every question made him twitch defensively. While his wife sought to put on a brave face, he seemed haunted.
Marmion and Keedy had both noticed the difference. Every other house they’d visited in connection with the investigation had either been part of a terrace or semi-detached. The Ingles residence, however, was detached. Boasting four bedrooms, it had a small garden at the front and a larger one at the rear and, unlike most of the others, indoor sanitation. The detectives were impressed with the size and relative luxury of the living room. It had been recently decorated and had a new carpet. Brian Ingles’s wage was clearly much larger than that of someone like Eamonn Quinn, the Irish coalman, or Jonah Jenkins, the officious bank clerk. The size of the home raised an obvious question.
‘Why didn’t your daughter live with you?’ asked Marmion.
‘Florrie and her husband wanted a place of their own,’ explained June. ‘When they got married, they moved into a flat. They were saving up to buy a house. Brian was going to lend them some money, weren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ muttered Ingles, wincing.
‘We offered to have them here, of course, but Florrie wanted them to set up on their own. And when she decided on something, there was no changing her mind.’
‘I can understand her moving out when she married,’ said Marmion, ‘but why didn’t she come back when she lost her husband?’
‘It’s what we both wanted, Inspector. Our other two daughters have married and moved away so we have three spare bedrooms here, but Florrie wouldn’t hear of it. Having left home, she wanted to keep her independence.’
‘Sounds a bit like Alice,’ said Keedy, involuntarily.
‘There’s no need to mention her,’ said Marmion, testily. He dredged up a smile for their hosts. ‘The sergeant was referring to my daughter. She, too, would prefer to live on her own.’
‘It wasn’t like that in our day,’ said June, ‘was it, Brian?’ Her husband shook his head. ‘You stayed at home because you had to. I couldn’t have afforded to rent a flat and my parents would never have let me move out. They were right.’
‘Tell us about your daughter, Mrs Ingles.’
She smiled sadly. ‘I could go on for hours about Florrie.’
‘We’re in no hurry.’
‘She was a girl in a million. Florrie more or less ran this house when she was here. That’s true, isn’t it, Brian?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘she had more energy than the rest of us put together.’
‘We couldn’t keep up with her. She was like a whirlwind.’
Once embarked on her daug
hter’s life story, there was no holding June Ingles. Out came the photograph albums and the school reports and every other record they’d kept of her. Of the three children, she was clearly the favourite. Having mastered basic commercial skills very quickly, Florrie had worked as a secretary in a legal practice. When she was in full flow, June managed to shake off all hint of bereavement. She talked about her daughter as if she were still alive and well. Brian Ingles, however, sank deeper into his sorrow. Each treasured memento shown to the detectives had an adverse effect on him. He drew back, gritted his teeth and seemed to be in actual pain. When called upon to ratify one of his wife’s fulsome claims about Florrie, the most he could manage was a reluctant nod.
Recalling his visit to Reuben Harte, Keedy tried to shift the focus slightly.
‘Perhaps I could ask you a question, Mr Ingles,’ he said. ‘When I spoke to Jean Harte’s father, he told me that her best friend at work was Florrie. Is that true?’
‘I suppose that it is,’ said Ingles, uncomfortably.
‘They’d both lost someone at the front, I gather.’
‘That’s right,’ said June, rescuing her husband from the ordeal of having to engage in a conversation. ‘They were at school together, you see. I don’t mean Florrie and Jean. I’m talking about Roger — that was Florrie’s husband — and Maurice. They joined up together and were in the same regiment. On his last leave, Maurice got engaged to Jean and that was the last she ever saw of him. They had a telegram weeks later. Roger had been killed earlier and Florrie was still in mourning yet, as soon as she heard about Maurice, she went straight round to Jean’s house to console her. That was the kind of person she was. Florrie always put others first.’
‘She sounds like a remarkable young woman,’ said Marmion, ‘and you’re right to be proud of her. Did you approve of her taking the job at the factory?’
‘Not entirely, Inspector.’
‘Why is that?’
For once, she hesitated. The pause was unexpectedly filled by Ingles.
‘We didn’t like the idea,’ he said. ‘We’d heard about the dangers and we didn’t want Florrie to spoil her good looks in that factory. Also, she had a good job. I paid a lot of money for her to learn secretarial skills. There were plenty of others ready to work as drudges because that’s what they really were. They took women with no real education. Florrie was above such things.’
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