Five Dead Canaries (19 page)

‘What camp are you talking about?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

‘Have you got a suspect?’

‘We have two at the moment, love, and a third on the horizon.’

‘This case is getting more and more complicated.’

‘That’s its attraction,’ he said, breezily. ‘It would be far more convenient if we were operating entirely within London but we have to go where the evidence takes us. Is there any news at your end?’

‘I knitted another pair of socks today.’

‘Well done!’

‘Oh – and Alice called in to see me at the centre. That inspector of hers has sent her out on patrol, looking for prostitutes.’

He chortled. ‘She’ll find plenty of those roaming the streets.’

‘It’s nothing to laugh at, Harvey.’

‘I’m glad, for her sake. Alice will be out in the fresh air and she’ll get some experience of the seamy side of life. It will toughen her up.’

‘I don’t want her toughened up. I want her to stay as she is.’

‘We all have to grow and develop, Ellen. Anyway,’ he said, ‘I must be on my way. Joe sends his love and has made a decision about where he and Alice will spend their honeymoon.’

‘Oh, that’s good. Where will they go?’

‘Anywhere but Wales – that’s official.’

He rung off and the line went dead.

Royston Liddle had never felt his weakness so keenly. Convinced that Alan Suggs was responsible for the outrage, Liddle wanted to avenge the deaths of his rabbits but he had neither the strength nor the cunning to do so. All that he could do was to follow the killer whenever he could and watch his every move from the shadows. That way, he could at least direct his hatred at Suggs. The explosion at the pub had been a major event and Liddle had been unable to take in the enormity of it all. The murder of his pets was another matter. It was more personal and direct.
In his limited codex, five dead canaries couldn’t compete against two dead rabbits.

Having waited for Suggs to return home from work, he hid nearby and kept the house under surveillance. When a light came on in the bedroom, he decided that his quarry had gone upstairs to change out of his working clothes. There was another wait in a doorway while – as he assumed – the driver made himself a meal. Liddle was patient. The longer he stayed out of sight, the darker it was getting. When he finally came out, Suggs was wearing a suit and had changed his flat cap for a trilby. Walking with a swagger, he made his way to the nearest pub and went in for a drink. Liddle could see him through the window, quaffing a pint and chatting to some of the other patrons. At one point, Suggs came over to the window and Liddle had to duck sharply to avoid being seen. It was a false alarm. In fact, Suggs hadn’t spotted that he was under scrutiny. Having removed his hat, he used the window as a mirror in which to check his appearance.

Half an hour later, he came out of the pub and looked in both directions to make sure that he was not observed. He then moved off furtively down a side street until he reached the house on the corner. After a second check that nobody else was about, he knocked on the front door. It was opened almost immediately and he was whisked inside. Royston Liddle gave a silent cackle. Perhaps there was a way to get his revenge, after all.

Silhouetted against the night sky, Frongoch camp looked all the more forbidding. Its high perimeter fence was topped with barbed wire. Guard dogs could be heard barking. The building that had once housed the whisky distillery was now largely given over to staff
accommodation. Internees and other prisoners were locked away in crude huts fitted with wooden bunks. It was late when the detectives arrived and they had to show their credentials to the armed guards at the gates before they were let in. The interminable drive along winding roads had been an ordeal for the chauffeur. Left alone in the car, he fell instantly asleep.

Once inside the fence, Keedy’s curiosity got the better of his discontent. He looked around with interest, noting the number of armed guards on patrol. Marmion was grateful to be liberated from the car. It had explored every pothole on its way there and he was aching all over. When the visitors were conducted to the governor’s office, they rallied at the sight of the bottle of whisky on his desk.

Major Hugh Gostelow was a genial host. He beamed at his guests.

‘Welcome to Frongoch, gentlemen,’ he said, cheerily. ‘May I offer you something to keep out the cold?’

‘Yes, please,’ replied Marmion.

Keedy was more wary. ‘It isn’t
Welsh
whisky, is it?’

‘No,’ said Gostelow. ‘It’s the best Scotch – single malt, of course.’

He poured the drinks and handed them to the newcomers, reserving a generous portion for his own glass. After introductions had been made, they all sat down. Tall, angular and still in his forties, the governor had an air of gentlemanly authority. His uniform was impeccable and he was noticeably well groomed.

‘What’s this all about, Inspector?’ he began. ‘When I spoke to your superintendent, he only told me what he felt was necessary to get my cooperation.’

Marmion gave him a fuller version of the investigation. When he heard details of the explosion, Gostelow winced. He asked some pertinent questions and thanked the inspector for being so articulate
and concise. Then he reached for a folder on his desk and handed it to Marmion.

‘That’s your man,’ he said as the detectives read the file together. ‘As you can see, Quinn has packed rather a lot into the twenty years he’s been on this planet. The police want him for a string of offences in Dublin and he’s suspected of being involved in many Republican activities on this side of the Irish Sea. Pity, isn’t it?’ he added. ‘He’s a good-looking young fellow.’

Marmion and Keedy looked at the photograph of Niall Quinn. He had close-cropped dark hair and a faint resemblance to his cousin, Maureen. The scowl on his face couldn’t hide the fact that he was arrestingly handsome. He looked older than twenty and his gaze was challenging.

‘How did he escape?’ asked Keedy.

‘It was during the night,’ said Gostelow. ‘He’d bribed one of the Germans to take his place at roll-call so that we thought he was still with us. It was hours before we found the tunnel. Quinn was a human mole. He’d been working on that tunnel for months, by the look of it.’

‘Did nobody else go with him, Major?’

‘No – it was a solo run.’

‘Was a search mounted?’

‘Of course it was, Sergeant. We scoured the whole county for him but there are lots of places to hide in Merionethshire. My feeling is that he went to ground somewhere. We know he’d been hoarding food so he wasn’t short of rations.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘The rogue even helped himself to a bottle of my Scotch.’

‘He sounds like an enterprising chap,’ said Marmion.

‘He was, Inspector. When he put his mind to it, he could be quite engaging. It was only a means of camouflage, however. He tried to
convince us that he wasn’t really so eager to plant bombs in the name of Sinn Fein but we weren’t fooled.’

‘Do you have many Irish prisoners here?’

‘They’ve increased in number recently and I fancy that we’ll have many more. I don’t know how conversant you are with events across the water,’ said Gostelow, ‘but Sinn Fein and the so-called Irish Citizens Army have both stepped up their activities. It’s only a matter of time before something really serious happens. My fear is that it will spill over into this country.’

‘Do you have room for more prisoners?’ asked Keedy.

‘Not if they come in substantial numbers. If that’s the case, our German guests will have to be moved to Knockaloe Camp on the Isle of Man. That’s a shame because most of them are perfectly harmless individuals with the misfortune to have German parentage. The Irish are different. They hate us simply because we’re British. If they had the chance to blow Frongoch up, they’d take it.’

Having perused the documents, Marmion handed them back to the governor.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I notice that Niall Quinn was arrested under Defence Regulations.’

‘It’s a vital tool in a wartime situation,’ said Gostelow before taking another sip of his whisky. ‘It saves us the time and trouble of going through the courts. DORA has been a boon to us. I know that it produced howls of protest from people who thought their freedom was being taken away, but the Defence of the Realm Act was one of the best pieces of legislation passed by the government.’

‘How well did you get to know Quinn while he was here?’

‘Oh, it was very well – he made sure of that. Prisoners tend to keep their heads down and keep clear of me but Quinn had the
cheek of the devil. He spoke up whenever he had the chance and he was always causing trouble. I had him in here on many occasions to answer charges of various kinds.’ Gostelow smiled at the memory. ‘He’s the only prisoner I’ve ever met who could be both obsequious and taunting at the same time. He made two failed attempts to escape before he actually did get away. In one sense, I’m glad to be rid of the little so-and-so.’

‘What do you think he’ll do with his freedom?’ asked Keedy.

‘Oh, there’s a short answer to that, Sergeant,’ replied Gostelow. ‘He’ll go straight back to what he was sent to this country to do – planting bombs.’

‘Will they be designed simply to damage property or are they likely to kill people as well?’

‘Quinn has no concern for human life. One of the guards overheard him boasting to his friends that he was ready to blow up British men, women and children to achieve his ends – particularly young women.’

‘Why is that?’

‘They bear children. Murder them and you stop British babies being born.’

Keedy exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Marmion. Both were thinking of Florrie Duncan. They let Gostelow ramble on. Everything they heard about Niall Quinn marked him out as a ruthless and dedicated young man.

‘In his file,’ said Marmion, ‘I saw that he had a few regular visitors.’

‘Yes,’ said the governor. ‘They were Irish Members of Parliament. As soon as we lock up anyone from the Emerald Isle, they’re here to protest about poor food, dreadful accommodation, punitive discipline and so on. It’s all nonsense, of course, but they feel they have to speak up for
their fellow countrymen. What really upsets them, however, is that we limit visits to a mere fifteen minutes.’

‘That would upset me as well,’ volunteered Keedy. ‘It’s a hell of a long way to come for a quarter of an hour of conversation.’

‘At least, they get to speak to someone, Sergeant. As Members of Parliament, they have that right. People who just roll up at the gates are usually turned away. That’s what happened to the first visitor who tried to see Niall Quinn,’ explained Gostelow. ‘When I knew that you were coming, I looked up his name out of interest.’

‘Who was it?’ asked Marmion.

‘It was his uncle – a Mr Eamonn Quinn.’

June Ingles was puzzled. At a time when all she could think about was the gruesome murder of their daughter, her husband was talking about selling the house. It disturbed her at a deep level. It not only intruded upon her grief, it suggested that Brian Ingles was not as preoccupied with mourning Florrie’s death as he should be. She’d accepted that he was at times arrogant and high-handed but he’d never been so determined to ignore her wishes before. A decision such as moving house was something that ought to be discussed with her in full and at a more appropriate moment. The sense of being disregarded gnawed away at her. The moment that June woke up that morning and saw that her husband was sitting up in bed, she returned to the subject.

‘I still don’t understand why you went to that estate agent yesterday.’

‘I wanted a rough valuation,’ he replied.

‘Why? We don’t need to sell it, Brian, and I certainly don’t want to.’

‘No more do I.’

‘Then what’s all the fuss about?’

‘It’s just a precaution, that’s all,’ he told her. ‘What happened to Florrie has made me think. All the plans we ever had for her disappeared in a flash. And it could happen to either of us, June.’ He flicked a hand. ‘I don’t mean that we’re likely to be blown up as she was but there are other reasons for sudden death. We could be killed in a car accident or die from some terrible disease.’

‘Don’t be so morbid.’

‘I’m just being practical. If I were to have a fatal heart attack tomorrow, you’d be in the most awful position. You’d be stuck in this big house with no idea of any outstanding financial commitments. It would be a nightmare. Moving to a smaller property would mean that everything was simplified for you.’

‘I’m not a child,’ she protested, ‘so you can stop patronising me.’

‘There’d be money in the bank. You’d have a safety net.’

‘But I already have that, Brian. This house is my safety net in every way.’

He got up and drew the curtains on the bay window, peering out to see a fine drizzle falling. A neighbour opposite was setting off to work with an umbrella. The milkman was working his way along the road. A stray dog was prowling.

‘Come back to bed,’ said June.

‘I’m up now.’

‘We need to settle this once and for all.’

‘No, June,’ he snapped. ‘It’s already settled. There’s nothing else to be said.’ By way of appeasement, he put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry to be so short with you but the fact is that I’m the breadwinner here and therefore entitled to make the major decisions about our future.’

‘Not without consulting me.’

‘You
have
been consulted.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ she said. ‘This idea came completely out of the blue. You’d made up your mind before you even spoke to me.’

‘Yes – and I’ve just explained why.’

‘This is ridiculous. You’re not going to have a heart attack, Brian. At your last check-up, the doctor said that you were as fit as a fiddle. And the chances of either of us being knocked down by a car are very remote.’ She hauled herself up and rested against the headboard. ‘Something’s going on, isn’t it? And you’re not telling me what it is.’

‘I’m just asking you to trust me.’

‘Why can’t I know the full truth?’

‘You already know it, June,’ he said. ‘Now why don’t we stop fighting over this issue and have a cup of tea instead? I’ll go and make one.’

‘You’re doing it again,’ she complained. ‘As soon as I ask you a question, you either cut me off or find a reason to change the subject. What’s going on, Brian?’

‘I’m making sensible plans for our future.’

‘There’s more to it than that.’

‘Florrie’s death has made me face reality.’

‘But you’ve always done that. What you’ve never done before is to threaten to sell this lovely house.’

‘It’s not a threat, June.’

‘It sounds very much like it to me.’

He inhaled deeply. ‘It’s just one option I’m considering,’ he said, irritably. ‘It may not be necessary. I hope that it isn’t. But I wanted to take stock of our situation. Now will you please stop nagging me?’

June brightened. ‘So we may be able to stay here, after all?’

‘It’s … a strong possibility.’ He took his dressing gown off its hook. ‘Can I go and get that cup of tea now?’

‘Yes, please. You’ve cheered me up. Thank you, Brian.’

Putting on his dressing gown, he gave her an ambiguous smile and left.

None of them had ever spent a night behind bars before but that’s what happened at Frongoch Camp. All three of them had locked up prisoners in the past but it was their turn to be ushered into cells. It was the only accommodation available for Marmion, Keedy and their driver. Each of them was given one of the cells in the segregation unit. Reserved for prisoners who needed to be kept in solitary confinement, they were small, bare and featureless, containing little beyond a bunk, a table bolted to the floor and a chair. Blank walls pressed in upon them, though closer inspection showed that they were not entirely plain. Earlier occupants had scratched their names or their artwork into the rough plaster. There was a plethora of obscenities and, in Harvey Marmion’s cell, the name of Niall Quinn was proudly recorded. The Irishman had left his mark on the camp in a number of ways.

The visitors were grateful that they didn’t have to face another long drive through the night. Marmion had already warned Ellen that he might not be home until the morrow, Keedy had nobody waiting up for him and their chauffeur, although married, had schooled his wife to accept that he’d be forced to work uncertain hours. All three of them enjoyed a hearty breakfast before being given a quick tour of the camp by Major Gostelow. Security was tight. The dogs were trained to attack. In order to escape, Niall Quinn had shown both courage and ingenuity.

Having entered Wales at night and having endured endless bumps and bends in the road, Joe Keedy had had an unfavourable impression of the country. Daylight helped him to revise his opinion. Early morning mist had been burnt off by the sun and they drove through areas of breathtaking natural beauty. A car was a rare sight in some of the tiny hillside villages so they always got attention and friendly waves. Now that the driver was able to see exactly where he was going, he could avoid the worst hazards along the way.

Marmion remembered the name scratched into the wall of his cell.

‘Niall Quinn is dangerous,’ he said.

‘We knew that before we set out,’ Keedy reminded him. ‘I’m not persuaded that we needed to come to Frongoch at all.’

‘When did you last drink such an excellent whisky?’

Keedy grinned. ‘Yes, I have to confess that it was rather special.’

‘So was the experience of being locked up in solitary confinement.’

‘My door was left open.’

‘I was speaking metaphorically, Joe,’ said Marmion. ‘As for our visit, I’d say that it might have provided us with another suspect. We learnt that Niall Quinn would have no compunction about blowing up young women.’

‘But why would he want to?’ asked Keedy. ‘And how would he know that the birthday party was taking place in that pub?’

‘There’s an easy answer to that – his cousin told him.’

‘Are you saying that Maureen Quinn
wanted
her friends killed?’

‘I’m reminding you that she wasn’t there when the bomb went off.’

‘Yes, Harv, and we know why. She was unwell.’

‘Was she?’ Marmion ran a ruminative hand across his chin. ‘If she’d been that poorly, she wouldn’t have gone to the party in the first place. And she didn’t look unwell when we saw her. She was jangled, yes, but who wouldn’t be? What I didn’t see were any signs of illness.’

‘Are you suggesting that she lied to us?’

‘All I’m saying is that I knew when either of
my
children was unwell. You only had to look at their faces – Alice, especially. They were either flushed or pale. If they had a temperature, you could spot it straight away.’

‘I still can’t see Maureen Quinn as part of a conspiracy.’

‘Neither can I,’ admitted Marmion, ‘but she could unwittingly have
helped her cousin. She might have mentioned the party and he saw his opportunity.’

‘But why blow up five innocent young women?’

‘It was to get attention, Joe. Publicity is what Sinn Fein is after and they got plenty of that. Yes,’ he went on, anticipating Keedy’s rejoinder, ‘I know that they didn’t claim responsibility. That means nothing. They’re out to cause maximum disruption and spread fear. And consider a crucial fact. Someone like Quinn wouldn’t see the victims as innocent young women. In his eyes, they’re munition workers. Because they make weapons, they symbolise the hold that we have over Ireland.’

‘Only some brainless fanatic would think that.’

‘Quinn
is
a fanatic.’

‘No,’ said Keedy, thinking it over, ‘I’m not convinced. If an escaped prisoner turned up on Maureen’s doorstep, she’s more likely to have reported it to the police.’

‘What about her father?’

‘He’s different. He wouldn’t lift a finger to help us.’

‘Then don’t rule his nephew out.’

Keedy was adamant. ‘My feeling is that Herbert Wylie is still our best bet.’

‘What about the anonymous father of Florrie Duncan’s baby?’

‘We can’t even be certain that there
was
a baby, Harv. At best, it was only guesswork. No,’ he continued, ‘
you
can add Quinn and Florrie’s secret lover to your list. It was Maureen who gave us our breakthrough. The culprit is Wylie.’

To burn off some of the energy that was coursing through him, Neil Beresford went for a run that morning, padding around the streets in shorts and singlet. The drizzle had stopped now and a wind had sprung
up. He tried hard to still the ugly memories that clouded his mind. He’d got used to the idea that Shirley was a permanent fixture in his life. They’d known each other since school and a long courtship had followed. Married for almost four years, they were looked upon as the ideal couple. Since they worked at the same factory and were key figures in the football team, they were invariably seen together. A vast hole had suddenly opened in Beresford’s life and nothing could ever fill it. Though he pushed himself hard, he couldn’t outrun the agonising truth that he’d never see his wife again.

The physical effort finally began to sap his energy and make him puff hard. Slowing down as he approached a run of shops, he came to a halt and needed a couple of minutes to get his breath back. Beresford then went into the newsagent and bought a copy of the morning paper. As he stepped back onto the pavement, a car drew up at the kerb and came to a halt. When the engine was switched off, Brian Ingles got out of the vehicle and looked him up and down.

‘Good morning!’ he hailed.

‘Oh, hello,’ said Beresford, almost defensively.

‘You’ve been running, I see.’

‘I had to get out of the house, somehow. I felt trapped in there.’

‘Yes, the associations are powerful, aren’t they? Wherever you look, you must be reminded of your wife. It’s different with us because Florrie didn’t live at home.’

‘She told Shirley that she liked her independence.’

‘We still saw a lot of her,’ said Ingles, airily, ‘because she wasn’t far away. We’ve always been a close-knit family.’

It wasn’t what Beresford had been told by his wife. He was well aware of the fact that Florrie had been almost estranged from her parents but he didn’t dispute Ingles’s version. All that he wanted to do was to get
away from the other man because he hated people who had a need to dominate a conversation.

‘It looks as if the collective burial will go ahead,’ said Ingles.

‘Does it?’ muttered Beresford. ‘I’m glad.’

‘I think that I was responsible for that. I not only persuaded Agnes Collier’s mother, I finally battered down the walls of Reuben Harte’s opposition. He’s fallen into line with the rest of us.’

‘Good.’

‘What does it say in the paper?’

‘I haven’t really looked,’ said Beresford, lifting it up so that he could see the front page. ‘It’s the main story –
POLICE NAME PRIME SUSPECT
.’

‘My God!’ exclaimed Ingles. ‘He did it, I’m sure. Wylie did it and he’ll hang for the crime. Excuse me,’ he went on, moving away. ‘I want to get my own copy and read the details.’

He went into the shop and left Beresford wondering why the man was in such a buoyant mood. His daughter had been killed in an explosion yet Brian Ingles was grinning happily as if she were still alive. Beresford had plenty to think about on the jog back to his house.

It was a flying visit but Ellen was delighted to see him. Marmion had returned to the house to apologise for his absence in the night and to change his clothing. He gave her very few details and she didn’t press for any. Having him back under the roof was enough for her. All she wanted to talk about was their son’s return and he found it easier to agree with everything that she suggested.

‘How was Alice when you met her yesterday?’ he asked.

‘She’s fine in herself, Harvey. Only one thing worries her.’

‘Is it that inspector who’s taken a dislike to her?’

‘I think that she can cope with that.’

‘So what is it that’s troubling her?’

‘It’s Paul,’ she replied. ‘He’s been told about Alice and Joe but he’s made no comment about it. That really hurt her. Joe is going to be his brother-in-law yet Paul couldn’t even be bothered to acknowledge the fact.’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps he didn’t even get her letter. Mail does go astray.’

‘Alice wouldn’t believe that. She thinks that Paul definitely knows.’

‘He forgot to mention it, that’s all, love. It may be at the forefront of Alice’s mind but our son is more interested in fighting the enemy. Family matters don’t strike you as so important when you’re in that situation.’

‘I’d say that they were even more important,’ she contended. ‘Look how thrilled he was to be given leave. Paul couldn’t wait to get back to us. All of his previous letters were about the things he missed here.’

He patted her back. ‘It was your cooking that he really missed, Ellen. And he did send his love to Alice in his last letter. Isn’t that enough for her?’