‘Then he’ll probably agree with me about this offer. From what I can gather, two of the victims played in the football team – Shirley Beresford and your daughter, Jean. It seems fitting that they should be laid to rest together.’
Harte was not convinced. He let Jenks advance his arguments in favour of a collective burial but they made no impact on him. He resisted what he saw as a breach of his daughter’s private rights. The factory had controlled her life from the moment she started to work there. It felt wrong to let them dictate the terms of her funeral as well. There was another factor that influenced him.
‘We’re not churchgoers, Jonah,’ he admitted.
‘You were married in a church, weren’t you?’
‘Well, yes – we were.’
‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about. Everyone in the parish is entitled to a Christian funeral. You’ll be given the same consideration as any of us. We were all there every Sunday, of course,’ said Jenks, ‘because Enid loved going. There was even talk of letting her become the assistant organist. I’d have been so proud of her if that had happened.’ He smiled at Harte. ‘Where does that leave us, Reuben?’
‘You want to accept the offer and I don’t.’
‘Make sure you think it over properly.’
‘My wife won’t like the idea, I can tell you that.’
‘What about the others?’ asked Jenks, holding up his envelope. ‘Suppose – for the sake of argument – that the families of Florrie Duncan, Agnes Collier and Shirley Beresford all agree to the suggestion. That would mean we outvote you four to one.’
‘I won’t be forced into changing my mind,’ said Harte, resolutely.
‘Nobody would dream of using force in a situation like this. It would be wholly out of place. What I wish to know is this,’ said Jenks, slyly. ‘What would it take to persuade you that the five of them should be buried at the same time?’
Harvey Marmion was not entirely sure about the motives behind the offer. Bernard Kennett told him that it was a gesture of goodwill and that the factory felt an obligation to its employees, but Marmion wondered if other reasons had prompted the management to act. If accepted, their offer would garner some good publicity for the munitions factory and it was always in dire need of that. Newspaper articles about its operations always focused on the dangers faced by the women who worked there. Serious accidents at the factory – and it had had its share of them – could not be hidden from the public and stories of that kind made recruitment more difficult. In this case, however, the explosion took place at a pub some distance away. To give it extra prominence would not reflect badly on the factory.
Talking to the works manager, Marmion also wondered if guilt had played a part in the decision. The offer to pay the funeral expenses could have been triggered by the need to atone for the rigours that the women were put through on a daily basis. The victims were not five anonymous employees. They had a real presence at the factory. Two of them were members of the football team that had brought such kudos and a third, Florrie Duncan, was the official representative of the National Federation of Women. A fourth woman, Enid Jenks, had more than once entertained diners at the canteen piano during the lunch break. Accompanied by her, Agnes Collier had sung a few popular songs with more gusto than musical talent. Because they were widely known and liked, their deaths were felt more keenly.
After chatting in Kennett’s office, Marmion had asked to see the football pitch. It was on a fairly barren patch of land at the rear of the factory. They stood on the touchline and looked at the tufted grass and the undulations.
‘We have a big advantage over teams who’ve never played here before,’ said Kennett. ‘Our ladies know where the bumps and dips are. They exploit them.’
‘Is this where the cup final will be played?’
‘No, Inspector, that’s at a neutral venue in Camberwell.’
‘How good is the opposition?’ asked Marmion.
‘The question to ask is how badly weakened is our team now that we’ve lost some of our best players? I was talking to my secretary about it – she watches all our games. She reckons that Shirley Beresford was the real difference between the two sides. And Maureen Quinn, the goalkeeper, will hardly be in a fit state to play after what she’s been through. Jean Harte was also in the team for the cup final.’
‘The biggest loss is their coach,’ said Marmion. ‘Neil Beresford has moulded that team together and obviously knows what he’s doing. But the death of his wife has rocked him. When I called at the house, he was so upset that he wasn’t even able to answer a few questions. His mother had to take over instead. Mrs Beresford thinks that a supporter of the Woolwich team must have planted that bomb.’
‘That suggestion is not as absurd as it may sound, Inspector.’
‘Oh, I haven’t ignored it.’
‘Passions run deep in the world of ladies’ football.’
‘That’s why I’ve sent two of my men to Woolwich to make some discreet enquiries,’ said Marmion. ‘But I’m still inclined to dismiss the theory because it presupposes that someone from a munitions factory several miles away was both aware of the date of Florrie Duncan’s birthday and the fact that three members of your football team – I’m including Maureen Quinn – would be helping to celebrate it. Then, of course, we come to the small matter of the pub itself. How would a complete stranger know where it was and that the party would be in its outhouse?’
‘Perhaps he wasn’t such a stranger,’ said Kennett, darkly. ‘What if we have a rabid Woolwich supporter here in the factory?’
‘It’s possible but a trifle unlikely.’
‘Why is that, Inspector?’
‘Because I think he’d know that there’s a much easier way of sabotaging the football team than by blowing up some of its players. His target would be Neil Beresford. He’s the key to the success of your team,’ said Marmion. ‘Kill or disable him in some way and you’ve more or less handed that cup to Woolwich.’
Neil Beresford looked and felt a little better but his mother was still worried about him. Reassured by the fact that he was able to get dressed and come downstairs, she was troubled by his occasional bursts of tears. Having known him as a strong, resilient person, she was surprised by his collapse in the wake of the disaster. Since her son now seemed more robust, she felt able to broach the topic of the funeral.
‘Would you like to talk about that letter we received?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘A decision will have to be taken, Neil.’
‘Then let Shirley’s parents make it.’
‘But you’re her husband,’ said May. ‘By rights, you should take charge of the funeral arrangements. It’s your duty.’
‘I’d rather not think about it.’
‘Well, it can’t be put off indefinitely. The factory will want to know.’
Beresford made no comment. He was sitting in the armchair beside the fireplace and his mind was wandering. May went off into the kitchen and made a pot of tea, putting it on a tray with two cups and saucers along with the milk jug and the sugar bowl. Bringing it into the living room, she set it down on the table. Beresford was a study in concentration. His forehead was wrinkled, his eyes gleaming and his teeth clenched. Saying nothing, his mother poured two cups of tea and added milk and sugar to both before stirring them in with a teaspoon. Her son was still wrestling with a thorny problem. All of a sudden, he announced a solution.
‘I’ll go back to work tomorrow.’
‘But you can’t,’ she protested. ‘You’re not ready for it yet.’
‘I’ve got to face up to it, Mum, and show some strength for a change. I can’t just stay at home and brood. It’s driving me mad. I need to occupy my mind. And there’s another thing I’ve decided.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I can’t let the rest of the team down. We were due to have a practice session after work tomorrow and I want to be there to lead it.’
May was aghast. ‘You can’t
worry about football at a time like this.’
‘I have to – the cup final is less than ten days away.’
‘Let someone else take over, Neil.’
‘There is nobody else, Mum. I’m their coach. They rely on me.’
‘They won’t expect anything from you now,’ argued May. ‘You’re in mourning. We all are. There’s been a dreadful tragedy and you need to recover from it before you even think of going back to the factory.’
‘I’ve always been a fighter,’ he said, banging his thigh with a fist, ‘and I’m ashamed of the way I behaved. We have to win that cup now. Shirley may not be able to play but she’ll be our inspiration. It will give the whole team a lift.’
May picked up a cup and saucer. ‘Have your tea, Neil.’
‘I’ve been working it out,’ he said, ignoring her offer. ‘Audrey Turner can take over Shirley’s position as centre forward. She may not be as fast or as clever at dribbling but Audrey is nearly six feet. She’ll win everything in the air. The other person I can bring into the forward line is …’
His eyes were gleaming more than ever now as they sighted a victory against the odds at the cup final. He explained in detail how he would defeat the opposing team. It was impossible to stop him. May put the tea back on the tray and reached for the other cup. Though she was pleased to see him so animated, she was alarmed by the edge of frenzy in his voice. It had ceased to become a football match to him and had turned into a mission. Beresford was driven to succeed for the sake of the factory, the players who’d worked so hard under him and, most of all, for his wife who’d been the undisputed star. Deprived of a chance to raise the trophy herself, Shirley Beresford would nevertheless lead them to a triumphant win.
May was disturbed. She didn’t think her son was fit to return to work, let alone coach a football team. It was as if he was in the grip of a fever. Unable to check him, she tried to humour him, agreeing with everything he proposed and even managing a supportive smile. While she knew little about the game of football, she understood its significance in the household. Having heard her son and her daughter-in-law discuss the team at length, she knew all the names of the players and – though she didn’t understand the finer points of the game when she stood on the touchline – she had a good idea of their individual worth. When he paused for breath, she took the opportunity to step in and remind him of something.
‘At least you won’t have to find a new goalkeeper.’
He stared at her blankly. ‘What did you say?’
‘Maureen Quinn survived the blast. She can still play for you, Neil.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of asking her,’ he said with a note of shock in her voice. ‘You should know better than to suggest it. She was nearby when that bomb went off. It will have shattered her nerves.’
‘Supposing that she wants to play?’
‘There’s no chance of that, Mum. All she’ll want to do at the moment is to stay well away from the factory and the team. Maureen was a good goalkeeper but we’ll have to do without her. It would be cruel even to approach her.’
‘How do you feel now, Maureen?’
‘I just feel so … numb.’
‘That’s not unusual.’
‘I do things without really noticing that I’m doing them. For instance, I ate breakfast this morning but can’t tell you what I had.’
‘What about sleep?’
‘I did get some last night.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
After his visit to the priest, Joe Keedy had moved on to Maureen’s house, making sure that he arrived after her father had gone off to work. Talking to her in his presence was frustrating. As it was, it took him a long time to persuade her mother to let him interview Maureen on her own. Though she had no real objection to it, Diane was afraid of what her husband would say if she allowed a detective to question Maureen alone. It would be one more thing to hide from him. They sat opposite each other in the living room. Keedy decided that the sight of his notebook might inhibit her so he relied on memory instead.
‘Does your father know that you went to church yesterday?’ he began.
‘No – we didn’t tell him.’
‘Why did he stop you going there on a Sunday?’
‘He said that we’d grown out of it.’
‘Is that what you think, Maureen?’
She hunched her shoulders. ‘I have to do what my father tells me.’
‘What about your brothers?’
‘They were braver than me,’ she replied with a smile. ‘They were very naughty sometimes. Liam was the worst.’
‘But you’re pretty brave yourself, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘If you play in goal for a football team, you have to have a lot of guts. That ball must come at you very hard and sometimes from a short distance.’
She nodded. ‘I broke a finger once,’ she said, ‘trying to save a penalty. I didn’t realise till after the game. You get carried away when you’re playing. You don’t always notice the pain.’
‘I know. I used to be in a football team at one time.’
‘We have a lot of injuries. Everyone takes it so seriously.’
‘And so they should. The competitive urge is very important. It’s what drives us on to take chances and push ourselves to the limit.’ She appeared to be listening but Keedy wasn’t sure that he had her full attention. ‘I’m told that Father Cleary came to see you yesterday.’
She sat up in surprise. ‘Who told you that?’
‘I called in to see him before I came on here. He said that you’d been a keen churchgoer at one time. You enjoyed the services.’
‘It’s true – I did.’
‘You certainly enjoyed them more than your brothers.’
She smiled again. ‘They could be wicked when they wanted to be.’
‘What did they think when they heard you’d taken up football?’
‘They laughed at first. They said that girls couldn’t play football because they were too slow and too weak. When they came home on leave, I took Liam and Anthony to the park and we put a couple of coats down to mark the goalposts. I stood between them,’ she recalled, warmed by the recollection. ‘They were amazed how many goals I saved. They stopped laughing after that.’
‘Tell me about the other girls at the birthday party.’
She became wary. ‘I’ve already done that, Sergeant.’
‘You told us a little about them, Maureen, but I’m sure that you left a lot out. It was too soon afterwards. You couldn’t be expected to remember everything.’ Her reluctance was almost tangible. ‘You’ll have to talk about them at the inquest.’
‘The inquest?’ she echoed, cowering on the settee.
‘It’s a legal requirement in cases like this.’
‘But why do I have to go to it?’
‘Your testimony is vital,’ he told her. ‘As the only survivor, what you say will carry a lot of weight. You’ll be asked about things you saw when you first arrived in that outhouse and what the general mood was.’
Maureen was transported for a moment back to the birthday party. She heard the excited chatter, saw the presents being opened by Florrie Duncan and remembered the song they all sang with such passion. They were barbed memories now.
‘Will I have to be there?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Keedy. ‘That’s why the more you talk about your friends to me, the easier it will be when the coroner asks you questions. He’ll want to know about the sequence of events but I want to delve a little deeper.’ Maureen was watchful. ‘You do want the person who planted that bomb caught, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then we need your assistance.’
She looked hunted. ‘There’s nothing else I can tell you, Sergeant.’
‘Oh, I think you can. You just don’t realise it yet. Let’s start with a comment you made when we first came here,’ he suggested. ‘You talked about Florrie Duncan looking out for you.’
‘Th
at’s right – she was older and more experienced than the rest of us.’
‘You said that she stopped men at work from pestering you. Is that true?’
‘Oh, they never bothered me very much.’
‘What about the others?’ pressed Keedy. ‘We can leave out Florrie because she obviously wouldn’t stand any nonsense and Shirley Beresford was married so she was protected in a sense. The same goes for Agnes Collier. She had a husband and a baby. But that still leaves Jean Harte and Enid Jenks.’
‘Jean lost her fiancé at the front. She never looked at another man.’
‘What about Enid?’
Maureen’s head fell to her chest and her body seemed to shrink into the settee. Keedy watched her struggle with feelings of guilt and betrayal. He was sorry that he had to put her under such pressure but believed that it was necessary. The women were bonded by the job they did and the visible consequences of doing it. They were likely to confide in each other. Maureen was a quiet, sensitive young woman whom the others could trust. She’d know what was happening under the surface of the lives of her friends.
She raised her eyes. ‘Will I have to say this at the inquest?’
‘No, Maureen, the questions will be confined to what happened at the pub.’
‘I wouldn’t want her father to know about it, you see.’
‘We certainly won’t tell him.’
‘He didn’t want Enid to have a boyfriend. He was very strict about that.’
‘Go on,’ he whispered.
‘But there was someone at the factory that Enid liked and it was obvious that he liked her. He was always there when she arrived and when she left the factory. In the end, he asked her out. She was too afraid to go at first. But,’ she recalled, ‘he didn’t give in. There were little presents and he was always very polite to her. So Enid took a chance. She told her father she was going out with some of her friends but she went off with this man instead.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Maureen, ‘but she was very strange the next day. All she’d say was that she never wanted to see him again.’
Five Dead Canaries Page 15