Текст книги "Five Dead Canaries"

Автор книги: Edward Marston

Соавторы: Edward Marston
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CHAPTER EIGHT

They met by prior arrangement at a café not far from the Golden Goose. Having sacrificed lunch in the interests of advancing the investigation, they were having an early tea. Keedy munched a pasty and Marmion sipped his tea while eyeing the cakes on the display stand and wondering if he should have one. It was time to compare notes. Marmion talked about his visits to the respective homes of Shirley Beresford and Enid Jenks and how differently their families had responded to the untimely deaths. As the inspector was talking, Keedy opened the folder given to him by the works manager.

‘Everything you say about the two of them accords with what Mr Kennett found out,’ he said. ‘Shirley was the captain of their football team and Enid was good enough as a musician to make a living at it. They were both well liked by the others, Shirley in particular.’

‘That’s not surprising, Joe. She was their goalscorer.’

‘At least that would have killed off any complaints.’

‘Complaints?’

‘Yes, Harv. If, as you say, Neil Beresford was their coach, he couldn’t be accused of favouritism by putting his wife in the team. Shirley was obviously their best player. I must say, I don’t envy her husband.’

‘Why not?’

‘Coaching a football team is a real headache. When I used to play as a kid, we drove our coach to distraction. He reckoned we’d taken ten years off his life. I remember him tearing his hair out on the touchline as we made silly mistakes and gave away ridiculous goals. Neil Beresford must be a tough character to take on a task like running a women’s team.’

‘That’s the strange thing, Joe,’ said Marmion as he pictured the man lying on the bed. ‘Physically, he looks wiry and he must be strong-willed to create and nurture a team that wins the league. Yet he’s more or less collapsed in the wake of the disaster. People like his mother and Mrs Radcliffe have coped far better – and so has Jonah Jenks. Why is that?’

‘Beresford and his wife must have been very close.’

‘He looked really ill when I left him.’

Keedy smiled. ‘We can’t all be like you, Harv.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you’vebeen where they are – losing someone you loved, that is. When your father was murdered on duty, you didn’t sit around and mope. You went after his killer and discovered that you had a detective’s instinct.’

Marmion was rueful. ‘I’d prefer to have found it out a different way. I never thought I’d follow Dad into the police force but his death changed my mind. It made me so angry, Joe. I felt that I simply had to do something.’

‘Alice feels the same. She takes after you.’

‘Let’s keep her out of this,’ said Marmion, sharply.

‘But she has the same attitude as you.’

‘That’s as maybe. Tell me about your second visit to the factory.’

Keedy puffed his cheeks. ‘It really opened my eyes.’

He went on to describe his visit to the Cartridge Section and how he felt that the women deserved far more than they earned. It was well below what men doing identical jobs took home at the end of the week. Keedy talked about the noise, the smell, the inherent dangers and how he found it difficult to reconcile the idea of a sex that created human life making shells that would destroy it.

‘It was weird, Harv – sort of unnatural.’

‘Blame the war for that. When so many of our young men are wounded, killed in action or still serving at the front, women have had to step into the breach. I applaud them for that.’

‘What about the ones who joined the police force?’ Keedy saw the glint in his companion’s eyes and quickly changed the subject. ‘Where do we go next?’

‘I’d like you to go to Jean Harte’s house,’ said Marmion. ‘I called there earlier but drew a blank. Either nobody is at home or, if they are, they’re not answering the door. Once we’ve crossed Jean off the list, there’s only Florrie Duncan left. We’ll visit her family together.’

‘What will you be doing before then, Harv?’

‘I’m going to the factory. Alan Suggs will be back soon.’

‘Oh, yes, he’s the phantom lover, isn’t he?’

‘He may turn out to be more than that, Joe.’

‘His girlfriend must be very keen on him. There aren’t many young women whose idea of a romance is a tryst in some converted stables. Most would expect something more comfortable than that.’

‘He works as a driver, Joe. He can’t afford a suite at the Ritz.’

At that moment, a waitress came to clear the plates from the table. Wearing a black dress and a white apron, she was an attractive young woman in her early twenties, the average age of the murder victims. Keedy couldn’t help noticing the sharp contrast between her and those at the factory. The waitress had pale, spotless skin and there was a bloom on her cheeks. If any of the munitionettes had applied for a job at the café, they’d have been turned down because their appearance was likely to offend customers. It was grossly unfair.

‘Right,’ said Keedy as the waitress moved away, ‘I’m ready. Is there anything particular you’d like me to find out about Jean Harte?’

‘I want you to see where she fitted into that group of friends.’

‘Maureen Quinn told us that Jean was teased a lot because she was always moaning about something. And she often had something wrong with her – not that that surprises me. That factory is an unhealthy place to work.’

‘See what you can learn about the other girls. Which one was Jean’s best friend, for example? Who did she see outside of work hours? And why was it that Enid Jenks and Shirley Beresford were so close?’

‘Is there any reason why they shouldn’t be?’

‘Yes,’ replied Marmion. ‘From what I can gather, they had little in common. Enid was a musician who spent all her time practising while Shirley was a real sportswoman. One was single while the other was married. One was still under the thumb of her father while the other lived with her husband. I suppose you could call it an attraction of opposites,’ he went on, getting up, ‘but it seems odd somehow. I would have thought that Enid and Maureen Quinn were more natural friends.’

‘Why is that, Harv?’

‘They’re both religious.’

‘How are you feeling now, Maureen?’

‘My mind is a blank most of the time.’

‘That’s understandable. You’re still in shock.’

‘It’s just so painful to remember what happened,’ said Maureen, ‘so I’ve tried to block it out. But I can’t do that for ever, Father.’

‘Indeed, you can’t.’

‘Sooner or later, I’ll have to face their families. They’ll detest me.’

‘That’s not true at all,’ said Father Cleary, gently squeezing her hands. ‘They’ll be glad that – by the grace of God – someone managed to escape the horror of that explosion. It’s only natural that they’ll wish that it had been theirdaughter, of course, but there should be no antagonism towards you.’

‘Yes, there will,’ said Maureen, thinking of Mrs Radcliffe.

‘What brought you to church this morning?’

‘I needed to be alone.’

‘You’re never alone in God’s house.’

‘I know that but I wanted …’

‘A place of sanctuary?’ he asked as her voice tailed off. Maureen nodded. ‘Well, you came to the right place. We haven’t seen as much of you or of your family as we’d like recently and I’m sorry that it’s taken a tragedy like this to bring you back here. But you’re very welcome, Maureen. You were much brighter than everyone else at Sunday school – especially your brothers. How are they, by the way?’

‘We don’t know. They’re still at the front somewhere.’

‘We’ll remember them in our prayers.’

In obedience to her husband, Diane Quinn had already turned many callers away, both inquisitive neighbours and persistent reporters. The one person in whose face she couldn’t shut the front door was Father Cleary, a stringy, old man with a biretta that he never seemed to remove perched on a mop of silver hair. When word reached him that Maureen had spent hours in St Alban’s church, he paid her a visit. Seated opposite her, he held her hands and offered sympathy and understanding.

Maureen was bewildered. ‘Why was Ispared, Father?’

‘God moves in mysterious ways.’

‘It’s what I keep asking myself. In one way or another, they were all better than me. Florrie was our leader, Enid was a brilliant musician, Agnes had a gorgeous baby son and so on. Unlike me, they all had full lives.’

‘Don’t underestimate your importance in the scheme of things, Maureen,’ said Cleary, peering over his spectacles. ‘You were spared for a reason. These things are never random. The Almighty chose you for a purpose. It’s only a matter of time before that purpose is revealed to you.’ He sat back. ‘Will I see you in church on Sunday?’ Maureen hesitated. ‘Yes, I know that your father keeps you away but I’ll talk to him about it. If I do that, will you attend Mass?’

‘Yes, Father,’ she said with passion. ‘I will, I promise.’

Joe Keedy knew that someone was inside the house. He could not only hear them moving about, he caught a glimpse of someone through the net curtains on the bay window. Since he failed to get a response from several knocks on the front door, he took out his notebook, wrote his name and rank on it, then tore out the page and posted it through the letter box. After a long wait, the letter box opened and a reedy voice came through it.

‘How do we know that you’re a detective?’ asked the man.

‘I’ll show you my warrant card.’

‘We had someone earlier who claimed that he was from Scotland Yard.’

‘That would have been Inspector Marmion, who’s in charge of the investigation. He told me that he called here.’

‘I didn’t like the look of him. He was shifty. I thought it was another one of those reporters trying to trick his way in here so we ignored him.’

Keedy was amused at the idea that Marmion had been repelled on the grounds of his appearance and he vowed to taunt him about it later. Showing his warrant card to the pair of suspicious eyes in the open letter box, he finally pierced the defences at the Harte household. The door swung back just wide enough to admit him and he went in. Reuben Harte quickly shut and bolted the door. He was a slight man in his fifties with thick, dark hair and a bushy moustache. He wore shirt, trousers and a waistcoat that was unbuttoned. His eyes were pools of sorrow.

‘What do you want, Sergeant?’

‘Do we have to talk in the passageway?’

‘Yes,’ said the other, firmly.

‘As you wish,’ decided Keedy, removing his hat. ‘As for reporters, they’ve been warned to leave you alone. Next time one of them bothers you, make sure that you get his name and we’ll make a point of reprimanding him. At a time like this, the last thing you need is the press baying at your heels.’

‘Thank you – I’ll remember that.’

‘However, since we wish to catch the person who set off that explosion, we need to learn as much as we can about the victims. Do you understand that?’

‘No, I don’t, but go on.’

Keedy glanced towards the living room. ‘Is there a Mrs Harte?’

‘My wife is staying with her sister, who used to be a nurse. She’s not at all well, Sergeant, and this has only made her condition worse.’

‘Tell me about your daughter. I believe that she was plagued with minor ailments. Is that true?’

‘They weren’t minor,’ said Harte. ‘Jean had some serious problems.’

Mother and daughter clearly didn’t enjoy the rude health that Harte seemed to show. He was slim, straight-backed and looked younger than his years. There was no trace of grey in his hair. Keedy learnt that he was a bank clerk. When his daughter had wanted to work at the munitions factory, he opposed the idea at first but was eventually talked around. Paradoxically, her health seemed to improve slightly in the harmful environment of the Cartridge Section. Harte ascribed it to the reassurance of having such good friends. In previous spells of employment, Jean had always been the odd one out. Her father talked selfishly rather than fondly about her, recalling what he’d done for her throughout life instead of what she’d achieved on her own. It was almost as if he were trying to justify his role as a parent.

The verbal photograph he was given was recognisably that of the woman described in Kennett’s notes. Jean was an integral part of a tight group, liked for her cynical streak and mocked for her endless whining. Her closest friend, it emerged, was Florrie Duncan. On the strength of what he knew about them, they seemed an unlikely pair to Keedy. While Florrie was an irrepressible optimist, Jean always feared the worst in any given situation.

‘They got on famously,’ said Harte. ‘We liked Florrie.’

‘Did they have much in common?’

‘They had the most important thing, Sergeant.’

‘Oh – what was that?’

‘They both lost the person they loved most. Florrie’s husband died at the front and so did Jean’s young man. They got engaged during his last leave, then he went off and got himself killed. Florrie managed to get over it,’ said Harte, enviously, ‘but it cast a shadow over Jean’s life. Maurice – that was his name – worked at the bank with me. I taught him all he knew.’

Harte came close to smiling without actually managing it. There was a possessiveness about him that made Keedy feel sorry for his daughter. It was as if he’d only allowed Jean to embark on a romance because he’d chosen and groomed the young man in question. Harte was not unintelligent but had obvious limitations and Keedy could see why he’d never risen above the level of a bank clerk. At a time in life when his contemporaries had become managers, he stayed in the shadows.

‘How well did you know the other girls?’ asked Keedy.

‘Oh, I met all of Jean’s gang,’ said Harte, ‘and encouraged her to invite them here. My wife and I are creatures of habit, Sergeant. We always go out on a Saturday night to visit my sister-in-law and her husband. Bert is disabled so walking all the way here is out of the question. Anyway, Jean often had one or more of her friends around. Florrie Duncan was always here and so was Enid Jenks, She used to play our piano and they’d have a sing-song. We’d join in when we got back.’

‘What about Agnes Collier and Maureen Quinn?’

‘They came now and again but neither were regulars. They don’t live in Hayes, you see, and Agnes has a baby to look after. She brought him here once. He’s got a good pair of lungs on him, I know that.’

Keedy sensed that he was claiming to know the women rather better than he actually did. He spoke about them with an affection that – Keedy suspected – was not entirely reciprocated. Harte was too dry and humourless to mix easily with characters like Florrie Duncan and Agnes Collier, both reportedly given to constant laughter. What he did do was to describe aspects of the five victims’ characters that didn’t appear in the notes provided by Kennett. Jean Harte had had ambitions of being a dress designer. Florrie Duncan lived alone in a two-room flat because – in spite of her gregariousness – she preferred her own company. Shirley Beresford had been a suffragette before the war. Agnes Collier was an expert cook and had won a number of local competitions. Enid Jenks had twice tried to move out of the family home but had been baulked by her father on both occasions.

Keedy soaked it all in, then remembered the question that Marmion put to him.

‘Why were Enid and Shirley such close friends?’

‘I used to wonder about that,’ admitted Harte.

‘Did you reach a conclusion?’

‘No, Sergeant. It’s something I just can’t explain.’

Alan Suggs was a thickset man in his late twenties with curly, black hair and a beard that gave him a faintly piratical air. When he pulled the lorry into the parking bay, he switched off, took out a cigarette, lit it then jumped out of the vehicle. He was just locking the door when Marmion strolled across to him.

‘Mr Suggs?’ he enquired, politely.

‘That’s me. Who wants to know?’

Marmion introduced himself and noted the man’s reaction. Suggs stiffened, drew nervously on his cigarette then exhaled a cloud of smoke. He decided that the best means of defence was stout denial.

‘If someone’s told you I’ve been giving unauthorised lifts to people,’ he said, ‘then he’s lying through his teeth. I’d never do that. I know the rules and I’ve signed to say I’d never break them. Anyway,’ he went on after another puff of his cigarette, ‘why is Scotland Yard worrying about drivers misusing their lorries? It’s small beer to you lot. Haven’t you got anything better to do than that?’

‘I’ve been talking to Royston Liddle,’ said Marmion, meaningfully.

‘Don’t listen to anything that poor bugger tells you. Royston is soft in the head. My dog has got more brains than him.’

‘He claims to be a friend of yours.’

Suggs laughed harshly. ‘Royston is no friend of mine.’

‘Then why did you ask him to look the other way when you borrowed the key to the outhouse at the Golden Goose?’

‘That what he told you, Inspector? It’s rubbish.’

‘He didn’t strike me as a practised liar.’

‘Royston doesn’t know what day it is.’

‘He knows that he’d lose his job if the landlord discovered that he’d helped you to make use of that outhouse with someone. And before you deny it, Mr Suggs,’ he continued, locking his gaze on the driver, ‘let me warn you that I’m investigating the explosion at the Golden Goose. You had access to the place where they died.’

‘It was nothing to do with me!’ roared Suggs.

‘Then why were you in the outhouse on the eve of the blast?’

‘That’s private.’

‘There’s no such thing as privacy in a murder investigation.’

Suggs was scarlet. ‘I didn’t murder anyone. What the hell d’you take me for?’

‘I take you for someone I’d never care to employ,’ said Marmion, levelly. ‘I think you’re vain, shifty, dishonest and untrustworthy. If, as you claim, you had no connection with that bomb, all you have to do is to give me the name of the person with whom you spent half an hour in that outhouse. A lot can happen in thirty minutes, Mr Suggs. You’d have plenty of time to hide a bomb with a timing device.’

Having been quick to protest, Suggs now fell back into a sullen silence. Marmion could almost see the man’s brain whirring as he sought for a plausible tale to explain his presence at the Golden Goose. He stared at Marmion with an amalgam of dislike and apprehension. Suggs had a glib manner that had suddenly let him down. After a last pull on the cigarette, he dropped it to the ground and stamped on it.

‘You obviously have a problem with your eyes,’ said Marmion, pointing to the sign on the wall. ‘That says No Smoking. You also seem to have trouble with your memory. The best way to revive it is for us to have this discussion in the presence of Royston Liddle. Mr Hubbard would also be an interested observer.’

‘Keep him out of this,’ begged Suggs. ‘Leighton would strangle me.’

‘You look as if you’d like to inflict the same fate on Liddle, so let me say now that if any harm befalls him, I’ll come looking for you with an arrest warrant. Now then,’ Marmion went on, folding his arms, ‘why don’t you dredge up something resembling the truth?’

Suggs swallowed hard. ‘I didn’t plant that bomb. I swear it.’

‘Did you advise the people who did?’

‘No!’

‘Did you tell them where the key could be found?’

‘Of course, I didn’t.’

‘Where were you when the bomb went off?’

‘I was fast asleep at home, Inspector. I work long hours. I need my rest.’

‘You didn’t need any rest on the previous evening. My guess is that you were feeling quite vigorous.’ He took out his notebook. ‘What was her name?’

‘There wasno “her”. I was in there on my own.’

‘Royston Liddle saw a young woman being hustled in there.’

‘Are you going to rely on the word of a halfwit?’

‘It’s far more dependable than anything you’ve told me so far.’ Marmion put the book away. ‘Let’s go and find Mr Hubbard. He has a right to hear the truth.’

‘No, no,’ said Suggs, both palms raised, ‘anything but that.’ He pursed his lips for a few moments. ‘Okay,’ he said at length, ‘maybe there wassomeone in there with me on the night before that explosion.’

‘Ah – we’re making progress at last.’

‘But I’m not in a position to tell you her name.’

‘It’s very gallant of you to protect her anonymity, Mr Suggs, but I’m afraid that I can’t let you do that. Unless you tell me who she is, I can’t get corroboration.’

Suggs blinked. ‘What’s that mean?’

‘It means that I need someone to confirm what you tell me.’

‘Can’t you take my word for it?’

‘No, sir – I fancy that you’re a congenital liar. Indeed, that may be the reason you won’t divulge the name of the young lady. Perhaps you’ve been telling her fibs as well.’ He put his head to one side as he fired his question. ‘Are you married?’

‘No!’ retorted Suggs.

‘Are you sure you haven’t led her to believe that you’re single?’

‘I’d never do anything like that.’

‘Then let me have a name.’ There was a lengthy pause. ‘Or are you holding it back because the young lady is the one who’s married?’

Suggs licked his lips then examined the ground for a full minute. When he raised his head, he scratched at his beard then smoothed the ruffled hairs down. Marmion could see that he might now get an approximation to the truth.

‘Lettie and me are both single,’ Suggs began. ‘I’m hoping that one day we can get engaged but her parents don’t like me. I don’t know why. They refuse to let me anywhere near the house. That won’t stop Lettie and me. We arranged a few secret meetings and the only place I could think of was that outhouse.’

‘Why not invite her to your home?’

‘I live with my parents.’

‘Surely, they’d like to have met your girlfriend?’

‘We wanted privacy.’ He nudged Marmion. ‘You were young once, Inspector, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, but I drew the line at courting in some disused stables.’

‘It suited us.’

‘What’s Lettie’s surname?’

‘You don’t need to know. I’ll tell you everything.’

‘Then let’s start with the facts, Mr Suggs.’

‘I’m giving them to you,’ claimed the other.

‘If you live with your parents,’ observed Marmion, dryly, ‘there must be a very nasty smell in the house because, according to your neighbours, they both died years ago. You live alone and that raises the question of why you didn’t invite Lettie – or whatever her real name is – to your home.’ He narrowed his eyelids. ‘What are you trying to hide, Mr Suggs? And what were you reallydoing in that outhouse?’