‘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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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
‘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
