her son would make of the way that Alice had changed since the outbreak of war. As children, they’d been very close but they’d slowly drifted apart. Ellen had watched with disquiet as her daughter had gone from being a teacher to wearing a police uniform. An army uniform might have wrought even more profound changes in her son. He would certainly not be the person they’d waved off after his last leave. All of a sudden, her elation began to dim slightly.
‘What’s the fellow’s name?’
‘Herbert Wylie.’
‘Where did he work?’
‘In the Cartridge Section at the munitions factory.’
‘When did he last turn up there?’
‘On the day of the explosion,’ replied Marmion.
‘What did you find at his digs?’
‘We saw evidence of bomb-making ingredients, sir.’
‘Anything else?’ asked the superintendent.
‘It looks as if he’s flown the coop.’
After their visit to Wylie’s house, the detectives had returned to the police station. In view of what he felt was a significant discovery, Marmion had rung Claude Chatfield to tell him what had been found in the garden shed. He praised Keedy for drawing the information out of Maureen Quinn that one of her friends had been stalked by a man at the factory who was frighteningly obsessive.
‘What do we know about him?’ enquired Chatfield.
‘We know very little, I’m afraid,’ said Marmion. ‘Mr Kennett only knew him by sight and Wylie’s landlady gave us an idealised portrait of him. She seems to treat him like the son she never had. If he can win her over so completely, he must have some redeeming features.’
‘Did you tell her that he’s now a suspect in a murder inquiry?’
‘No, sir — it seemed too cruel to shatter her illusions. Besides, we don’t know that he
‘My instinct tells me we’ve picked up the scent of the man we want,’ said Chatfield, emphatically. ‘I’ll release his name to the press and say that we’re anxious to trace him. He’s gone to ground somewhere and we need to flush him out.’
‘I agree, Superintendent.’
‘What will you and the sergeant do in the meantime?’
‘Sergeant Keedy has gone back to the factory to talk to people who knew Herbert Wylie rather better than the works manager. With luck, there might even be a photograph of employees that includes the man. I know that there are group photos of female workers because I saw one on the wall in Mr Kennett’s office. Hopefully, they pointed the camera at the men as well.’
‘You haven’t told me what
‘I’m going to pay a second visit to Mr Jenks.’
‘I thought he denied that his daughter had any interest in boyfriends.’
‘He did,’ said Marmion. ‘What he’s going to learn about Enid will come as a severe blow. Jonah Jenks felt that he controlled his daughter’s life.’
Jonah Jenks sat at the piano and played a few chords. The sound was still echoing when the door knocker introduced a note of disharmony. He answered the door and, moments later, brought Neil Beresford into the living room. Though they’d never met before, their mutual sorrow gave them an immediate rapport. After declining the offer of a cup of tea, Beresford explained why he’d called.
‘By rights,’ he said, ‘I should be at work but I overslept this morning. I’d set the alarm when I went to bed but my mother removed the clock while I was asleep and I woke up far too late.’
‘Your mother probably did you a favour, Mr Beresford.’
‘I’ve told her I’ll go back tomorrow but she thinks it would be too soon.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with her. I’ve taken leave from work for the foreseeable future.’
Beresford looked as if he needed as much rest as he could get. Fatigue had painted his features a deep grey and hollowed his cheeks. Yet there was an intensity and animation about him that contradicted his appearance.
‘I really came to ask you about the letter from Mr Kennett. Have you reached a decision yet?’
‘Yes,’ said Jenks. ‘I’ve come round to the view that the offer should be accepted. I’d like Enid to be laid to rest with her friends.’
‘Mr Ingles wants his daughter to be part of a joint burial,’ Beresford told him. ‘He called round to see me early on and persuaded me that it’s the right thing to do. That makes three of us who are of the same mind. I can’t speak for the others.’
‘Reuben Harte is against the idea.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I tackled him about it earlier but he wouldn’t commit himself to the notion. He prefers a quiet funeral involving only the immediate family.’
‘What about Agnes Collier?’
‘I don’t know her family at all, Mr Beresford. Agnes lived near Uxbridge close to Maureen Quinn. We’ll have to wait and see how they react to the offer. My hope is that — seeing three of us in favour of it — they’ll decide to join us. If it’s a case of four to one,’ Jenks continued, ‘then the pressure will tell on Reuben Harte. His resistance might well crumble. What do you think?’
Beresford was distracted and the question had to be repeated for him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a disarming smile, ‘I was admiring that photo of your daughter. She was a beautiful young lady.’
‘One newspaper described her as a canary — along with your wife, I may say. It’s a dreadful name. I hate it. But you know Reuben Harte, don’t you?’ Jenks went on. ‘Whenever his daughter played in the football team, he came along to support her.’
‘Yes, he was always there on the touchline. A lot of parents were.’
‘What will happen to the team now?’
‘We’ll fight on,’ said Beresford with conviction. ‘We owe it to the players we’ve lost to play and win that cup final. Woolwich may think it’s theirs for the taking and that will make them complacent. We’ll take them by surprise.’
‘I wish you good luck.’
They sat down and discussed the apparent lack of progress in the police investigation. Neither of them could offer any clue as to the identity of the person who’d planted the bomb or what his motives could possibly be.
‘My mother feels that it could be a Woolwich supporter,’ said Beresford, ‘but even a fanatic would have more respect for human life than to kill five innocent women. I’m wondering if it was a tragic accident.’
‘It was certainly tragic,’ said Jenks, sadly.
‘Why would anyone deliberately want to cause such pain and suffering?’
‘The German army is doing just that as we speak, Mr Beresford.’
‘You expect horrors in a war,’ said Beresford, ‘but not on your doorstep.’
‘When did you first hear?’
‘I knew that something had gone wrong when …’ he paused to grapple with his emotions ‘… when Shirley didn’t come home after the party. The Golden Goose is less than twenty minutes’ walk away. I was about to go there when a police car pulled up outside the house. Hearing the news was like being hit by a thunderbolt.’
‘I felt the same. Enid was my sunshine. I couldn’t believe she’d died.’
‘My wife used to say what a fine musician she was.’
‘We’ll never know just how good she could have become,’ said Jenks, flicking his eyes to the photograph on the piano. ‘The war robbed her of a chance to develop her talents and the explosion robbed her of her life. It’s so unjust.’ He took a deep breath before conjuring up a smile. ‘Have you had any reporters hounding you?’
‘Quite a few have come to the house but my mother sent them away.’
‘They’re like vampires, feeding off the dead.’
