Five Dead Canaries

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