Текст книги "Five Dead Canaries"

Автор книги: Edward Marston

Соавторы: Edward Marston
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‘That’s enough to go on,’ said Marmion. ‘Off you go, Joe.’

Keedy nodded. ‘What about you, Inspector?’

‘I’ll have a chat with the landlord. Meet me back here.’

‘Right you are.’

When Keedy went off in the car, Marmion looked at the smoking ruin that had once been the outhouse. It was no more than a pile of stones and charred timbers now.

‘Nobody could have survived that blast,’ he said.

‘No,’ agreed Todd. ‘And the Golden Goose will need some repairs before it can reopen. A real pity – they served a good pint in there.’

Leighton and Yvonne Hubbard lived above the pub but neither of them felt that it was safe to stay there until the building had been properly inspected. Accordingly, they moved around the corner to the house of some friends. Hubbard had gradually adjusted to the crisis but his wife – a nervous woman by nature – was close to hysterics. At the suggestion of their hosts, she’d retired to bed. When Marmion got to the house, the front door was opened by Dennis Cryall, a swarthy man of medium height and middle years. Marmion identified himself and explained that Todd had directed him to the house. Cryall was amazed.

‘You’ve come all the way from Scotland Yard, Inspector?’

‘We felt that it was a necessary precaution.’

‘I’m glad that you’re taking it so seriously. Hayes always used to be such a sleepy little place until the war broke out. Nothing ever happened here.’

‘I’d like to speak to Mr Hubbard, please.’

‘Yes, yes, of course – do come in.’

Cryall moved back so that Marmion could step into the passageway. He was then shown into the cluttered front room where Hubbard was seated with a glass of whisky in his hand. Like his friend, he was impressed that the incident had aroused the interest of Scotland Yard. Cryall waved their visitor to a chair then withdrew. Seated opposite the landlord, Marmion appraised the other man. Hubbard looked pale and drawn. The bomb had not only destroyed part of his property, it had injured some of his regular patrons and shaken up everyone else in the bar. He was justifiably worried about how much money he would get by way of insurance. It was his wife’s condition that really troubled him. The explosion had turned her into a sobbing wreck. There was no compensation for frayed nerves in the insurance policy.

‘How do you feel?’ asked Marmion.

Hubbard lifted his glass. ‘Much better after a drop of this,’ he said.

‘What state is the pub in?’

‘Don’t ask, Inspector. We’ll be closed for weeks.’

‘Tell me about the outhouse.’

‘It’s three old stables knocked into one. As a rule, we use it to store crates of empty bottles in. Then we had this request for a private room. To be honest, I was glad the ladies wanted to be on their own,’ admitted Hubbard. ‘Some of my regulars hate the sight of those munitionettes. It’s very unfair, really. It’s not their fault that they look as if they’ve got a nasty attack of yellow jaundice. Anyway,’ he added, ‘Florrie made the booking and I was happy to accept it.’

‘Do you happen to have an address for her?’

‘I don’t, I’m afraid, but she lives locally somewhere. I remember her coming into the Goose with her husband when he was alive. That’s why she chose our pub for her party. It held good memories for her.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Not any more.’

‘Did you know any of the friends who came with her?’

‘No – never set eyes on them before.’

‘So you can’t give me any more names?’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I wish I could.’

‘Go through it very slowly,’ invited Marmion. ‘Tell me exactly what happened from the time they arrived until the moment the bomb went off. There’s no rush. Set your own pace.’

Hubbard took a long sip of his whisky. Having gathered his thoughts, he gave a somewhat laboured account of events, even including details of the row involving Ezra Greenwell. When he heard that the old man had needed treatment for the wound in his mouth, Marmion could muster no sympathy for him. He found Greenwell’s antipathy to the women quite disgraceful. As far as he was concerned, they were doing a dangerous job at a time of national emergency and should be applauded for their efforts, not jeered at by some resentful bigot. Marmion was all too aware of the deficiencies in the army at the outbreak of hostilities. His own son, Paul, was among an early eager batch of volunteers to join the army. On his first leave, he’d been very critical of the shortage of ammunition.

Having made some notes during the account, Marmion closed his pad.

‘Six of them went into that room,’ he said, reflectively, ‘but only five remained there. Have you any idea why the sixth young lady left early?’

‘Yes,’ said Hubbard, ruefully. ‘There’s only one explanation.’

‘Is there?’

‘You’re the detective – you should have worked it out by now. That girl ran out as if she was fleeing a ghost. It’s obvious, isn’t it? She knewthere was going to be an explosion there,’ he claimed with a surge of anger. ‘There was a plot to bomb my outhouse and that bitch was part of it.’

Joe Keedy was in luck. When he got to the hospital, Maureen Quinn was still there. Having been treated for shock, she’d been discharged but had felt too numbed by the experience to do anything more than sit in the waiting room and brood. The full implications of what had happened were terrifying. At a stroke, she’d lost five good friends at the factory. Their lives had been snuffed out like candles in a matter of seconds and, if she’d stayed a little longer at the pub, Maureen would now be lying beside them on a slab in the hospital morgue. It was a sobering thought. She was still wrestling with recriminations when Keedy joined her.

‘Miss Quinn?’ he asked, gently.

She looked up. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Keedy from Scotland Yard and I’ve been called in to investigate the explosion at the Golden Goose.’ Maureen shrunk back as if in fear of arrest. ‘There’s no need for alarm. I just want to ask a few questions.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘May I sit down?’

‘Well, yes – if you must.’

‘It’s such a help to us to have a survivor,’ he said, taking the seat beside her. ‘It means that we can identify the victims. The only one we know by name is a Mrs Florence Duncan.’ He smiled softly. ‘I believe you called her “Florrie” at work.’

‘Everyone did, Sergeant.’

He flipped open his notebook. ‘Could I have her address, please?’

Before long, he had the names and addresses of all five women and – because of the way that Maureen’s voice modulated each time – he had some idea of how she related to each one of them. Evidently, Agnes Collier was the biggest loss to her whereas Jean Harte seemed to be no more than an acquaintance. Having taken down Maureen’s own details, Keedy could see from his notes that she and Agnes lived fairly close to each other.

‘Next of kin will have to be informed,’ he said. ‘Who will that be in the case of Mrs Collier?’

‘Her mother – a Mrs Radcliffe – she looks after Agnes’s baby son.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘This will come as a terrible blow to her. Then there’s her husband, Terry, of course. He’s in France somewhere.’

‘What about you?’ he asked solicitously.

She was defensive. ‘What about me?’

‘Do you live alone or is there someone to look after you?’

‘I live with my parents and my younger sister.’

‘So you’ll have plenty of support at home.’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll be fine.’

‘With respect, Miss Quinn, you don’t lookfine.’

‘I’ll be all right, Sergeant,’ she said, keen to end the interrogation.

‘I’d be happy to give you a lift home,’ he offered.

‘No, no, you needn’t do that. It’s only a few stops on the train.’

‘Naturally, the factory will have to be informed that they’ve lost five of their employees. Could you tell me who to contact?’

‘Mr Kennett is the works manager. Speak to him – though he won’t come on duty until six tomorrow morning. But,’ she went on, thinking it through, ‘they’ll have his home telephone number at the factory. You could contact him this evening.’

‘That’s a good suggestion – thank you.’

Anxious to leave, she rose to her feet. ‘I must be off now.’

‘Are you sure that you feel well enough?’

‘Yes, I’m much better.’

‘Then let me ask a last question,’ said Keedy. ‘I saved it until the end because it’s the most important one. Why did you leave in the middle of the party? Weren’t you enjoying it?’

‘I was enjoying it very much, Sergeant.’

‘So why did you walk out when you did?’

‘I had this upset stomach,’ she replied, putting a hand to her midriff. ‘It’s been troubling me all day. I hoped that it would wear off but it got steadily worse. There was a point during the party when I felt I was going to be sick. That’swhy I had to leave. I simply had to get out of there.’ She pulled her coat around her shoulders. ‘Can I go now, please?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘please do. And thank you for your help. I’ll be in touch.’

Her whole body tensed. ‘Why? I’ve told you all I can.’

‘There may be some small detail that slipped your mind.’

‘But there isn’t, Sergeant. I’ll swear it.’

‘Then I’ll let you go,’ he said, pleasantly, getting to his feet. ‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

Having stayed at the hospital longer than she needed, Maureen now left it as if she had an urgent appointment elsewhere. Chewing on his pencil, Keedy watched her go. He felt profoundly sorry for her. Having dealt with survivors of explosions before, he knew how consumed with guilt they could become, blaming themselves for escaping from an accident that had claimed the lives of others. Not that the bomb at the Golden Goose was in any way accidental – it was deliberately designed to kill and wreck. Maureen Quinn had been extremely fortunate to leave the building when she did and she appeared to have had a good reason for doing so.

Keedy wondered why he simply didn’t believe her.

CHAPTER THREE

It was just like old times. Ellen Marmion was seated in her kitchen, having a cup of tea with a member of the police force. However, it was not her husband on this occasion but her daughter who was nibbling a ginger biscuit beside her. Having established that Joe Keedy had been sent off to investigate a crime that evening, Alice had sighed resignedly in a way she’d seen her mother do a hundred times. Instead of going back to her flat, she went back home so that she could commiserate with Ellen about their absent partners. Having joined the Women Police Service on impulse, Alice was now having regrets. Her duties were strictly circumscribed and seemed to consist largely of taking orders from her superiors and carrying messages to and fro. Longing to be given some operational role, she was confined to clerical work. It made her look back on her time in the Women’s Emergency Corps with fondness. The work had been onerous but it had a wonderfully unpredictable range to it.

‘Did you find out where they weregoing?’ asked Ellen.

‘No,’ replied her daughter, ‘but it must have been a major incident or they would have sent someone less senior than Daddy.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Let’s just say that Claude Chatfield is not your father’s greatest admirer. He takes pleasure in unloading awkward cases onto him. To give him credit, he does his job well but there’s a nasty streak in the superintendent.’

‘That’s because he knows, in his heart, that Daddy is a much better detective. At least, that’s what Joe believes. They call him “Chat”, by the way.’

‘Oh, I’ve heard your father call him a lot worse than that, Alice.’

They shared a laugh and reached for another home-made biscuit. Ellen was delighted to see her daughter again. Since she’d moved into a flat of her own, Alice’s visits had become less and less frequent. With her son away in France and her husband on call at all hours, Ellen was well acquainted with loneliness. An unexpected evening with Alice was therefore a bonus. She bit into her biscuit.

‘Have you set a date yet?’

‘We’ve set it a number of times, Mummy, but we keep changing our minds.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Things sort of come up.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Alice with a weary smile. ‘One minute I find a reason to change the date; next minute it’s Joe’s turn. It’s a question of finding a time when both our families can be there. My stipulation is clear. I’m not getting married unless Paul is back home from France.’

Ellen pulled a face. ‘Well, that’s in the lap of the gods.’

‘This war can’t go on forever.’

‘How many times have we both said that?’

‘Then, of course, there’s Joe’s family. They have commitments.’

‘You didn’t really take to them, did you?’

‘It wasn’t that,’ said Alice, remembering her visit to the Midlands. ‘I just never got to know them. When Joe told me that his father was an undertaker, I thought that he’d relax when he was off duty but he couldn’t, somehow. It was the same with Mrs Keedy – she chisels the names into the headstones so is very much part of the business. She and her husband are both grim.’

‘Maybe they’ll improve with a drink inside them.’

Alice grinned. ‘No chance of that – they’re both teetotal.’

‘I can see why Joe didn’t stay in the family trade. He was born to enjoy life.’ She put her hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘I’m soglad that this has happened, I really am. Your father may be against it now but he’ll mellow in time. He loves Joe. He just doesn’t like the idea of having him as a son-in-law.’

‘Would he rather that we just lived together?’

‘Heaven forbid!’

‘I was only joking, Mummy.’

‘Well, for goodness’ sake, don’t joke about it in front of your father. He’s very sensitive on that subject at the moment. Working with Joe always used to be a real joy for him. Now there are definite tensions between them.’

When he finally got back to the Golden Goose, Keedy found Marmion deep in conversation with a uniformed inspector who kept nodding in agreement. The crowd had drifted away now and the area was cordoned off with ropes. Two constables were on duty to ensure that nobody tried to loot the pub or poke about in the rubble. One of them chased away a dog that tried to urinate over the inn sign that had been knocked off its iron bar by the force of the blast. The golden goose looked outraged at the sudden change in its fortunes. Marmion excused himself and came over to Keedy.

‘You were gone a long time, Joe,’ he observed.

‘I know,’ replied the other. ‘After I’d talked to Maureen Quinn, I went over to the factory. They gave me the number of Mr Kennett, the works manager, and let me phone him at his home. He was knocked sideways by the news, Harv. He knew who Florrie Duncan was. She must have been a real character to stand out from the thousands of other women employed there.’

‘Was this Maureen Quinn the sixth guest at the party?’

‘Yes, she was still at the hospital when I got there.’

‘How would you describe her?’

‘She’s a very pretty girl but – not surprisingly – stunned by what happened.’

‘What did you learn from her?’

‘Lots,’ said Keedy, taking out his notebook.

After moving into the spill of light from a nearby lamp post, he translated his scrawl into a terse account. Marmion was relieved to hear that all five victims now had names. Since four of them lived in Hayes itself, he delegated the task of informing their next of kin to the local police, who’d locate the addresses far more easily. Thankful to learn the identities of the dead women, the uniformed inspector said that he would pass on the bad news in person to each of the respective families.

‘We’ll go to Agnes Collier’s address,’ said Marmion. ‘She lives some distance away.’

‘Her mother will be there, looking after her grandson. She’s a Mrs Radcliffe. I hope she’s got a husband or some good friends,’ said Keedy. ‘She’ll need someone to help her get through this.’

‘Yes, the birthday party has turned out to be a nightmare.’

‘What have you been doing, Harv?’

‘I spoke to the landlord, Leighton Hubbard. You only have to look at the pub to imagine how hemust be feeling. The worst of it is that he thinks he’s somehow responsible for the deaths.’

‘That’s silly. It wasn’t his fault.’

‘He did give us one valuable clue.’

‘Oh?’ Keedy’s interest quickened. ‘What was that?’

‘That outhouse was almost never used. He only rented it out two or three times a year. That narrows down the possibilities at once, Joe.’

‘Does it?’

‘Of course,’ said Marmion. ‘It means that those five women were not just random victims. One or all of them were intended targets. The person who planted that bomb knewthe time they’d be here and he could rely on them not being too inquisitive. When you go to a birthday party, the last thing you do is to search every nook and cranny for a bomb. They had no chance. They were sitting targets.’

‘Why should anyone want to kill five harmless women?’

‘The original intent was to kill sixof them, remember.’

‘In that case, Maureen Quinn was very lucky to escape.’

‘According to the landlord, it wasn’t luck at all but design. He tried to persuade me that shewas the bomber and knew exactly when to get out. It sounds like a fanciful theory to me.’

‘And to me, Harv,’ said Keedy, recalling his conversation with Maureen. ‘I don’t think she’s capable of anything like that. She seemed like a decent, honest, law-abiding young woman. There was no real spark in her. She was shy and unassertive.’ A memory nudged him. ‘On the other hand …’

‘Go on,’ prompted Marmion.

‘It’s always wise to double-check, I suppose.’ Keedy reached a decision. ‘When we’ve been to Agnes Collier’s house, perhaps we should go on to have another word with Maureen Quinn. I’d like to see what you make of her.’

They couldn’t believe it. When Maureen got home and told her family the news, they found it impossible to accept. On the previous Sunday, Agnes Collier had come to the house for tea with her baby son. They’d all had a very enjoyable time. Yet they were now being told that they’d never see the woman alive again and that the child would have to grow up without a mother. Their sympathy went out to him. When Maureen told them about the other four women who’d died in the bomb blast, she had to force each name out and her voice trembled as she did so. Seated beside her on the sofa, Diane Quinn, her mother, kept a comforting arm around her shoulders and offered her a handkerchief whenever she lapsed into tears. Eamonn Quinn, her father, sat opposite in silence, his face blank, his mind in turmoil. Sitting cross-legged on the floor was fourteen-year-old Lily Quinn, not understanding the full import of what she’d been told but realising that something truly terrible had occurred and that her elder sister was at the heart of it.

‘Will they put your name in the papers, Maureen?’ she wondered.

‘Don’t ask such a stupid question,’ said her father, reproachfully.

‘Mrs Fenner’s name was in the Standardwhen she got knocked down by that car and all she did was to break a few ribs.’

‘Be quiet, Lily.’

‘But our Maureen is going to be famous.’

‘It’s not the kind of fame we want,’ said Diane, tightening her grip on her elder daughter. ‘Whenever she goes out, people will point at Maureen and say that she was the one who escaped from that dreadful explosion. Yes, and the tongues will wag about the rest of us as well. The whole family will suffer.’

‘I’m not worried about being stared at,’ said Maureen, solemnly. ‘I’m used to that. It’s the gossip that will hurt me. I’m bound to be blamed.’

‘No, you won’t, love. You didn’t plant that bomb.’

‘But I was the one who walked away without a scratch on me. Agnes’s mother will be the first to blame me. I know exactly what Mrs Radcliffe will say. “Why was it herand not my Agnes? What’s so special about Maureen Quinn?” And the other parents will be the same. They’ll all hate me.’

‘Well, they’d better not say anything against you when I’maround,’ warned her father, bunching his fists, ‘or they’ll have me to answer to. It’s a miracle you got saved, Maureen, and I’m not having anyone criticising you as a result.’

Quinn was a beefy man with deep-set eyes in a florid face and a rough beard. His wife was also carrying too much weight but she still had vestiges of the good looks inherited by her daughters. Hailing from London, Diane had a light Cockney accent whereas her husband had a whisper of an Irish brogue in his voice. Maureen and Lily had grown up talking more like their mother.

A protracted silence fell on the room. It was eventually broken by Lily.

‘Do I have to go to school tomorrow?’ she asked.

‘No,’ decided her mother. ‘I’m keeping you at home.’

‘But everyone will want to ask me about Maureen.’

‘That’s exactly why you’re staying here. Word will have spread by tomorrow. I’m not having you pestered by questions at school. Apart from anything else, you might say something out of turn.’

Lily flushed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your mother’s right,’ confirmed Quinn. ‘You’ll stay at home – and the same goes for your sister. The pair of you will keep out of the way for a while.’

Maureen sat up. ‘But I think I oughtto go to work, Daddy.’

‘Then you think wrong. Your place is here.’

‘I’m not going to hide.’

‘It’s the sensible thing to do,’ advised her mother. ‘You’ve had the most awful shock, Maureen. You can’t expect to shrug it off so soon.’

‘But they need me at the factory – Mr Kennett will want to hear the details.’

‘Then he’ll have to wait. It’s a police matter now. They’ll tell him all he needs to know. In the circumstances, he’d never expect you to turn up.’

‘Florrie Duncan would go, if she was in my position.’

‘That may be so, love, but poor Florrie is dead and won’t be going anywhere.’

‘We keep ourselves to ourselves,’ decreed Quinn.

‘Does that mean you’re staying off work as well?’ asked Lily in surprise.

‘No, it means that anybody who bothers me will get a flea in his ear.’

Quinn had a job delivering coal and there were several specks of it embedded in his beard and under his fingernails. He was a surly man at the best of times. The latest development would do nothing to improve his manner or his temper.

‘And that goes for the coppers,’ he added. ‘We don’t want them poking their noses into our business. Maureen has said her piece to them. That’s all they get.’

Imparting painful news to grieving relatives was something he’d had to do a fair amount in his career and Joe Keedy always found it difficult. He was, therefore, grateful that Marmion took over when they called at Agnes Collier’s house. The inspector was older, more experienced and always seemed to find the right words. Invited in by Sadie Radcliffe, they went into the living room and noticed how scrupulously tidy it was. Sadie had been knitting and a half-finished jumper stood on the arm of a chair. Like her daughter, she was short, tubby and fair-haired. She wore a pinafore over her dress and a turban on her head. Marmion suggested that she might like to sit down but she insisted on standing. There was an indomitable quality about her that suggested she was used to hearing and coping with distressing news. While Marmion cleared his throat, she stood there with her arms folded and peered at him over the top of her wire-framed spectacles.

‘Something’s happened to Agnes, hasn’t it?’ she said, stiffening.

‘I’m afraid that it has, Mrs Radcliffe.’

‘Is it serious?’ He gave a nod. ‘I knew it. I expected her back over an hour ago. My husband will be wondering where I am.’

‘Would you like us to contact him before we go into any detail?’

‘No, Inspector, all he’s interested in is his supper. Tell me the worst. I’ve been bracing myself for this ever since she went to work at that factory. Agnes has had a bad accident, hasn’t she?’

‘This is nothing to do with her job – except indirectly, that is.’

‘So what’s happened to her?’

Speaking quietly, Marmion gave her a brief account of events at the Golden Goose. Keedy, meanwhile, positioned himself so that he could catch the woman if she fainted but his services were not required. Sadie stood her ground and absorbed the bad tidings without flinching. Her first reaction was to look sorrowfully upwards as she thought about the implications for her grandson. He would wake the next day to discover that he no longer had a mother. Sadie pressed for more details and Marmion obliged her, even though he was uncertain how much of the information she was actually hearing because she seemed to go off in a trance.

When she eventually came out of it, she fired a question at Marmion.

‘What were the names of the others?’ she demanded.

‘Sergeant Keedy has the full list.’

‘Yes,’ said Keedy, taking out his notebook and flipping to the correct page. ‘Here we are, Mrs Radcliffe. The other victims are as follows – Florence Duncan, Enid Jenks, Shirley Beresford and Jean Harte.’

‘What about Maureen Quinn? She was there as well.’

‘She was fortunate enough to leave before the bomb went off.’

‘That’s just the kind of thing she’d do,’ said Sadie with asperity. ‘Talk about the luck of the Irish. It hadto be Maureen, didn’t it?’

‘You should be pleased to hear that someone escaped the blast.’

‘I am, Sergeant, but why wasn’t it my daughter? Why couldn’t shehave left that pub in time? It’s so unfair. Agnes has got a husband at the front and she works at that factory all the hours that God sends us. Doesn’t that entitle her to a bit of luck? Hasn’t she earned it?’ she went on with undisguised bitterness. ‘Why does it always have to be Maureen? Who’s she that she gets special treatment time and again?’

‘There’s no answer to that, Mrs Radcliffe.’

‘Agnes lost her first baby and damn near killed herself bringing her little lad into the world. It was one thing after another. She always seemed to be the one who got hurt most.’

‘In this instance,’ Marmion noted, ‘there were four other victims.’

Sadie lowered herself onto the arm of the settee. ‘Yes, I know,’ she conceded, ‘and I’m sorry for their families. They’ll feel the way I do.’ She drifted off again for a few moments then gave a wan smile. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’

‘What is, Mrs Radcliffe?’

‘The one thing I feared most was that Agnes would be killed in an explosion at work. It happens in all the munition factories, only they keep it out of the papers most of the time. There have been two cases at Hayes, though they were in the Cap and Detonator Section. I used to thank God that my daughter didn’t work there.’

‘It’s a dangerous place,’ said Marmion. ‘The mercury fulminate they use is highly explosive and can be very unstable.’

‘Yet it was outsidethe factory that Agnes came to grief.’

‘Yes, it is ironic, I agree.’

‘Who did it, Inspector?’ she asked, getting up again.

‘It’s too early to say.’

‘You must have some idea.’

‘We’ve already set an investigation in motion. That means we have to gather evidence slowly and painstakingly.’

‘But you will catch him, won’t you?’ she pleaded. ‘You will arrest the devil who did this terrible thing to my daughter.’

‘We will, Mrs Radcliffe.’

She fixed him with a glare. ‘Is that a promise?’

‘It’s both a promise and a firm commitment,’ said Marmion. ‘This is a heinous crime. However long it takes, we’ll get the person or persons behind it.’

Superintendent Claude Chatfield expected his officers to work hard but he also pushed himself to the limit. Long after the time when he should have gone home, he was still at his desk in Scotland Yard, reading his way through a sheaf of papers and making notes in the margin. When the telephone rang, he snatched it up and barked into the receiver.

‘Is that you, Marmion?’

‘Yes, sir,’ came the reply. ‘I’m ringing from the police station in Hayes.’

‘What have you discovered?’

‘The situation is very bad. It’s also rather confused.’

‘Have you identified the victims?’

‘Thanks to the sole survivor, we have the names and addresses of the other five women. Next of kin have been informed in all five cases.’

‘Give me the full picture.’

Taking a deep breath, Marmion launched into his report. He kept one eye on the notes in front of him and confined himself to the known facts. There was nothing that the superintendent hated as much as uninformed guesswork and the last thing that Marmion wanted to do was to arouse his ire. When he’d heard the full report, Chatfield was ready with a crucial question.

‘Should we call in Special Branch?’

‘I don’t think so, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s my considered opinion.’

‘Does it have any basis in fact?’

‘I believe so,’ said Marmion. ‘This outrage was specifically aimed at one or all of the six people who attended that party. There’s no propaganda value whatsoever for the enemy. These were ordinary young women who simply wanted to celebrate a birthday. For reasons unknown, someone objected to the occasion and was ready to go to extreme lengths to stop it.’

Chatfield was irritable. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Inspector?’

‘The killer was a local man with a good knowledge of explosives.’

‘There’s no shortage of people like that in Hayes.’

‘Quite – that’s why the munitions factory will have to be put under the microscope. We may well find that the person we’re after works there. It would put him in the right place to hear about the time and place of that birthday party.’

‘Have you made any contact with the factory?’

‘Sergeant Keedy paid a visit there earlier on. They allowed him to use their telephone to ring the home of the works manager, Mr Kennett. He’s been apprised of the details and promised to give us all the help we need.’

‘That’s a relief,’ said Chatfield. ‘Strict security always surrounds munitions factories. Just getting through the front gate is an achievement. They work on the theory that everyone is a potential spy.’

‘It’s probably the safest thing to do, sir.’

‘I daresay it is. Thank you, Inspector. You seem to have been to the right places and asked the right questions. I’ll draft a report and leave it on the commissioner’s desk.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘Five young lasses blown to smithereens at a party – the press will go to town on this story. Make sure you don’t tell them too much.’

‘I never do, Superintendent.’

‘If you’re heading back to Scotland Yard, you may find me still beavering away in my office.’

‘Don’t wait there for us,’ said Marmion, anxious to avoid seeing him at the end of a long day. ‘We still have a lot of work to do here, sir. The sergeant wants me to meet Maureen Quinn. Something about her troubled him somewhat.’