Five Dead Canaries (7 page)

Taking his leave, Marmion left the building and headed for the main
gate. No sooner was he let out than he saw Keedy approaching with his usual jaunty stride.

‘It’s all right for some,’ complained the sergeant. ‘You have use of the car whereas I have to travel by Shanks’s pony.’

‘Mr Kennett told me you’d gone off with Mrs Quinn.’

‘You’ve met him, have you?’

‘Yes, and he’s as helpful as you said.’

‘What brought you here, Harv?’

‘Tell me about Maureen Quinn first. Did you track her down?’

Keedy explained that he’d followed his instinct and reunited mother and daughter. The incident had shown him just how afraid they both were of Eamonn Quinn. They’d agreed to say nothing about Maureen’s disappearance and to make Lily hold her tongue as well. When he got home, Quinn would be unaware of the female conspiracy in his household.

Marmion explained that what had brought him to the factory was a name that had been given to him by Royston Liddle. It belonged to one of the drivers who worked there. Unfortunately, Alan Suggs was not on the premises. He’d driven off with a consignment of shells and would be away for some time. Keedy was not sure that the man was worth pursuing.

‘I reckon he’s in the clear, Harv,’ he said. ‘If he only used that outhouse as a place for a rendezvous with his girlfriend, he wasn’t really breaking the law.’

‘He was trespassing, Joe.’

‘We can’t arrest a man for spending half an hour in an empty outhouse. Apart from anything else, it would blight his romance.’

‘I just want to talk to Suggs.’

‘Well, show a bit of sympathy. Think back to the time when you
were courting Ellen. According to Alice, her parents were not exactly impressed at first by the idea of you as a future son-in-law. I bet that you had a few secret meetings when and wherever you could.’

‘That’s beside the point,’ said Marmion, unhappy at the reminder. ‘We didn’t hide in a place where five women were blown up only days later.’

‘Are you saying that Suggs is a suspect?’

‘I’m saying that we should check every lead we have. While I’m waiting for him to drive back here, I’m going to call at the homes of some of the victims and see what I can unearth. I thought I’d start with the one person that Maureen Quinn told us so little about and that’s Shirley Beresford.’

‘Well, I can tell you two significant facts about that young lady,’ said Keedy. ‘The works manager did some research on our behalf. I have his notes.’

‘Excellent – what do they tell you, Joe?’

‘Shirley Beresford was married and she was their star player.’

‘Star player?’

‘Believe it or not, this factory has its own women’s football team. They not only finished top of the league, they’re due to play in a cup final next week against a team from Woolwich. They take the game very seriously.’

‘That
is
interesting,’ conceded Marmion. ‘What about the other women at that party? Did any of them play in the team?’

‘Yes, they did. Maureen Quinn is their goalkeeper.’

‘Is she any good?’

‘She’s one of the reasons they won the league, Harv. She keeps out shots at one end of the pitch while Shirley Beresford scores goals at the other. They were both crucial members of the team. See what I’m starting to think?’

‘With two of their best players out of the way, they’d be badly weakened in that cup final. Woolwich would be clear favourites.’

‘It all sounds so far-fetched, though,’ argued Keedy. ‘I know that passions run high in sport but would anyone really stoop to something like this?’

Marmion needed a few moments to consider his answer. Weighing heavily with him was the fact the munitions factory at Woolwich would employ lots of people who knew how to handle explosives. Cup finals did tend to intensify feelings.

‘All’s fair in love and football,’ he concluded.

Diane Quinn sat on the bed with an arm around her elder daughter. She’d been so frightened by her disappearance that morning that she didn’t want to let her go. Maureen’s bedroom had blue patterned wallpaper, much of it covered by sepia photographs of the works football team and accounts of their progress cut out of the local newspaper. Her football kit was on a coat hanger on the back of the door and her goalkeeper’s gloves were on the bedside table. A football was tucked in a box among a pile of assorted items. The room was small but it had seemed vastly smaller when Maureen had shared it with her sister. The departure of their brothers to the army allowed the girls to have a room each. It was a boon to Maureen. While she yearned for the safe return of her brothers, she revelled in her new-found privacy.

‘Don’t feel you need to speak until you’re absolutely ready,’ said Diane.

After a long, uneasy, painful silence, her daughter finally spoke.

‘I’ll never forgive myself,’ she said, dully. ‘I was ashamed.’

‘You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Maureen.’

‘I forgot. I only slept for a couple of hours last night but, when I
woke up, I forgot. I thought it was a normal day so I got up as usual, got ready and let myself out. It was only when I stood on the corner waiting for her that I realised Agnes wasn’t going to come. Can you see how awful that was, Mummy?’ she asked. ‘My best friend was murdered yesterday and I somehow managed to forget. That was
terrible
.’

‘Not at all,’ said Diane, rocking her gently to and fro. ‘In a way, it’s only natural. You were so harrowed by what happened at the pub that you had to put it out of your mind – nothing wrong in that. A lot of people would have done the same.’

‘I felt that I’d betrayed Agnes – and the others, of course.’

‘You should have come straight back home. I’d have taken care of you.’

‘I was too frightened. Daddy would have known what I did.’

‘He loves you, darling. He’s just not very good at showing it.’

‘I stood on that corner in the cold for ages. People were staring at me.’

‘Ignore them. Having that complexion is not your fault.’

‘Do you know what I felt like doing?’

‘What?’

‘I felt like going round to Mrs Radcliffe’s house to apologise. I wanted to say sorry that I’d made a dreadful mistake waiting for her and that it didn’t mean I didn’t care for Agnes. I cared for all of them – they were my friends.’

‘Maureen,’ said her mother, taking her by the shoulders and turning her so that they faced each other, ‘I want you to promise me something.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Don’t – on any account – go to see Mrs Radcliffe.’

‘Why not? I always got on well with her.’

‘That was when Agnes was alive. Things are different now. When I
was searching for you, I called on Mrs Radcliffe and got a real mouthful from her. She said some nasty things about you and I left before I lost my temper with her. I know she’s bereaved but that doesn’t mean she can abuse my daughter.’

Maureen was hurt. ‘What did she say?’

‘It’s better that you don’t know. Keep away from her.’

‘I loved Agnes – and the baby.’

‘That’s all in the past now, Maureen. Get used to it.’ She released her hold on her daughter’s shoulders. ‘Why did you go to church?’

‘I remembered what Father Cleary said to us at Sunday school once. He said that church wasn’t just a place where we held services. It was a place of comfort and it was open twenty-four hours. If any of us was in difficulty, that’s where we had to go. So I did. It’s why I went there, Mummy. I wanted solace.’

‘Did you find it?’

Maureen fell silent and picked up the football, fondling it in her arms as if holding a beloved child. It was minutes before she gave her answer.

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

During his many years in the Metropolitan Police Force, grief had been a constant feature of his work. It came in many disguises. Marmion had seen the pain of those who’d been assaulted, the horror of women who’d suffered sexual violation, the shock of those who’d been burgled, the indignation of those defrauded, the disbelief of those whose handbags had been snatched and the searing agony of families informed that one of their members had been murdered. Elderly people had suffered heart attacks on hearing bad news and even the most robust of the younger generation had been physically and emotionally shaken. What Marmion had not witnessed before was someone who was, literally, prostrate with grief. When he called at Neil Beresford’s house, he was admitted by the man’s mother, May Beresford, a doughty woman in her fifties with the look of someone who’d endured more than her share of anguish and become inured to it. Her face was granite hard. At first, she’d tried to turn the visitor away, but was eventually persuaded to let Marmion see her son. Her one stipulation was that she should be present at the interview.

Fully clothed, Beresford was lying on his bed and gazing sightlessly up at the ceiling. He was a slim, handsome young man whose features were distorted by a sorrow that had robbed him of thought and movement. Introduced to Marmion, he gave no indication that he even heard the visitor’s name. May prompted him.

‘Inspector Marmion is here to help, Neil,’ she said, sitting on the bed and stroking her son’s arm. ‘He’s determined to catch the evil man who planted that bomb and just needs to ask you a few questions. For Shirley’s sake, I think you should make the effort. You want her killer caught, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ murmured Neil.

‘Then listen to the inspector.’

‘Well,’ said Marmion, ‘the first thing I want to do is to offer my sincere condolences. This must have come as the most appalling blow.’ Beresford gave a barely perceptible nod. ‘I want you to know that we’ll do everything humanly possible to bring the person or persons behind this to court so that the ultimate punishment can be meted out. That won’t, of course, bring your wife back but it may give you a degree of relief.’

‘It will,’ said May. ‘We’ll both be relieved. Do you have any suspects?’

‘It’s my belief that the target was one or all of the young women at that birthday party. What I’m looking for, in the first instance, is a local man with a grudge and with some experience of handling explosives.’

‘Hundreds of men at the factory could make a bomb.’

‘I’d like to hear from your son, Mrs Beresford.’

‘He’ll tell you the same. Neil works at the munitions factory. He and Sheila used to go off early every morning for their shift.’

‘Mr Beresford,’ said Marmion, leaning in closer to him, ‘can you think of anybody who bore a grudge against your wife?’

‘No, Inspector,’ he mumbled. ‘Shirley was wonderful. Everyone loved her.’

‘I can vouch for that,’ added May. ‘She was a saint.’

‘Don’t know how I can live without her.’

‘They were inseparable, Inspector – at work and at play. Neil coached the football team that Shirley was in. She was top scorer.’

‘Then you must have been very proud of her,’ said Marmion, seeing a spark come into Beresford’s eye. ‘Equally, you must have been proud of your own success as a coach. I’m told that your team won the league and is in a cup final.’

‘We could have won,’ asserted Beresford with unexpected force. ‘We’d have beaten Woolwich for certain.’ He sat up. ‘We put five goals past them in a league match. Shirley got a hat-trick. She was amazing.’

‘Tell me about her.’

Marmion had at last uncorked the bottle and words came pouring out of it. As he talked about his wife, Beresford’s pride got the better of his grief. Having been a gifted player himself, it had fallen to him to mould the Hayes team into a winning combination. Marmion was struck by the fact that young women who worked nine-and-a-half-hour shifts could still find the time and energy to hone their skills on the football field. Beresford clearly had talent. None of his team had even seen a football match – let alone played in one – until he picked them out and taught them from scratch. Both for him and his players, the game had been a joyous escape from the humdrum routine at the factory. It had taken over their lives and that of their supporters. May was one of their most devoted fans.

‘I used to wash their kit,’ she boasted. ‘It makes a difference, sending the girls onto the pitch looking smart. Some of the teams we play don’t bother. They’re a load of scruffs. Neil set high standards. That’s why we’re the best.’

‘Is there much rivalry between the various teams?’ asked Marmion.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Beresford.

‘Give me an example.’

‘We’ve had footballs stolen, vile things painted on the shed where the girls change and some of our goalposts were sawn in half.’

‘I hadn’t realised young ladies could be so mercenary.’

‘It’s not the players,’ said May, ‘it’s their supporters. They’re mad. They’ll go to any lengths to win.’

‘So it seems,’ said Marmion. ‘Would they go as far as planting a bomb to kill your best players?’

Mother and son were both stunned by a question that they’d evidently not asked themselves. Inclined to dismiss it out of hand at first, they began to take it more seriously. Marmion watched the two of them having a silent conversation with each other. He wished that he knew what they were thinking.

‘After all,’ he resumed, ‘it wasn’t just your best player who was killed in that explosion. Your goalkeeper was at that party as well. If she hadn’t left early, then you’d have lost two members of the team.’

‘Three,’ corrected May. ‘Jean Harte was only a reserve, as usual, but she might have played in the cup final because Sally Neames was injured.’

‘There you are then, Mr Beresford. Losing three players would have been a crippling blow to your chances. Do you think that someone from Woolwich would deliberately set out to deprive you of the services of your wife, Maureen Quinn and Jean Harte? Is that conceivable?’

But Marmion had got all that he was going to get out of Beresford. He put his head on the pillow and stared upwards again, mind numbed and body motionless. His mother gave a signal to Marmion and the pair of them went back downstairs. In the living room, he spotted
something he hadn’t noticed before. On the mantelpiece was a large framed photograph. Expecting it to be of the couple at their wedding, Marmion saw that it was instead a full-length portrait of Shirley Beresford in football kit. She was a lanky girl with a long, narrow face and she was beaming in triumph at the camera.

‘He’s been like that since he found out,’ said May with a glance upwards.

‘Ask him to think over what I put to him.’

‘Oh, I can answer that question, Inspector.’

‘Can you?’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she affirmed. ‘Some devil from Woolwich
could
have set out to ruin our chances. It’s not just the cup, you see. There’s the money.’

‘But it’s an amateur sport, Mrs Beresford. The players don’t get paid.’

‘They don’t need to, Inspector. The money comes from the bookies. If the team you pick wins, you can make a tidy sum. I support Hayes through thick and thin but, if I had any sense, I’d bet everything I could on Woolwich for the cup final.’

Keedy could only watch in mute admiration. Taken on a tour around the Cartridge Section by Bernard Kennett, he saw what the women actually did when they clocked on for work. They were in part of an industrial complex that extended across all of two hundred acres. The buildings were so numerous and of such differing sizes that it was impossible to count them. The first National Filling Station to start production, Hayes was like a small town in itself, employing, feeding and – now and then – entertaining a workforce that ran into vast numbers. It was divided into five sections. In the West Section, eighteen-pound shells were assembled, whereas the East Section specialised in filling
fuses, friction tubes and exploders. Pellets were also manufactured there. The Cap and Detonator Section was such an important part of the whole operation that it had a separate fence and its own guards. Primer caps and detonators were made there. The workshops in the Amatol Section were larger than most and spaced well apart. Warm liquid amatol – an explosive mixture of ammonium nitrate and TNT – was poured into shells of varying sizes. Danger was ever present.

Before he could pay full attention to what was happening in the Cartridge Section, Keedy had to get used to the pounding noise and the pervading stink. Women were working in serried ranks, helping to fill shell cartridges with explosive material. The numerous safety precautions were unable to protect the staff completely. They were continuously exposed to highly toxic materials. As a means of countering their effects, the women were given a daily ration of milk but it failed to halt the steady discolouring of their skin. To Keedy’s eyes, it was like a vision of the seventh circle of hell, unceasing toil in an unhealthy atmosphere with constant targets to meet. Male workers were very much in the minority. The bulk of production came from the women, the youngest of whom was eighteen.

In their matching uniforms, it was difficult to tell them apart. Maureen Quinn had been part of this female army and might, in time, return to it. Florrie Duncan, Agnes Collier, Jean Harte, Shirley Beresford and the musician, Enid Jenks, would never come back to the Section. Keedy thought the work unsuitable for women and bewailed the fact that war had dulled the sensibilities with regard to what was appropriate to the two genders. As he was led around by Kennett, the workers went up in his esteem. In spite of their unflattering clothing, he could see that many of them were young, shapely and very attractive. But they were committed to a job that would round their shoulders, put furrows
in their faces and paint them with such a telltale yellow sheen that their social lives would be badly affected. Even the most loving husbands would be repelled by the change in their wives’ appearance and those in search of marriage proposals would be severely handicapped. In serving their country so willingly, they’d made unwitting sacrifices.

Keedy was glad to step out into the fresh air again. He turned to Kennett.

‘Thank you for showing me round,’ he said.

‘Now you know what those five women did when they were here.’

‘I had no idea that conditions were so bad.’

‘They compare favourably with conditions in any of the other factories,’ said Kennett, defensively. ‘We do everything possible to minimise the danger to our workforce and to treat them with consideration.’

‘Granted – but it’s still worrying to see women doing such work.’

‘It’s an unfortunate necessity.’

‘What will happen when the war ends?’

‘Demand for munitions will cease,’ replied Kennett, ‘so we won’t need to maintain such a high daily output. Men who return from the front will naturally expect jobs and they’ll take priority over women, many of whom will have to be released to search for other employment.’

‘The damage will already have been done,’ said Keedy, sadly. ‘Who’ll take on women who look like yellow, jaundice victims?’

‘That’s a regrettable side effect of working here.’

‘Shouldn’t they be able to claim compensation?’

‘No,’ said Kennett, sharply, ‘that’s out of the question. They understood when they first came here what the job entailed. The women accepted the risk. They can’t turn round now and say that they deserve some sort of compensation. Where’s the money to come from to pay
them? We’d go bankrupt. If we set a precedent with munition workers, it would be disastrous thing to do.’

It would also be a civilised gesture, thought Keedy, but he didn’t wish to have a dispute with the works manager. Sympathetic as he’d been to the plight of the five victims, there were clearly limits to Kennett’s compassion. First and foremost, he had to maintain production at whatever cost. Workers were therefore seen as mere cogs in a machine rather than as human beings with needs and rights. One of Keedy’s questions was answered. When Florrie Duncan had come to his office to demand longer lunch breaks, she obviously got very short shrift from Bernard Kennett.

After thanking his guide once more, Keedy took his leave and walked off the premises. The tour had served its purpose. He’d not just been interested to see how hard and unremittingly the women had worked, he was keen to note how often they came into contact with male employees. The latter were not just confined to management roles. Many worked alongside the women, doing the skilled tasks that were beyond them. Then there were drivers, porters, cleaners, kitchen staff and dozens of other men at the factory. Many of them came into daily contact with the munitionettes. Keedy had observed more than one of them shooting sly glances at the women. Could the bomber they sought be working somewhere on the site? Thwarted passion was a powerful emotion. Keedy had seen it drive people to do incredible things. The shells manufactured at Hayes were lethal but unwelcome sexual desire could be destructive as well. Was that what had cost five women their lives? It was an open question.

Ellen Marmion did what she could to help the war effort by working as a volunteer with groups that organised food parcels to be sent to
the front or knitted gloves and other items for the soldiers. Aware of the privations suffered by those trapped in deep, muddy, rat-infested trenches, she strove to ameliorate their lot in her small way. On her way home after another session with the knitting needles, she passed a newspaper vendor and saw the headline emblazoned on his display board –
FIVE DEAD CANARIES
. Since the lunchtime edition related to the case on which her husband and future son-in-law were working, she bought a copy and glanced at the front page. Marmion looked up solemnly at her from a stock photograph but it was tiny by comparison with the photo of the doomed outhouse in Hayes. Seeing the extent of the damage made her stomach heave. It was the work of someone cruel and pitiless. Marmion and Keedy were in pursuit of the man. Not for the first time, she was reminded of the perils that came with a job at Scotland Yard. Someone who could kill five young women in cold blood wouldn’t hesitate to murder two detectives. Folding up the newspaper, she thrust it under her arm and scurried home.