Beware This Boy

by Maureen Jennings

  He pushed open the door directly in front of them and they went inside.

  “This is where the assembly of the filled fuses is completed. And here, alas, is where the explosion occurred.”

  Immediately they were assailed by the acrid smell of cordite and burnt wood and the other, more subtle, but to Tyler unmistakable, stink of torn flesh and spilled blood. Not even the overlay of carbolic cleaning fluid could mask it.

  The room was long and low-ceilinged, with no windows. Light was filtering through a canvas tarpaulin covering a huge hole in the roof. There were two workbenches. One had collapsed into a heap of blackened shards and splinters. The other was in two pieces and was lying on its side where it had presumably been blown.

  Tyler began to walk slowly around the area, which had obviously been scrubbed clean. Not conducive to a crime investigation, but he could understand the impulse.

  “What would the women have been working on?”

  Cudmore had obviously been anticipating some question of the sort. “I’m more familiar with the administrative side of operations so I thought I’d better write everything down.” He took a notebook from his inner pocket and flipped it open. “Perhaps I should start with the work that is done in Section A. As I said, the prepared casings are taken there first, where they are filled with the explosive. Five-grain ASA powder. We tend to use the words detonator and fuse interchangeably, although that is probably not quite correct.”

  Tyler nodded. “So far it’s clear, Mr. Cudmore.”

  “The fuses are the vital part of the shells,” continued the secretary. “Without a live fuse, the shell casing itself, even with the cordite inside, is inert, not dangerous at all unless you set fire to it, which is what the fuse is supposed to do. Some are timed to explode in the air, where they do their damage by creating shrapnel. Artillery use those.”

  “I’ve had experience with that kind of shell, Mr. Cudmore.”

  “The Great War, I presume, sir?” He sighed. “Who’d ever have thought we’d be embroiled in another world conflict within a generation?”

  “Who indeed.”

  “Well, then, where was I? Oh yes. The shells we fill here at Endicott’s are meant to explode on impact. That is why we are dealing with such volatile powders. Section A operatives fill the fuses with the powder. There are usually eight operatives. Seven here in Section B. Yesterday there were three absentees, one from Section A and two from B. I suppose they are considering themselves lucky.” He went back to his notebook. “The fuses, which are now filled and therefore potentially lethal, are then conveyed in a special box to the magazine shed, which is located between the two sections.” He pointed to the end of the room. “As you can see it is closed off by a fire door. And again I have to say thank goodness for that. The magazine-keeper counts the number of fuses and then they are brought to Section B, where they are finally assembled.” He hesitated. “Perhaps I should mention, sir, that when I was speaking to the supervisor, she did say there was some problem with the tally.”

  “What sort of problem?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. The magazine-keeper should be able to tell you. He is Phil Riley. I’ve underlined his name and written MK beside it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cudmore. Anyway, do go on. We have the operatives in Section B assembling the fuses. How do they do that?”

  “The first girl takes fifty at a time from one of the special pots that are in the box. This is referred to as ‘traying up.’ She attaches each fuse to a plug, which she then hands over to the girl seated next to her. That operative places the plug and fuse into a holder and screws it in place.”

  “That sounds like a lot of handling for what is, as you say, a potentially lethal weapon.”

  “Yes, sir, I agree.” Cudmore bit his lip. “We probably need more supervision but we always seem to be short-handed. There is one supervisor to oversee both sections. She has to go back and forth. She was in the magazine room when the explosion happened. Normally she would have been in here. She is devastated. Strictly speaking, she is not supposed to let the girls tray up on their own. Obviously they went ahead without her. She feels terrible guilt, the poor woman, terrible guilt.”

  “I can imagine she would.”

  “I’ve marked her name. Mrs. Valerie Castleford. Very decent sort. Tragic all round, isn’t it, sir. The families of the dead suffer as well.”

  Tyler knew all about that. “How are the detonators conveyed from place to place?”

  “The dillie man does all that.”

  “Dillie man?”

  “Er, that’s what we call him, sir. Don’t know why, come to think of it, but he has a trolley with rubberized wheels. That’s the dillie. There’s a man on each shift. I’ve marked their names. The one who works the morning shift is Mick Smith. A good, reliable worker who’s been with us for three months. He had already left the premises when the accident occurred. The dillie man on the afternoon shift is Joe Abbott, a very experienced worker. He’s been with Endicott’s for decades. In fact, his daughter is our resident nurse. She was off duty yesterday but she rushed here to help.” He couldn’t suppress a shudder. “She was invaluable in dealing with the situation.”

  “Where was Mr. Abbott?”

  “He wasn’t yet in the factory. In the interest of efficiency, some workers such as the dillie men and the canteen workers don’t report for duty until the shift has started. No sense in them sitting around, is there?”

  “Not if they are on an hourly wage.” Tyler gazed up at the ceiling. “That’s a bloody big hole, Mr. Cudmore.”

  “Yes, sir. I suppose we must be thankful we still have some of the roof left at all.”

  “How many detonators would be in here at a time?”

  “Each magazine box holds six pots, each of which contains five hundred detonators.”

  Tyler whistled softly. “Three thousand all together. No wonder the hole is that big.”

  He moved closer to the devastated benches.

  “Who was sitting where? Do you have that information?”

  “Yes, sir.” Cudmore tore a piece of paper from his notebook. “Here is a diagram that might help. There were also two carpenters in the room, repairing one of the benches. I’ve written in their names.” He shook his head. “Nobody is really supposed to be in the working area other than the operatives, but the men had to replace the linoleum on one of the benches. As I understand it, the shift was late arriving in their places so the men probably thought they’d seize their chance … They are both in the hospital. One is quite seriously injured, but both survived, thank the Lord.”

  “You say the shift was late? Why was that?”

  “Apparently the door to the change room was found to be locked and it took a while for a key to be located. I believe the entire shift was delayed by close to fifteen minutes.”

  “I thought you said the doors weren’t usually locked.”

  “No, they’re not. When I spoke to Mrs. Castleford, she had no explanation.”

  Tyler sighed. “When do you think I can start interviewing people? The sooner the better, I think, if we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

  “I can have word out to some of the employees to come in this afternoon if you wish, sir. They will be expecting it.”

  Tyler took another walk around the perimeter of the shattered bench. Funny how smell was so evocative. He had a sudden disturbing memory of the tragedy he’d had to deal with this past summer. There was the same odour of charred wood and, worse, burned bodies, smelling like overcooked meat.

  He watched as a puff of dust floated up to the ceiling, as ephemeral as life itself.

  Tyler had a look around Section A but it didn’t tell him anything new. Like Section B, the building was low and shed-like. No windows here either, just mercury lamps and two benches.

  Cudmore, again consulting his notebook, ran through the procedures.

  “The explosive powder has to be weighed carefully. Too much and the shell will blow up p
rematurely; too little and it’s a dud. The four operatives on this bench do nothing but weigh and measure. They then pass the containers over to the other bench, where they are emptied into the casings. It is not a complicated procedure by any means, but it does require absolute concentration.”

  “If anything was wrong at this point, would it be detected?”

  “In terms of the correct amount of explosive, there are two operatives who each have the same function, so they act as a double check on each other. If what you mean is could a defective fuse be sent out to Section B, I’d say no. The calibration is inspected here as well as when it first leaves the floor.”

  “There are a lot of fuses to inspect.”

  “True, but we are meticulous. Each fuse will go through at least three checks before it gets to Section B.”

  Tyler rubbed at the back of his hand, which had started to itch. The cordite powder was fine as mist in the air. “I hope the operatives get good wages for this work, Mr. Cudmore.”

  “They do, sir. Not as much as men who do the same work, mind you, but that’s what’s laid down and that’s what I have to follow.”

  “Do the women mind this inequality?”

  “I’ve heard a few complaints but mostly they accept it.” He smiled at Tyler. “We can’t change the world overnight, can we. A lot of the men in the factory were very opposed to having women work here at all. But I think they’ve proved they can do it.”

  “The women are fortunate to have such an advocate as you, Mr. Cudmore.” Might as well put into practice the secretary’s own labour principles, thought Tyler. Praise when due.

  St. Elizabeth’s Hospital had been newly built when he was last in Birmingham, but as he approached the entrance he thought it already looked shabby. Maybe it was just his own jaundiced view being projected onto the world. Or maybe it was the war and the grinding down of the spirit that it brought with it.

  Like the police station, the hospital had layers of sandbags all around its base.

  As he went into the lobby, a young woman came hurrying out. “Beg pardon,” she muttered as she stepped out of his path. She wasn’t wearing a nurse’s cloak but rather a drab mackintosh and felt cloche hat pulled down low. He had an impression of immense distress and he wondered what her reason was for being in the hospital. Mind your own business, Tyler, he said to himself. You should be used to sorrow by now.

  A harried-seeming probationer directed him to the second floor surgical ward, although she tried to impress on him that visiting hours weren’t until the afternoon. “Except in extreme cases,” she added quietly.

  “This is such a case, I’m afraid,” said Tyler.

  She didn’t evince any curiosity. Perhaps all the visitors said that.

  The ward held thirty or so beds, all close together. Other than one nurse carrying out a bedpan, it was empty of staff. A few patients were sitting beside their beds but most were lying under the covers. Those who could watched him curiously as he approached the nurses’ station in the centre of the floor. The nurse’s name plate identified her as A. Ruebotham, RN.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” Her tone was cool and polite, the implication clear. Didn’t he know visiting hours weren’t until this afternoon?

  He had his identity card at the ready as he introduced himself. She examined the card carefully, satisfied herself he was genuine, and got to her feet.

  “Come this way, Inspector. We’ve put both young women at the end of the ward for a little privacy.” She led the way, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. Everything about her struck Tyler as crisp: her white uniform and starched cap, her voice, even the way she walked. The kind of nurse you were always glad to have looking after you. Always certain in an uncertain world.

  As they went past one elderly patient, the woman called out, “Sister, Sister.”

  “Excuse me for a moment, Inspector,” said the nurse and she went over to the patient. They had a whispered conversation, which Tyler could tell had to do with him. The nurse straightened up, patted the woman’s arm, and returned. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “She wondered if you were a doctor.”

  “She didn’t seem to be happy at the prospect.”

  “She thinks redheads tend to be too excitable,” said Miss Ruebotham with a little smile.

  “She’s right about that,” replied Tyler.

  The nurse halted in front of a screened-off bed. “This is Miss Audrey Sandilands. I’m afraid she has not regained consciousness. Her condition is critical.”

  She moved aside the screen. Tyler took one look. It was obvious that Audrey, sustained by tubes, would not now, if ever, be able to answer his questions. He shook his head at the nurse and she replaced the screen.

  “The other young woman is over here,” she said. “Her condition is serious but she is expected to survive.”

  She rolled away the screen at the adjoining bed. Tyler stood stock still. He couldn’t help himself.

  The girl was as pale as her sheets. Deep bruises circled her eyes and there was an ugly cut along her jaw. One arm was hidden underneath a protective frame; the other lay on top of the cover, the hand heavily bandaged.

  When he’d last seen her, she had been tanned and blooming with youth and health. She was one of the Land Girls who had been involved in his last case in Whitchurch.

  Donny had plopped himself down at the living room table. Brian sat down across from him.

  “Have a fag.” Donny shook out a cigarette and shoved the package across the table.

  Brian ignored it. “What’s your proposition?”

  Donny took his time, apparently savouring the taste. “Simple really. Dead bloody simple. I don’t turn you in and in return you do some work for me.”

  “Like what?”

  “As I recall you were in the electrics business before the army got you over the barrel with your cheeks spread. I’d like you to make me a couple of timers.”

  “For what?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters. Timers can do anything. I’ll bet you don’t want it to flush your toilet. Do you want to make a bomb?”

  “You’ve got it, Bri. Hit the bloody nail on the head.”

  Brian pushed back his chair in agitation. “You’re nuts. What are you going to do, blow up the police station?”

  “How’d you guess? No, joke – I’m joking, dope. It’s not the sodding police station. That’s not what I had in mind. At least, not right away. You’ve been away so you don’t know what it’s like here when there’s a bleeding attack. Lots of opportunity for those who can take it. People run out to their shelters, leaving their houses unprotected. As wide open as a whore’s you-know-what. Just there for the asking.”

  “So you go looting. That doesn’t involve a bomb.”

  “Who said anything about a bleedin’ bomb? I didn’t. Let’s put it this way: sometimes it’s helpful if you can get something started and you’re not there, if you get my meaning.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Never mind. It’s not important why I want a bloody timer. Let’s just say I do.” He started to fiddle with the cigarette package, and Brian was taken aback to see that underneath the bravado he was nervous. Donny Jarvis nervous? What the hell was he going to come up with?

  “You see, I have a good mate – a partner, you might say – who is in need of a … demolition expert.” Donny blew out a smoke ring and watched it in admiration. “My mate isn’t in favour of this bleedin’ war and he’d like to do what he can to put a spanner in the works.”

  “With a bomb.”

  “Will you stop with the sodding bomb talk? There are lots of other ways to slow down munitions production.”

  “You’re saying he’s a fifth columnist?”

  “Something like that. Me, I don’t give a rat’s arse about philosophies, and sod the greater good and what-have-you. I just want to get by.”

  “Look, you grubby piece of shite,” yelled Brian, “you can
turn me in if you want to, I don’t give a fuck. I’m not getting involved in anything that gets people killed.”

  Donny’s hand went to his pocket. “Fuck me. I had no idea you were a man of bloody principle, Bri. Not seeing as how you left your mates in the bleedin’ lurch and all that. But take it easy, nobody will get hurt. We’re just going to create a disruption is all.”

  “So it is a bomb you’re planning?”

  “Bloody hell, Bri, you’re not listening, are you. I’ve asked you to make me a couple of timers. That’s it.”

  Brian began to pace, hitting his fist into his palm for emphasis. “Let me get this straight. You say you’re not a communist and you don’t care. What’s in it for you, then?”

  Donny grinned his feral grin. “That ain’t important. You should be asking what’s in it for you. And I’ll tell, since you need to know. I said I had a bleeding proposition, didn’t I? Fair’s fair. Not only will I not turn you in, you do this for me and me mate and in return we’ll get you a safe passage to Ireland. You and your missus.”

  “What!”

  “I mean it, I swear on my mother’s grave. Your old lady can join you there for the duration.”

  “That could be years.”

  “Naw. Six months at most. Jerry’s already winning the sodding war.”

  “You’re talking about the occupation of Britain by Nazis.”

  “That’s right. It’s bloody inevitable.” He smirked. “You’ve got nothing to lose, if you think about it, and everything to gain. Come on, Bri. If you believed in this war you wouldn’t have gone AWOL, would you. Admit it.”

  It wasn’t like that. Brian had no clearly defined thoughts about whether or not this was a just war that he believed in. Nothing so lofty. But deserting and being a traitor were two different things in his mind. Donny was asking him to be a traitor.

  “Making a couple of bombs – oh sorry, I mean a couple of timers – isn’t going to bring about the end of the war any more quickly.”