‘You’ve got to remember the state he must have been in,’ argued Keedy. ‘He planted that bomb in order to kill Enid Jenks. Once the explosion was over, he’d done what he set out to do and fled the scene. That makes sense, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes — up to a point.’

‘It was only when he’d had time to reflect on it that he realised there’d been other victims. Beforehand, that wouldn’t have troubled him. They were simply incidental casualties. Afterwards, however,’ said Keedy, ‘he came to see them as real human beings whose lives he’d ended needlessly.’

‘You could be right,’ conceded Marmion, ‘but I reserve my judgement.’

‘Can’t you enjoy a bit of luck when you see it, Harv?’

‘All that I see is a possibility — and it’s no more than that — of an arrest. Even if it is Wylie, there’s no guarantee that he was actually the bomber.’

‘Why else should he confess to the crime?’

‘We’ll soon find out, Joe.’

Having been to Rochester before, Marmion made sure that they sat on the right-hand side of the compartment so that they had a good view of the River Medway as it curved in a graceful arc towards the town. On the other side of the river were the ruins of the Norman castle with its tower soaring up into the sky. Beyond it was the cathedral, a structure notable for its solidity rather than for any architectural majesty. Rochester was a quaint little town with a number of half-timbered old houses and with close associations with Charles Dickens. It was Keedy’s first visit but he saw none of its abundant attractions. As soon as they left the train, they went straight to the police station and introduced themselves.

The detectives were shown the signed statement made by the claiming to be Wylie. It was short and explicit, naming all five of the victims. Marmion and Keedy were conducted along a passageway to an interview room. The door was unlocked for them and they were left alone with the prisoner. He was sitting with his arms resting on the table in front of him and barely lifted his eyes to them. He looked slightly broader than he had been in the photograph of him but there was a definite resemblance to the man on the works outing. There was the same grim expression and the same strange intensity about him.

They sat in the two vacant chairs and appraised him. He remained motionless. Marmion performed the introductions and warned him that everything he said would be taken down. Keedy produced a notebook and pencil. The interrogation began on a relatively calm note.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Marmion.

‘Herbert Wylie,’ replied the man.

‘Can you prove it?’

‘Why should I lie to you?’

‘Do you have any form of identification on you?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Why is that?’

‘I threw everything away when I left Hayes,’ said the other. ‘I wanted to start a new life with a different name. That’s why I came here.’

His northern accent was faint but unmistakable, his voice heavy with remorse.

‘Did you plant a bomb in the outhouse of the Golden Goose?’

‘Yes, I did, Inspector.’

‘Why did you do it?’

‘I wanted to kill someone.’

‘The bomb killed five young women. Was that your intention?’

‘I can’t remember. It’s all scrambled in my mind now. When I placed that bomb there, I knew what I wanted. Afterwards, it was different.’

‘Where were you born?’

‘Sheffield.’

‘Where did you work?’

‘At the Hayes munition factory — I was in the Cartridge Section.’

‘How long had you been there?’

‘I got a job there soon after it opened.’

‘Where did you live?’

‘I rented a room from an old lady.’

‘What was her name?’

‘It was Mrs Armadale.’

‘Right,’ said Marmion, raising his voice. ‘Almost everything you’ve told me so far could have been found in the newspapers. Let’s see how well informed you are about people and events that have not been in the public domain.’

‘I’m Herbert Wylie,’ insisted the other. ‘What more do you need to know?’

‘Did your landlady wear spectacles?’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘How did you get into that outhouse?’

‘That would be telling.’

‘What’s the name of the works manager?’

‘The only thing that matters is my name, isn’t it? I’m Herbert Wylie, the man who planted a bomb. Arrest me for the crime. Put my picture in the papers. Tell everyone what I did.’

‘What you did,’ said Marmion with utter disgust, ‘is to waste our time and distract us from the search for the real killer. You’re not Wylie,’ he added, rising to his feet. ‘You’re just a pathetic little creature who wants the perverse thrill of being regarded as a mass murderer.’

‘It’s not true!’ exclaimed the man, thumping the table. ‘I’m Herbert Wylie.’

‘Then you should know that Mrs Armadale doesn’t wear spectacles. She told us how particular her lodger was about cleaning his shoes.’ He glanced down at the man’s dirty boots. ‘Oh, you’ll be arrested and charged, I promise you, but not as the killer you’re pretending to be.’

It was too much for the man. Pulsing with fury, he jumped up and swung a fist at Marmion. It was easily parried. Before he could throw a second punch, he was overpowered by Keedy who leapt up and grappled with him before slamming him against a wall. It took all resistance out of the man. The commotion brought two uniformed constables into the room.

‘Lock him up,’ said Keedy, handing him over. ‘And find out his real name.’

The man was still yelling at the top of his voice as they dragged him out.

‘I had a horrible feeling that we’d find someone who simply craved attention,’ said Marmion with a resigned smile. ‘His statement gave him away.’

‘How?’

‘He was so eager to convince us that he set off that bomb that he listed all five victims. The real Herbert Wylie wouldn’t have done that. He probably didn’t even know all the names. The one person he was interested in was Enid Jenks. The others didn’t matter.’

‘I should have realised that,’ admitted Keedy.

‘Yes, Joe, you should have. As a penance, you can be the one to ring the superintendent to break the bad news to him.’ Marmion gave him a friendly pat. ‘Don’t forget to wear ear plugs. He can be vindictive.’

At the end of a taxing day, Alan Suggs clocked off at the factory and walked home. Having driven his lorry considerable distances at work, he was glad to be back on his feet again. As he was going through the factory gates, another shift was streaming towards him. He spotted a pretty young woman with dimpled cheeks and a full figure. When she saw him grinning at her, she turned away and quickened her step. Their friendship had been brief and, on her side, demeaning. Suggs, however, had stirring memories of their time together and he celebrated them with a guffaw. It was a long walk back to his house but he moved along with alacrity. Behind him was the world of work; ahead of him was a night of pleasure.

His route took him past the Golden Goose and he saw Royston Liddle lurking nearby. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to taunt him.

‘Shouldn’t you be at home feeding your rabbits?’ he asked with a smirk.

‘I can’t,’ said Liddle, ‘and you know why.’

‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, Royston.’

‘You killed them.’

Suggs feigned righteous indignation. ‘That’s a downright lie!’

‘I can’t prove it but I know it.’

‘You’d better be careful what you’re saying.’

‘It’s the truth.’

‘Come out with nonsense like that and everyone will know that you’ve lost what little sense you have. That means only one thing,’ he said, menacingly. ‘They’ll lock you up in the lunatic asylum. Best place for you, if you ask me.’

Liddle was wounded. ‘I don’t belong in an asylum.’

‘Then stop making stupid accusations.’

‘Everybody talks to me proper, Alan. Why can’t you?’

‘Because I think you’re a streak of shit with as much use as a dead rabbit.’