‘That’s cruel!’ whined Liddle, backing away.

‘Keep out of my way.’

Pushing him roughly aside, Suggs strode on, his derisive laughter echoing along the street. In the gathering gloom, he didn’t realise that Liddle waited for a while then followed him at a distance. The driver went through his usual routine. He let himself into his house, washed in the kitchen sink then went upstairs to get changed. When he came back down, he cooked himself a frugal meal then spent minutes in front of the mirror with a comb, slicking his hair down and admiring himself. Slipping on his coat and hat, he left the house and went straight to the pub. Over a pint of beer, he was soon trading coarse jokes with some of the other patrons.

Offered a fresh drink by a friend, he glanced at the clock on the wall and declined the offer. Suggs drained his glass in one last gulp and left. As before, he checked to see that nobody else was about. His walk became more furtive now and he kept glancing over his shoulder. When he reached his destination, he had one last look up and down. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he was about to knock on the door when he saw that it was slightly ajar. The invitation could not be more obvious. Responding to the show of readiness, he let himself in and shut the door behind him before bolting it. He walked down the passageway and went into the room at the rear of the house. Back turned to him, she was waiting. Suggs was disappointed. She was fully dressed. He clicked his tongue.

‘Somebody forgot her promise, didn’t she?’ he said, warningly. ‘You’ll be sorry for that. You know I love to look before I touch.’

As he walked towards her, she turned slowly around to face him. The sight of her face stopped him in his tracks. Both eyes were blackened and there were dark bruises on her temples. A trickle of blood from her nose had dried in place.

Hearing a noise behind him, he tried to turn round but he was too slow even to see his attacker. The first blow sent him reeling and the second battered him to the ground. He was kicked, stamped on and belaboured with a pick handle. Long before the assault had ended, he lost consciousness. When it was all over, he was dragged along the passageway. The front door was opened and Suggs was thrown out bodily onto the hard pavement, collecting fresh wounds on impact. He lay there in a pool of blood that slowly increased in size. It was the last tryst at that particular address.

There was quiet laughter in the darkness.

After their futile visit to Rochester, they returned by train to London, then were driven out to Hayes again. Herbert Wylie remained their chief suspect but Marmion wasn’t ready to discount the other two people who came into the reckoning. Niall Quinn still interested him and there was the putative father of Florrie Duncan’s child. Since the pregnancy was not confirmed, the detectives decided to call on a person who might be able to help them. Reuben Harte gave them an ungracious welcome but he did at least let them into the house. However, he took care not to invite them to sit down. The conversation took place in the middle of the living room with the three of them standing in a triangle.

‘What do you wish to know, Inspector?’ he asked.

‘How close was your daughter to Florrie Duncan?’

‘They were very close. I told you that.’

‘Did Jean often talk about her?’

‘Naturally,’ said Harte. ‘They worked side by side and spent a lot of their spare time together. Jean talked about her all the time. Florrie was always up to something, not least trying to organise the women into a union.’

‘Was there much opposition to that at the factory?’ asked Marmion.

‘A great deal of opposition, Sergeant. No boss likes to be told that he’s not paying his workers enough or that their working conditions are appalling. It would be bad enough coming from a male employee. Coming from a woman, it would have been even harder to take.’

‘Mr Kennett implied that,’ recalled Keedy. ‘He and Florrie had a couple of brushes, apparently. While he liked her as a woman, he probably detested her as the spokesperson for the other women — even though he’d be too polite to show it.’

‘I’m more interested in what Florrie did away from the factory,’ said Marmion. ‘If the photos of her are anything to go by, she was a striking young woman. Is that correct, Mr Harte?’

‘Oh, yes — no camera could catch her vitality, Inspector.’

‘That must have made her a target for the men at the factory.’

‘She was always getting approaches from them but Jean said that she just shrugged them off with a laugh.’

‘Did that go for all of them, sir?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, her husband died some time ago,’ said Marmion, ‘and she’d got used to the idea of being a widow. Florrie must have reached the point where she started to look at other men with interest again. She couldn’t stay in mourning for ever.’

‘She didn’t,’ said Harte. ‘Her natural ebullience wouldn’t allow it.’

‘There’s a social club attached to the factory, isn’t there?’ noted Keedy.

‘That’s right, Sergeant.’

‘Did Florrie and your daughter ever go there?’

‘Yes, they enjoyed an evening there on occasion.’

‘So they would have met plenty of men.’

‘If you’re insinuating that my daughter was looking for someone to replace her fiancé,’ said Harte, bristling, ‘then you’re quite wrong. Jean will only ever love one man and that was Maurice.’

‘What about Florrie Duncan?’

Harte was about to terminate the conversation and send them on their way when he was reminded of something. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts. They could hear the pain in his voice as he talked about the fatal birthday party.

‘There might have been somebody,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘but if there was, then I don’t think it came to anything. At least, that’s the conclusion I’d draw. Jean passed on a remark that Florrie had made to her. It meant nothing to me at the time but — in view of what you’re asking — I fancy it may be relevant.’

‘What was the remark she made to your daughter?’ asked Marmion.

Harte winced. ‘I feel embarrassed to be talking about such things, Inspector.’

‘I can understand that, sir.’

‘Do you have children?’

‘Yes, I have two — a son and a daughter.’

‘Then I daresay that you’d feel awkward, discussing what goes on in your daughter’s private life.’

Marmion said nothing. Standing next to Keedy, he felt more than awkward. During a critical period, he’d been excluded from Alice’s private life and it rankled. He upbraided himself for his lapse into self-pity. Harte had lost a beloved daughter in the most horrific way. All that Marmion had done was to experience the humiliation of being deceived by Alice and Keedy. A sense of proportion was needed. Beside their host’s plight, Marmion’s was negligible. Reuben Harte was a father with a wound that would never heal.

‘I’m sorry to put you in this position,’ said Marmion, ‘but any information you have about Florrie Duncan is of interest to us. What was the remark that she made to your daughter?’

‘She said that she was going to drink herself into oblivion at the party.’

‘Isn’t that what we all do on our birthdays?’ asked Keedy with a grin.

‘Not in Florrie’s case — she was quite abstemious, actually.’

‘Everyone lets themselves go at a party.’

‘I don’t, Sergeant, and neither did my daughter.’

‘How do you interpret the remark?’ wondered Marmion.

‘I can only hazard a guess at what she meant, Inspector.’

‘So?’

‘It could have meant that she was planning to drink heavily in order to forget something. Alcohol can be a good sedative if you’re mourning a loss. I’ve found that out.’

‘If there had been a man in Florrie’s life,’ suggested Keedy, ‘then she’d have celebrated her birthday party with him, wouldn’t she?’