‘Why is that, Harv?’

‘They’re both religious.’

‘How are you feeling now, Maureen?’

‘My mind is a blank most of the time.’

‘That’s understandable. You’re still in shock.’

‘It’s just so painful to remember what happened,’ said Maureen, ‘so I’ve tried to block it out. But I can’t do that for ever, Father.’

‘Indeed, you can’t.’

‘Sooner or later, I’ll have to face their families. They’ll detest me.’

‘That’s not true at all,’ said Father Cleary, gently squeezing her hands. ‘They’ll be glad that — by the grace of God — someone managed to escape the horror of that explosion. It’s only natural that they’ll wish that it had been their daughter, of course, but there should be no antagonism towards you.’

‘Yes, there will,’ said Maureen, thinking of Mrs Radcliffe.

‘What brought you to church this morning?’

‘I needed to be alone.’

‘You’re never alone in God’s house.’

‘I know that but I wanted …’

‘A place of sanctuary?’ he asked as her voice tailed off. Maureen nodded. ‘Well, you came to the right place. We haven’t seen as much of you or of your family as we’d like recently and I’m sorry that it’s taken a tragedy like this to bring you back here. But you’re very welcome, Maureen. You were much brighter than everyone else at Sunday school — especially your brothers. How are they, by the way?’

‘We don’t know. They’re still at the front somewhere.’

‘We’ll remember them in our prayers.’

In obedience to her husband, Diane Quinn had already turned many callers away, both inquisitive neighbours and persistent reporters. The one person in whose face she couldn’t shut the front door was Father Cleary, a stringy, old man with a biretta that he never seemed to remove perched on a mop of silver hair. When word reached him that Maureen had spent hours in St Alban’s church, he paid her a visit. Seated opposite her, he held her hands and offered sympathy and understanding.

Maureen was bewildered. ‘Why was I spared, Father?’

‘God moves in mysterious ways.’

‘It’s what I keep asking myself. In one way or another, they were all better than me. Florrie was our leader, Enid was a brilliant musician, Agnes had a gorgeous baby son and so on. Unlike me, they all had full lives.’

‘Don’t underestimate your importance in the scheme of things, Maureen,’ said Cleary, peering over his spectacles. ‘You were spared for a reason. These things are never random. The Almighty chose you for a purpose. It’s only a matter of time before that purpose is revealed to you.’ He sat back. ‘Will I see you in church on Sunday?’ Maureen hesitated. ‘Yes, I know that your father keeps you away but I’ll talk to him about it. If I do that, will you attend Mass?’

‘Yes, Father,’ she said with passion. ‘I will, I promise.’

Joe Keedy knew that someone was inside the house. He could not only hear them moving about, he caught a glimpse of someone through the net curtains on the bay window. Since he failed to get a response from several knocks on the front door, he took out his notebook, wrote his name and rank on it, then tore out the page and posted it through the letter box. After a long wait, the letter box opened and a reedy voice came through it.

‘How do we know that you’re a detective?’ asked the man.

‘I’ll show you my warrant card.’

‘We had someone earlier who claimed that he was from Scotland Yard.’

‘That would have been Inspector Marmion, who’s in charge of the investigation. He told me that he called here.’

‘I didn’t like the look of him. He was shifty. I thought it was another one of those reporters trying to trick his way in here so we ignored him.’

Keedy was amused at the idea that Marmion had been repelled on the grounds of his appearance and he vowed to taunt him about it later. Showing his warrant card to the pair of suspicious eyes in the open letter box, he finally pierced the defences at the Harte household. The door swung back just wide enough to admit him and he went in. Reuben Harte quickly shut and bolted the door. He was a slight man in his fifties with thick, dark hair and a bushy moustache. He wore shirt, trousers and a waistcoat that was unbuttoned. His eyes were pools of sorrow.

‘What do you want, Sergeant?’

‘Do we have to talk in the passageway?’

‘Yes,’ said the other, firmly.

‘As you wish,’ decided Keedy, removing his hat. ‘As for reporters, they’ve been warned to leave you alone. Next time one of them bothers you, make sure that you get his name and we’ll make a point of reprimanding him. At a time like this, the last thing you need is the press baying at your heels.’

‘Thank you — I’ll remember that.’

‘However, since we wish to catch the person who set off that explosion, we need to learn as much as we can about the victims. Do you understand that?’

‘No, I don’t, but go on.’

Keedy glanced towards the living room. ‘Is there a Mrs Harte?’

‘My wife is staying with her sister, who used to be a nurse. She’s not at all well, Sergeant, and this has only made her condition worse.’

‘Tell me about your daughter. I believe that she was plagued with minor ailments. Is that true?’

‘They weren’t minor,’ said Harte. ‘Jean had some serious problems.’

Mother and daughter clearly didn’t enjoy the rude health that Harte seemed to show. He was slim, straight-backed and looked younger than his years. There was no trace of grey in his hair. Keedy learnt that he was a bank clerk. When his daughter had wanted to work at the munitions factory, he opposed the idea at first but was eventually talked around. Paradoxically, her health seemed to improve slightly in the harmful environment of the Cartridge Section. Harte ascribed it to the reassurance of having such good friends. In previous spells of employment, Jean had always been the odd one out. Her father talked selfishly rather than fondly about her, recalling what he’d done for her throughout life instead of what she’d achieved on her own. It was almost as if he were trying to justify his role as a parent.

The verbal photograph he was given was recognisably that of the woman described in Kennett’s notes. Jean was an integral part of a tight group, liked for her cynical streak and mocked for her endless whining. Her closest friend, it emerged, was Florrie Duncan. On the strength of what he knew about them, they seemed an unlikely pair to Keedy. While Florrie was an irrepressible optimist, Jean always feared the worst in any given situation.

‘They got on famously,’ said Harte. ‘We liked Florrie.’

‘Did they have much in common?’

‘They had the most important thing, Sergeant.’

‘Oh — what was that?’

‘They both lost the person they loved most. Florrie’s husband died at the front and so did Jean’s young man. They got engaged during his last leave, then he went off and got himself killed. Florrie managed to get over it,’ said Harte, enviously, ‘but it cast a shadow over Jean’s life. Maurice — that was his name — worked at the bank with me. I taught him all he knew.’

Harte came close to smiling without actually managing it. There was a possessiveness about him that made Keedy feel sorry for his daughter. It was as if he’d only allowed Jean to embark on a romance because he’d chosen and groomed the young man in question. Harte was not unintelligent but had obvious limitations and Keedy could see why he’d never risen above the level of a bank clerk. At a time in life when his contemporaries had become managers, he stayed in the shadows.

‘How well did you know the other girls?’ asked Keedy.

‘Oh, I met all of Jean’s gang,’ said Harte, ‘and encouraged her to invite them here. My wife and I are creatures of habit, Sergeant. We always go out on a Saturday night to visit my sister-in-law and her husband. Bert is disabled so walking all the way here is out of the question. Anyway, Jean often had one or more of her friends around. Florrie Duncan was always here and so was Enid Jenks, She used to play our piano and they’d have a sing-song. We’d join in when we got back.’