‘What sort of a day did you have?’ she asked.

‘It was terrible. Everyone wanted to ask about Maureen.’

‘Well, it’s only natural.’

‘They kept on and on. I couldn’t stand it, Di.’ He hung the towel on a hook. ‘What about you — any visitors?’

‘We had lots,’ she replied, ‘but I didn’t let any of them in. Well, not until Father Cleary called, that is. I couldn’t turn him away.’

Quinn glared. ‘What was that old fool doing here?’

‘He came to offer his condolences.’

‘Well, he could have done that on the doorstep.’

‘Father Cleary wanted to speak to Maureen.’

‘I told you to let nobody in.’

‘He’s our parish priest, Eamonn. He has rights. In any case, Maureen was willing to talk to him and I thought that was a good sign. She’s even agreed to go to Mass on Sunday.’

He was aggrieved. ‘What on earth did she do that for?’

‘It’s what she wanted,’ said Diane. ‘I may go with her.’

‘Well, don’t expect me to be there. I’ve had my fill of Father Cleary and his interference. I’m not having anyone telling me how to live my life.’

‘But you were baptised and married in a Roman Catholic church. You made vows. We both did. We promised to bring up our children in the Catholic faith.’

‘I agreed to a lot of things when we were younger,’ he said, dismissively. ‘Then I realised that most of them were a waste of time.’ He rolled down the sleeves of his shirt. ‘No sign of those detectives?’

‘None at all.’

‘Good — they’re worse than that damn priest.’

‘They need help, Eamonn. We can’t stop them questioning Maureen.’

‘Yes, we can. Say that she’s too ill to talk to anybody.’

‘But she might be able to tell them something useful.’

‘How can she?’ he demanded. ‘Maureen doesn’t have a clue who set off that bomb. The only thing we need worry about is the fact that she didn’t die in the blast.’

‘That’s being selfish,’ she protested. ‘What about the victims?’

‘They’re not our concern, Di.’

‘Yes, they are — especially Agnes. Have you forgotten how often she used to come here with the baby? She was a good friend to Maureen. They did everything together. If it had been our daughter who’d been killed instead of Agnes Collier,’ she said, ‘I bet that Agnes would have been round here like a shot to offer her sympathy.’

He curled a lip. ‘Well, don’t ask me to offer any sympathy to Sadie Radcliffe. She was always jealous of Maureen. I never liked the woman.’

‘That’s beside the point. She’s in need of comfort.’

‘She won’t get it from me — and neither will the other families.’

Diane was stung. ‘There are times when you sicken me, Eamonn Quinn,’ she said, confronting him. ‘As long as you can have meals put in front of you and go off to the pub every evening, you don’t give a damn about anybody else.’

‘Family comes first.’

‘Those five girls were blown up. Doesn’t that matter to you?’

‘Not as long as Maureen is still alive.’

‘That’s shameful,’ she said, fully roused for once. ‘It’s not us that should be going to church on Sunday, it’s you. I think you ought to get down on your knees and thank God that our daughter was spared.’

‘Calm down, Di,’ he said, putting a clumsy arm around her. ‘There’s no need to get so upset about it. And yes, of course I’m grateful that Maureen left that party when she did, but I’m not going to make a song and dance about it. As for the pub,’ he added, ‘they won’t see me there tonight. It’d be like facing the Inquisition. I’ll have to get some bottled beer instead and drink it here.’ When he tried to kiss her, she pulled away. ‘What’s wrong now?’

‘I’m not in the mood.’

‘It’s not like you to argue.’

‘You can be so maddening sometimes, Eamonn.’

‘Anyone would think that I planted that bomb,’ he whined. When his wife continued to stare at him with disdain, his self-pity turned to anger. He reached out to grab her shoulder and pull her closer. ‘Don’t you dare say a word about that.’

‘It happened,’ she said, coldly. ‘You can’t deny it.’

‘You’re to say nothing,’ he decreed. ‘If the coppers come sniffing around again, tell them that Maureen is ill and send them on their way. Don’t answer any questions. Do you understand?’

Diane regarded him with mingled fear and disgust. Their daughter’s escape had not just reminded her of the importance of religion in their lives. It had told her something very unpleasant about the man she married.

‘I’ll make your tea,’ she said.

Seated behind his desk, Claude Chatfield read the article with mounting annoyance until he reached the point where he could bear it no longer. He flung the newspaper aside and fumed in silence. When there was a tap on the door, he barked an invitation.

‘Come in!’

‘Good evening, sir,’ said Marmion, entering the room and closing the door behind him. ‘I knew that I’d find you still here.’

Chatfield indicated the newspaper. ‘Have you read this?’

‘I try to read very few papers when I’m involved in an investigation. They’re not good for my blood pressure.’

‘This nincompoop was at the press conference because I remember seeing him there, but he obviously didn’t listen to a word you said.’

‘Did he appeal for witnesses? That’s all I care about.’

‘It’s the one valuable thing he did do,’ said the superintendent. ‘In his article, he’s trying to solve the case for us.’

‘On the basis of what evidence?’ asked Marmion.

‘Why bother with evidence when you have a vivid imagination? You made it perfectly clear that you believed one, or all of those women, was deliberately killed by someone with a grudge. That’s too prosaic a murder for this chap. He thinks it’s the work of dissidents from central Europe.’

Marmion snorted in disbelief. ‘What are they doing at a pub in Hayes?’

‘There are immigrants living in the locality, it seems. He got that bit right. The rest of the article is arrant nonsense. It hangs on the debatable claim that bombs are the favoured weapon of political hotheads in places like Austria-Hungary. In other words,’ said Chatfield with heavy sarcasm, ‘all you have to do is to round up any wild-eyed Serbs in the area and the case is solved.’

‘If only it were that easy!’ said Marmion.

‘Forget the press. Since they won’t work with us, we’ll manage on our own. Now then,’ he went on, sitting upright. ‘When we last spoke, you were about to interview the parents of Florence Duncan.’

‘That’s right, sir. It turned out to be a shorter interview than we thought.’

‘Oh — why is that, pray?’

Marmion described what had happened and how the subdued Brian Ingles had lost his temper and, effectively, thrown them out. His wife had been embarrassed and apologised profusely as she showed them to the door. She told them that her husband had been paralysed with grief when he first heard the news and that neither of them had had a wink of sleep since. Chatfield listened, pondered, tapped the ends of his fingers together, then showed a real grasp of detail.

‘So what we have are five victims and five varying responses to their deaths from the respective families. Agnes Collier’s mother was hurt and resentful,’ he recalled, ‘Shirley Beresford’s husband had to take to his bed, Enid Jenks’s father showed no real emotion and denied that she might have welcomed male attention, Jean Harte’s father didn’t let Sergeant Keedy get any further than the mat inside the front door and Florence Duncan’s parents found the notion that she might actually have enemies to be tantamount to slander.’

‘Nobody was prepared to admit that their daughter could possibly have upset someone enough to provoke an attack on their life.’

‘It all comes back to one thing, Inspector. How well do we actually know our children? The brutal answer, I suspect, is we have only limited insight. It’s rather humbling. I have five children but I’d never claim to know the inner workings of their minds. And look what happened with your daughter.’