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.’
