‘They need information, Eamonn.’

‘Whose side are you on?’ he snarled. ‘This is our daughter, Di, and we’ve got to protect her. You know what I think about coppers. Don’t let them into the house.’

‘What am I to say to them?’

‘Any excuse will do. Just get rid of them.’

‘I don’t want to get us into any trouble,’ she said, nervously.

‘Shut up and do as you’re told, woman.’ He sat down at the table. ‘And get on with my breakfast. I’ve got a hard day ahead. I need some grub inside me.’

Diane went through her usual routine, pouring his tea, cooking his food and setting it in front of him. All that Quinn did was to gobble it down in silence then end with his usual belch. He’d changed and his wife made allowances for it. He was never the most congenial of men but the war had made him even more churlish and self-centred. She put it down to the fact that their two sons had both enlisted and were facing unknown dangers at the front. Quinn missed them dreadfully. He was now the only man in the household. The balance had tilted sharply against him. Instead of being able to spend time with two strapping young men who shared his interests, he was stuck with a wife and two daughters and felt isolated. He still loved Diane after his own fashion but he made no attempt to show it, considering any display of affection to be somehow unmanly. What Maureen and Lily had to put up with was his uncertain temper and a series of gruff commands. Like their mother, they’d learnt to read the warning signals and keep out of his way.

‘I’m off,’ he announced, washing down his last mouthful of food with a swig of tea. ‘Expect me when you see me.’

‘Yes, Eamonn.’

‘And — at all costs — don’t let those coppers over the threshold.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘You’ll do as I bloody well say.’

On that truculent note, he hauled himself up and walked out. Diane heard him putting on his coat and his cap before letting himself out of the house. The door was slammed even harder than usual. Other wives might have baulked at such brusque treatment but she was accustomed to it, always finding an excuse for her husband. It was not simply his underlying anxieties about their sons this time. The main cause of his anger, she told herself, was his concern for Maureen. Their elder daughter had escaped being blown up by the skin of her teeth. It was a shattering experience for her and Quinn was struggling to come to terms with it. As in all crisis situations, he reverted to aggression and bullying. His wife forgave him as a matter of course.

Diane had her own fears for Maureen. Just when the girl was starting to blossom and mature, she’d been thrown into disarray. There was no telling if she’d ever be quite the same again. She’d survived a disaster but would be scarred by it for life. It had already kept Diane awake in the small hours. It would, inevitably, cause Maureen nightmares. The loss of Agnes Collier would be particularly wounding because the two of them saw each other every day. A massive gap had suddenly opened up in Maureen’s life. Diane felt an urge to console her and went padding upstairs in her slippers, expecting to find her elder daughter lying in bed. When she tapped on the door and opened it, however, she was given a profound shock.

There was no sign of Maureen. Her mother flew into a panic. She searched the rest of the house in vain, recruiting Lily to help her and even dashing out into the tiny garden. It was bewildering. Without any explanation, Maureen had vanished.

Quick to criticise Marmion whenever the opportunity arose, Claude Chatfield had to acknowledge that the inspector knew how to control a press conference. Marmion remained calm and even-tempered throughout, winning the crime correspondents over by referring to each of them by their Christian names and producing the occasional quip. He fed them enough information to fill their columns while holding back some significant details. Chatfield knew what those details were because he’d seen the full report that Marmion had put on his desk earlier that morning. He marvelled at the way that questions were fielded and answered. What irritated him was the exaggerated respect that everyone was showing Marmion. It was not always the case. During a previous investigation — the brutal murder of a conscientious objector — the newspapers had been highly critical of what they saw as inertia on the part of the police. Marmion had been the scapegoat. When both the crime and a subsequent murder were solved, however, he was given full credit and his reputation was greatly enhanced. It remained to be seen whether he could succeed with what, on the surface, appeared to be a more complex investigation.

A hand went up and another question was fired at him.

‘Are you certain this is not the work of foreign agents, Inspector?’

‘I’m absolutely certain,’ replied Marmion, levelly.

‘Yet the women were canaries. Killing them was a way of weakening the workforce at a munitions factory.’

‘I can see that you’ve never been to Hayes. It’s an enormous factory, employing well over ten thousand workers, the vast majority of whom are women. Blowing up five of them will hardly have an adverse affect on production.’

‘Point taken, Inspector.’

Keen to get back to the investigation, Marmion wound up the session by reminding them that an urgent appeal for help needed to be made. He also stressed that it would be both unkind and unproductive of them to pursue the families of the individual victims. They — and Maureen Quinn — needed to be left alone at such a sensitive time. Though everyone in the room nodded in agreement, Marmion was not sure if they’d actually obey his instruction. There was always one journalist who’d go to any lengths to get an exclusive story.

When it was all over, Chatfield stepped in to congratulate him.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘That was exemplary.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’

‘You’ve obviously picked up a lot of tips from me.’

‘Of course,’ said Marmion.

It was not true but there was no point in arguing about it. In fact, Chatfield was not at his best during a press conference. He was too bossy and kept far too much back. Instead of wooing the press, he usually managed to antagonise them. Sublimely unaware that his manner was condescending, he always wondered why he received less than lavish praise in the newspapers.

‘What’s your next move, Inspector?’ he asked.

‘My first port of call is the Golden Goose. I want another chat with the landlord.’

‘What will Sergeant Keedy be doing?’

‘He’s going to talk to Mr Kennett, the works manager at the factory.’

‘I wish I could put more men at your disposal.’

‘We’ll manage, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘One trained detective is worth half a dozen uniformed constables who’ve spent most of their time pounding the beat and arresting drunks. We’ve a small but experienced team.’

‘But will it deliver a result? That’s my concern.’

‘All that I can guarantee is that we’ll do our utmost.’

‘I suppose I’ve no need to ask this,’ said Chatfield, raising an eyebrow, ‘but I hope you haven’t discussed this case with your daughter. I know that she’s followed in your footsteps and joined the police but she’s a complete novice and has no part to play in a murder investigation.’

As he looked Chatfield in the eye, Marmion’s face was impassive. ‘As you say, sir, there’s no need to ask that question.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it. In any case, she’s probably too busy thinking about her forthcoming marriage, isn’t she? Talking of which, I trust that the prospect is not distracting the sergeant in any way.’

‘Joe Keedy is a true professional, Superintendent.’

‘Yes — he reminds me of myself at that age.’

‘I can’t say that I see any similarity,’ said Marmion, waspishly. ‘You are quite unique, Superintendent. The car is waiting,’ he went on, moving to the door. ‘If you’ll excuse us, we have five murders to solve.’