‘Are you certain this is not the work of foreign agents, Inspector?’
‘I’m absolutely certain,’ replied Marmion, levelly.
‘Yet the women were canaries. Killing them was a way of weakening the workforce at a munitions factory.’
‘I can see that you’ve never been to Hayes. It’s an enormous factory, employing well over ten thousand workers, the vast majority of whom are women. Blowing up five of them will hardly have an adverse affect on production.’
‘Point taken, Inspector.’
Keen to get back to the investigation, Marmion wound up the session by reminding them that an urgent appeal for help needed to be made. He also stressed that it would be both unkind and unproductive of them to pursue the families of the individual victims. They — and Maureen Quinn — needed to be left alone at such a sensitive time. Though everyone in the room nodded in agreement, Marmion was not sure if they’d actually obey his instruction. There was always one journalist who’d go to any lengths to get an exclusive story.
When it was all over, Chatfield stepped in to congratulate him.
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘That was exemplary.’
‘Thank you, Inspector.’
‘You’ve obviously picked up a lot of tips from me.’
‘Of course,’ said Marmion.
It was not true but there was no point in arguing about it. In fact, Chatfield was not at his best during a press conference. He was too bossy and kept far too much back. Instead of wooing the press, he usually managed to antagonise them. Sublimely unaware that his manner was condescending, he always wondered why he received less than lavish praise in the newspapers.
‘What’s your next move, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘My first port of call is the Golden Goose. I want another chat with the landlord.’
‘What will Sergeant Keedy be doing?’
‘He’s going to talk to Mr Kennett, the works manager at the factory.’
‘I wish I could put more men at your disposal.’
‘We’ll manage, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘One trained detective is worth half a dozen uniformed constables who’ve spent most of their time pounding the beat and arresting drunks. We’ve a small but experienced team.’
‘But will it deliver a result? That’s my concern.’
‘All that I can guarantee is that we’ll do our utmost.’
‘I suppose I’ve no need to ask this,’ said Chatfield, raising an eyebrow, ‘but I hope you haven’t discussed this case with your daughter. I know that she’s followed in your footsteps and joined the police but she’s a complete novice and has no part to play in a murder investigation.’
As he looked Chatfield in the eye, Marmion’s face was impassive. ‘As you say, sir, there’s no need to ask that question.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it. In any case, she’s probably too busy thinking about her forthcoming marriage, isn’t she? Talking of which, I trust that the prospect is not distracting the sergeant in any way.’
‘Joe Keedy is a true professional, Superintendent.’
‘Yes — he reminds me of myself at that age.’
‘I can’t say that I see any similarity,’ said Marmion, waspishly. ‘You are quite unique, Superintendent. The car is waiting,’ he went on, moving to the door. ‘If you’ll excuse us, we have five murders to solve.’
Bernard Kennett was a tall, stooping, middle-aged man in a crumpled blue suit. He looked rather careworn and had a habit of running his hand through his hair. Invited into his office, Keedy was quick to make an appraisal of him, deciding that the works manager was more or less exactly as he’d imagined him to be when they spoke on the telephone. Kennett was polite, educated and eager to be of assistance. He waved his visitor to a chair, then sat behind a desk piled high with invoices and correspondence.
‘Let me get one thing clear, Sergeant,’ he began. ‘I’m not in overall control of production here. That duty falls to Mr Passmore. He’s the factory manager. I’m in charge of the section where the five unfortunate young women used to work.’
‘And you actually remembered one of them.’
‘Oh, nobody could forget Florence Duncan. She was their spokeswoman. I recall her sitting in that very seat and demanding a longer lunch break.’
‘Did she get it?’ wondered Keedy.
‘That’s immaterial.’ The older man combed his hair with his fingers then reached for a folder on his desk. ‘Knowing that you were coming, I did a bit of detective work on my own behalf. I spoke to some of the women who worked alongside the five victims and made a few notes.’
‘That will be extremely helpful, sir,’ said Keedy. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s only anecdotal, of course, but it will tell you something about their characters.’ He opened the folder. ‘I need hardly say what the mood is like in the Cartridge Section. Those five young women were very popular. The whole place is in mourning for them.’
‘That’s understandable.’
Kennett glanced at his notes. ‘The one I feel sorry for is Enid Jenks.’
‘We were told that she was a fine musician.’
‘That’s why she would have been so disappointed to miss the occasion. We’re not just slave-drivers here, Sergeant. Productivity must, of necessity, be kept up to a high level but we do try to take care of our workforce. They’re engaged in rather dull and repetitive work,’ he continued, ‘so we endeavour to take their minds off it by giving them periodic treats during their lunch break.’
‘What sort of treats?’
‘The one I have in mind is the visit of Madame Tetrazzini. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ confessed Keedy.
‘Then I can see that you are not an opera lover. Madame Tetrazzini is a famous Italian soprano. She has an international reputation. We were lucky enough to secure a booking with her. She’s due to entertain our workers here next week. I fancy that Enid Jenks would have been thrilled to have the opportunity to hear the lady. It’s a complete contrast,’ said Kennett with a note of pride. ‘The women go from filling shells for long hours to listening to arias from Verdi and Rossini. We may tire their limbs but we also feed their souls.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir. I’ve never been to an opera. But I’m glad that it’s not uninterrupted toil here.’ He extended a hand. ‘Can I see your notes, please?’
Kennett passed them to him. ‘Take them away, Sergeant. My handwriting is not too atrocious. Now, then, what else can I do to help?
‘I’d be interested to see what the five victims actually did when they were here,’ said Keedy, careful not to reveal that he believed the bomber might also work at the factory. ‘I’d like some insight into their daily routine.’
‘That can be arranged.’
Before he could stand up, Kennett was diverted by the urgent ring of his telephone. Apologising for the interruption, he picked up the receiver and listened. Keedy watched his expression change from interest to sudden concern.
‘Yes,’ said the works manager at length. ‘By all means, allow her in. I’ll see her immediately.’ He put the receiver down. ‘That was the security officer at the gate. There’s a Mrs Quinn asking to see me. She seems quite desperate.’
‘Would that be a Mrs Diane Quinn?’ asked Keedy.
‘It is, indeed. It appears that her daughter has disappeared from the house. Mrs Quinn is wondering if she came to work in spite of the fact that she was ordered not to by her father. Excuse me,’ said Kennett, moving to the door, ‘while I instruct my secretary to establish the facts. I want to put Mrs Quinn’s mind at rest.’
Keedy took the opportunity to glance at the notes he’d been given. They were written in a neat hand and consisted largely of a series of quotations from friends of the deceased. They fleshed out the portraits that he and Marmion had been given at the Quinn house. He noted the kind words that were said about Maureen herself. Most of the praise was reserved for Florrie Duncan but Enid Jenks was admired for her musical talent — she also played the piano — Agnes Collier was remembered for her girlish giggle and Jean Harte was liked best for her morose
