Bernard Kennett was a tall, stooping, middle-aged man in a crumpled blue suit. He looked rather careworn and had a habit of running his hand through his hair. Invited into his office, Keedy was quick to make an appraisal of him, deciding that the works manager was more or less exactly as he’d imagined him to be when they spoke on the telephone. Kennett was polite, educated and eager to be of assistance. He waved his visitor to a chair, then sat behind a desk piled high with invoices and correspondence.

‘Let me get one thing clear, Sergeant,’ he began. ‘I’m not in overall control of production here. That duty falls to Mr Passmore. He’s the factory manager. I’m in charge of the section where the five unfortunate young women used to work.’

‘And you actually remembered one of them.’

‘Oh, nobody could forget Florence Duncan. She was their spokeswoman. I recall her sitting in that very seat and demanding a longer lunch break.’

‘Did she get it?’ wondered Keedy.

‘That’s immaterial.’ The older man combed his hair with his fingers then reached for a folder on his desk. ‘Knowing that you were coming, I did a bit of detective work on my own behalf. I spoke to some of the women who worked alongside the five victims and made a few notes.’

‘That will be extremely helpful, sir,’ said Keedy. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s only anecdotal, of course, but it will tell you something about their characters.’ He opened the folder. ‘I need hardly say what the mood is like in the Cartridge Section. Those five young women were very popular. The whole place is in mourning for them.’

‘That’s understandable.’

Kennett glanced at his notes. ‘The one I feel sorry for is Enid Jenks.’

‘We were told that she was a fine musician.’

‘That’s why she would have been so disappointed to miss the occasion. We’re not just slave-drivers here, Sergeant. Productivity must, of necessity, be kept up to a high level but we do try to take care of our workforce. They’re engaged in rather dull and repetitive work,’ he continued, ‘so we endeavour to take their minds off it by giving them periodic treats during their lunch break.’

‘What sort of treats?’

‘The one I have in mind is the visit of Madame Tetrazzini. Does that name mean anything to you?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ confessed Keedy.

‘Then I can see that you are not an opera lover. Madame Tetrazzini is a famous Italian soprano. She has an international reputation. We were lucky enough to secure a booking with her. She’s due to entertain our workers here next week. I fancy that Enid Jenks would have been thrilled to have the opportunity to hear the lady. It’s a complete contrast,’ said Kennett with a note of pride. ‘The women go from filling shells for long hours to listening to arias from Verdi and Rossini. We may tire their limbs but we also feed their souls.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir. I’ve never been to an opera. But I’m glad that it’s not uninterrupted toil here.’ He extended a hand. ‘Can I see your notes, please?’

Kennett passed them to him. ‘Take them away, Sergeant. My handwriting is not too atrocious. Now, then, what else can I do to help?

‘I’d be interested to see what the five victims actually did when they were here,’ said Keedy, careful not to reveal that he believed the bomber might also work at the factory. ‘I’d like some insight into their daily routine.’

‘That can be arranged.’

Before he could stand up, Kennett was diverted by the urgent ring of his telephone. Apologising for the interruption, he picked up the receiver and listened. Keedy watched his expression change from interest to sudden concern.

‘Yes,’ said the works manager at length. ‘By all means, allow her in. I’ll see her immediately.’ He put the receiver down. ‘That was the security officer at the gate. There’s a Mrs Quinn asking to see me. She seems quite desperate.’

‘Would that be a Mrs Diane Quinn?’ asked Keedy.

‘It is, indeed. It appears that her daughter has disappeared from the house. Mrs Quinn is wondering if she came to work in spite of the fact that she was ordered not to by her father. Excuse me,’ said Kennett, moving to the door, ‘while I instruct my secretary to establish the facts. I want to put Mrs Quinn’s mind at rest.’

Keedy took the opportunity to glance at the notes he’d been given. They were written in a neat hand and consisted largely of a series of quotations from friends of the deceased. They fleshed out the portraits that he and Marmion had been given at the Quinn house. He noted the kind words that were said about Maureen herself. Most of the praise was reserved for Florrie Duncan but Enid Jenks was admired for her musical talent — she also played the piano — Agnes Collier was remembered for her girlish giggle and Jean Harte was liked best for her morose humour. Keedy was very interested in a snippet of information about Shirley Beresford.

It was minutes before Kennett reappeared. When he finally did so, he had an anguished Diane Quinn with him. She was startled to see Keedy there. He stood up so that she could have his chair and listened intently to her tale of woe.

‘It’s my fault,’ she said, chewing her lip. ‘I should have checked the moment I got up. Better still, I should have heard her sneaking out of the house. It never crossed my mind that she’d go anywhere. Maureen was dog-tired last night. After what she’d been through, it’s not surprising. But, when I went into her bedroom this morning, she simply wasn’t there!’ Apprehension darkened her features. ‘My husband will be so cross with me when he finds out. I must get Maureen back before he comes home. Where on earth can she be, Sergeant?’

‘I don’t know, Mrs Quinn. I assume that you’ve conducted a search?’

‘I’ve been everywhere. I even called on Sadie Radcliffe and that was a mistake. She was very spiteful about Maureen — don’t know why. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I remembered reading this article once about people who have a dreadful experience being drawn back to the place where it happened. So I caught the train to Hayes and asked where the Golden Goose was. It was frightening. Well, you’ve seen the mess that the bomb made, Sergeant. It made my knees go weak. If Maureen had been caught in the blast, we’d never have been able to recognise her remains.’

‘That is posing a problem,’ admitted Keedy, ‘and I’m sorry that you had to see that pile of debris. What made you think your daughter may have come here?’

‘It was what she wanted to do but Eamonn, my husband, forbade it.’

‘I’m fairly certain that’s she’s not here,’ said Kennett, ‘because the other girls would have mentioned the fact when I talked to them. We’ll soon know the truth. My secretary will find out if she clocked in.’

‘She has to be here, sir. Where else can she be?’

Diane continued to insist that her daughter was in the factory somewhere and the two men consoled her as best they could. When the telephone rang, Kennett moved across to pick it up. The conversation was over within seconds. After putting the receiver down, he shook his head sadly.

‘Maureen is definitely not on the site, Mrs Quinn,’ he said.

She was devastated. ‘Are you quite sure?’

‘Yes, I am. If she had turned up here this morning, she wouldn’t have been allowed to carry on as if nothing had happened. For her own sake, we’d have turned her away.’ He looked at Keedy. ‘People sometimes think that we force our employees to work until they drop but we’re very humane. We always try to show compassion.’ His eyes flicked back to Diane. ‘You’ll have to look elsewhere, Mrs Quinn.’

‘But where?’ she wailed. ‘There’s nowhere else left.’

‘Yes, there is,’ said Keedy, ‘and it’s possible that it never occurred to you. If you were thrown into a panic, you probably just ran around in circles.’

‘That’s exactly what I did, Sergeant. I was like a dog with its tail on fire.’