‘We’ve had footballs stolen, vile things painted on the shed where the girls change and some of our goalposts were sawn in half.’

‘I hadn’t realised young ladies could be so mercenary.’

‘It’s not the players,’ said May, ‘it’s their supporters. They’re mad. They’ll go to any lengths to win.’

‘So it seems,’ said Marmion. ‘Would they go as far as planting a bomb to kill your best players?’

Mother and son were both stunned by a question that they’d evidently not asked themselves. Inclined to dismiss it out of hand at first, they began to take it more seriously. Marmion watched the two of them having a silent conversation with each other. He wished that he knew what they were thinking.

‘After all,’ he resumed, ‘it wasn’t just your best player who was killed in that explosion. Your goalkeeper was at that party as well. If she hadn’t left early, then you’d have lost two members of the team.’

‘Three,’ corrected May. ‘Jean Harte was only a reserve, as usual, but she might have played in the cup final because Sally Neames was injured.’

‘There you are then, Mr Beresford. Losing three players would have been a crippling blow to your chances. Do you think that someone from Woolwich would deliberately set out to deprive you of the services of your wife, Maureen Quinn and Jean Harte? Is that conceivable?’

But Marmion had got all that he was going to get out of Beresford. He put his head on the pillow and stared upwards again, mind numbed and body motionless. His mother gave a signal to Marmion and the pair of them went back downstairs. In the living room, he spotted something he hadn’t noticed before. On the mantelpiece was a large framed photograph. Expecting it to be of the couple at their wedding, Marmion saw that it was instead a full-length portrait of Shirley Beresford in football kit. She was a lanky girl with a long, narrow face and she was beaming in triumph at the camera.

‘He’s been like that since he found out,’ said May with a glance upwards.

‘Ask him to think over what I put to him.’

‘Oh, I can answer that question, Inspector.’

‘Can you?’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she affirmed. ‘Some devil from Woolwich could have set out to ruin our chances. It’s not just the cup, you see. There’s the money.’

‘But it’s an amateur sport, Mrs Beresford. The players don’t get paid.’

‘They don’t need to, Inspector. The money comes from the bookies. If the team you pick wins, you can make a tidy sum. I support Hayes through thick and thin but, if I had any sense, I’d bet everything I could on Woolwich for the cup final.’

Keedy could only watch in mute admiration. Taken on a tour around the Cartridge Section by Bernard Kennett, he saw what the women actually did when they clocked on for work. They were in part of an industrial complex that extended across all of two hundred acres. The buildings were so numerous and of such differing sizes that it was impossible to count them. The first National Filling Station to start production, Hayes was like a small town in itself, employing, feeding and — now and then — entertaining a workforce that ran into vast numbers. It was divided into five sections. In the West Section, eighteen-pound shells were assembled, whereas the East Section specialised in filling fuses, friction tubes and exploders. Pellets were also manufactured there. The Cap and Detonator Section was such an important part of the whole operation that it had a separate fence and its own guards. Primer caps and detonators were made there. The workshops in the Amatol Section were larger than most and spaced well apart. Warm liquid amatol — an explosive mixture of ammonium nitrate and TNT — was poured into shells of varying sizes. Danger was ever present.

Before he could pay full attention to what was happening in the Cartridge Section, Keedy had to get used to the pounding noise and the pervading stink. Women were working in serried ranks, helping to fill shell cartridges with explosive material. The numerous safety precautions were unable to protect the staff completely. They were continuously exposed to highly toxic materials. As a means of countering their effects, the women were given a daily ration of milk but it failed to halt the steady discolouring of their skin. To Keedy’s eyes, it was like a vision of the seventh circle of hell, unceasing toil in an unhealthy atmosphere with constant targets to meet. Male workers were very much in the minority. The bulk of production came from the women, the youngest of whom was eighteen.

In their matching uniforms, it was difficult to tell them apart. Maureen Quinn had been part of this female army and might, in time, return to it. Florrie Duncan, Agnes Collier, Jean Harte, Shirley Beresford and the musician, Enid Jenks, would never come back to the Section. Keedy thought the work unsuitable for women and bewailed the fact that war had dulled the sensibilities with regard to what was appropriate to the two genders. As he was led around by Kennett, the workers went up in his esteem. In spite of their unflattering clothing, he could see that many of them were young, shapely and very attractive. But they were committed to a job that would round their shoulders, put furrows in their faces and paint them with such a telltale yellow sheen that their social lives would be badly affected. Even the most loving husbands would be repelled by the change in their wives’ appearance and those in search of marriage proposals would be severely handicapped. In serving their country so willingly, they’d made unwitting sacrifices.

Keedy was glad to step out into the fresh air again. He turned to Kennett.

‘Thank you for showing me round,’ he said.

‘Now you know what those five women did when they were here.’

‘I had no idea that conditions were so bad.’

‘They compare favourably with conditions in any of the other factories,’ said Kennett, defensively. ‘We do everything possible to minimise the danger to our workforce and to treat them with consideration.’

‘Granted — but it’s still worrying to see women doing such work.’

‘It’s an unfortunate necessity.’

‘What will happen when the war ends?’

‘Demand for munitions will cease,’ replied Kennett, ‘so we won’t need to maintain such a high daily output. Men who return from the front will naturally expect jobs and they’ll take priority over women, many of whom will have to be released to search for other employment.’

‘The damage will already have been done,’ said Keedy, sadly. ‘Who’ll take on women who look like yellow, jaundice victims?’

‘That’s a regrettable side effect of working here.’

‘Shouldn’t they be able to claim compensation?’

‘No,’ said Kennett, sharply, ‘that’s out of the question. They understood when they first came here what the job entailed. The women accepted the risk. They can’t turn round now and say that they deserve some sort of compensation. Where’s the money to come from to pay them? We’d go bankrupt. If we set a precedent with munition workers, it would be disastrous thing to do.’

It would also be a civilised gesture, thought Keedy, but he didn’t wish to have a dispute with the works manager. Sympathetic as he’d been to the plight of the five victims, there were clearly limits to Kennett’s compassion. First and foremost, he had to maintain production at whatever cost. Workers were therefore seen as mere cogs in a machine rather than as human beings with needs and rights. One of Keedy’s questions was answered. When Florrie Duncan had come to his office to demand longer lunch breaks, she obviously got very short shrift from Bernard Kennett.

After thanking his guide once more, Keedy took his leave and walked off the premises. The tour had served its purpose. He’d not just been interested to see how hard and unremittingly the women had worked, he was keen to note how often they came into contact with male employees. The latter were not just confined to management roles. Many worked alongside the women, doing the skilled tasks that were beyond them. Then there were drivers, porters, cleaners, kitchen staff and dozens of other men at the factory. Many of them came into daily contact with the munitionettes. Keedy had observed more than one of them shooting sly glances at the women. Could the bomber they sought be working somewhere on the site? Thwarted passion was a powerful emotion. Keedy had seen it drive people to do incredible things. The shells manufactured at Hayes were lethal but unwelcome sexual desire could be destructive as well. Was that what had cost five women their lives? It was an open question.