Beware This Boy (11 page)

“Yes, sir. I suppose we must be thankful we still have some of the roof left at all.”

“How many detonators would be in here at a time?”

“Each magazine box holds six pots, each of which contains five hundred detonators.”

Tyler whistled softly. “Three thousand all together. No wonder the hole is that big.”

He moved closer to the devastated benches.

“Who was sitting where? Do you have that information?”

“Yes, sir.” Cudmore tore a piece of paper from his notebook. “Here is a diagram that might help. There were also two carpenters in the room, repairing one of the benches. I’ve written in their names.” He shook his head. “Nobody is really supposed to be in the working area other than the operatives, but the men had to replace the linoleum on one of the benches. As I understand it, the shift was late arriving in their places so the men probably thought they’d seize their chance … They are both in the hospital. One is quite seriously injured, but both survived, thank the Lord.”

“You say the shift was late? Why was that?”

“Apparently the door to the change room was found to be locked and it took a while for a key to be located. I believe the entire shift was delayed by close to fifteen minutes.”

“I thought you said the doors weren’t usually locked.”

“No, they’re not. When I spoke to Mrs. Castleford, she had no explanation.”

Tyler sighed. “When do you think I can start interviewing people? The sooner the better, I think, if we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

“I can have word out to some of the employees to come in this afternoon if you wish, sir. They will be expecting it.”

Tyler took another walk around the perimeter of the shattered bench. Funny how smell was so evocative. He had a sudden disturbing memory of the tragedy he’d had to deal with this past summer. There was the same odour of charred wood and, worse, burned bodies, smelling like overcooked meat.

He watched as a puff of dust floated up to the ceiling, as ephemeral as life itself.

Tyler had a look around Section A but it didn’t tell him anything new. Like Section B, the building was low and shed-like. No windows here either, just mercury lamps and two benches.

Cudmore, again consulting his notebook, ran through the procedures.

“The explosive powder has to be weighed carefully. Too much and the shell will blow up prematurely; too little and it’s a dud. The four operatives on this bench do nothing but weigh and measure. They then pass the containers over to the other bench, where they are emptied into the casings. It is not a complicated procedure by any means, but it does require absolute concentration.”

“If anything was wrong at this point, would it be detected?”

“In terms of the correct amount of explosive, there are two operatives who each have the same function, so they act as a double check on each other. If what you mean is could a defective fuse be sent out to Section B, I’d say no. The calibration is inspected here as well as when it first leaves the floor.”

“There are a lot of fuses to inspect.”

“True, but we are meticulous. Each fuse will go through at least three checks before it gets to Section B.”

Tyler rubbed at the back of his hand, which had started to itch. The cordite powder was fine as mist in the air. “I hope the operatives get good wages for this work, Mr. Cudmore.”

“They do, sir. Not as much as men who do the same work, mind you, but that’s what’s laid down and that’s what I have to follow.”

“Do the women mind this inequality?”

“I’ve heard a few complaints but mostly they accept it.” He smiled at Tyler. “We can’t change the world overnight, can we. A lot of the men in the factory were very opposed to having women work here at all. But I think they’ve proved they can do it.”

“The women are fortunate to have such an advocate as you, Mr. Cudmore.”
Might as well put into practice the secretary’s own labour principles
, thought Tyler.
Praise when due
.

St. Elizabeth’s Hospital had been newly built when he was last in Birmingham, but as he approached the entrance he thought it already looked shabby. Maybe it was just his own jaundiced view being projected onto the world. Or maybe it was the war and the grinding down of the spirit that it brought with it.

Like the police station, the hospital had layers of sandbags all around its base.

As he went into the lobby, a young woman came hurrying out. “Beg pardon,” she muttered as she stepped out of his path. She wasn’t wearing a nurse’s cloak but rather a drab mackintosh and felt cloche hat pulled down low. He had an impression of immense distress and he wondered what her reason was for being in the hospital.
Mind your own business, Tyler
, he said to himself.
You should be used to sorrow by now.

A harried-seeming probationer directed him to the second floor surgical ward, although she tried to impress on him that visiting hours weren’t until the afternoon. “Except in extreme cases,” she added quietly.

“This is such a case, I’m afraid,” said Tyler.

She didn’t evince any curiosity. Perhaps all the visitors said that.

The ward held thirty or so beds, all close together. Other than one nurse carrying out a bedpan, it was empty of staff. A few patients were sitting beside their beds but most were lying under the covers. Those who could watched him curiously as he approached the nurses’ station in the centre of the floor. The nurse’s name plate identified her as A. Ruebotham,
RN
.

“Yes? Can I help you?” Her tone was cool and polite, the implication clear.
Didn’t he know visiting hours weren’t until this afternoon?

He had his identity card at the ready as he introduced himself. She examined the card carefully, satisfied herself he was genuine, and got to her feet.

“Come this way, Inspector. We’ve put both young women at the end of the ward for a little privacy.” She led the way, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. Everything about her struck Tyler as crisp: her white uniform and starched cap, her voice, even the way she walked. The kind of nurse you were always glad to have looking after you. Always certain in an uncertain world.

As they went past one elderly patient, the woman called out, “Sister, Sister.”

“Excuse me for a moment, Inspector,” said the nurse and she went over to the patient. They had a whispered conversation, which Tyler could tell had to do with him. The nurse straightened up, patted the woman’s arm, and returned. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“She wondered if you were a doctor.”

“She didn’t seem to be happy at the prospect.”

“She thinks redheads tend to be too excitable,” said Miss Ruebotham with a little smile.

“She’s right about that,” replied Tyler.

The nurse halted in front of a screened-off bed. “This is Miss Audrey Sandilands. I’m afraid she has not regained consciousness. Her condition is critical.”

She moved aside the screen. Tyler took one look. It was obvious that Audrey, sustained by tubes, would not now, if ever, be able to answer his questions. He shook his head at the nurse and she replaced the screen.

“The other young woman is over here,” she said. “Her condition is serious but she is expected to survive.”

She rolled away the screen at the adjoining bed. Tyler stood stock still. He couldn’t help himself.

The girl was as pale as her sheets. Deep bruises circled her eyes and there was an ugly cut along her jaw. One arm was hidden underneath a protective frame; the other lay on top of the cover, the hand heavily bandaged.

When he’d last seen her, she had been tanned and blooming with youth and health. She was one of the Land Girls who had been involved in his last case in Whitchurch.

Donny had plopped himself down at the living room table. Brian sat down across from him.

“Have a fag.” Donny shook out a cigarette and shoved the package across the table.

Brian ignored it. “What’s your proposition?”

Donny took his time, apparently savouring the taste. “Simple really. Dead bloody simple. I don’t turn you in and in return you do some work for me.”

“Like what?”

“As I recall you were in the electrics business before the army got you over the barrel with your cheeks spread. I’d like you to make me a couple of timers.”

“For what?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters. Timers can do anything. I’ll bet you don’t want it to flush your toilet. Do you want to make a bomb?”

“You’ve got it, Bri. Hit the bloody nail on the head.”

Brian pushed back his chair in agitation. “You’re nuts. What are you going to do, blow up the police station?”

“How’d you guess? No, joke – I’m joking, dope. It’s not the sodding police station. That’s not what I had in mind. At least, not right away. You’ve been away so you don’t know what it’s like here when there’s a bleeding attack. Lots of opportunity for those who can take it. People run out to their shelters, leaving their houses unprotected. As wide open as a whore’s you-know-what. Just there for the asking.”

“So you go looting. That doesn’t involve a bomb.”

“Who said anything about a bleedin’ bomb? I didn’t. Let’s put it this way: sometimes it’s helpful if you can get something started and you’re not there, if you get my meaning.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Never mind. It’s not important why I want a bloody timer. Let’s just say I do.” He started to fiddle with the cigarette package, and Brian was taken aback to see that underneath the bravado he was nervous. Donny Jarvis nervous? What the hell was he going to come up with?

“You see, I have a good mate – a partner, you might say – who is in need of a … demolition expert.” Donny blew out a smoke ring and watched it in admiration. “My mate isn’t in favour of this bleedin’ war and he’d like to do what he can to put a spanner in the works.”

“With a bomb.”

“Will you stop with the sodding bomb talk? There are lots of other ways to slow down munitions production.”

“You’re saying he’s a fifth columnist?”

“Something like that. Me, I don’t give a rat’s arse about philosophies, and sod the greater good and what-have-you. I just want to get by.”

“Look, you grubby piece of shite,” yelled Brian, “you can turn me in if you want to, I don’t give a fuck. I’m not getting involved in anything that gets people killed.”

Donny’s hand went to his pocket. “Fuck me. I had no idea you were a man of bloody principle, Bri. Not seeing as how you left your mates in the bleedin’ lurch and all that. But take it easy, nobody will get hurt. We’re just going to create a disruption is all.”

“So it is a bomb you’re planning?”

“Bloody hell, Bri, you’re not listening, are you. I’ve asked you to make me a couple of timers. That’s it.”

Brian began to pace, hitting his fist into his palm for emphasis. “Let me get this straight. You say you’re not a communist and you don’t care. What’s in it for you, then?”

Donny grinned his feral grin. “That ain’t important. You should be asking what’s in it for you. And I’ll tell, since you need to know. I said I had a bleeding proposition, didn’t I? Fair’s fair. Not only will I not turn you in, you do this for me and me mate and in return we’ll get you a safe passage to Ireland. You and your missus.”

“What!”

“I mean it, I swear on my mother’s grave. Your old lady can join you there for the duration.”

“That could be years.”

“Naw. Six months at most. Jerry’s already winning the sodding war.”

“You’re talking about the occupation of Britain by Nazis.”

“That’s right. It’s bloody inevitable.” He smirked. “You’ve got nothing to lose, if you think about it, and everything to gain. Come on, Bri. If you believed in this war you wouldn’t have gone
AWOL
, would you. Admit it.”

It wasn’t like that. Brian had no clearly defined thoughts about whether or not this was a just war that he believed in. Nothing so lofty. But deserting and being a traitor were two different things in his mind. Donny was asking him to be a traitor.

“Making a couple of bombs – oh sorry, I mean a couple of timers – isn’t going to bring about the end of the war any more quickly.”

For a moment Donny dropped the masquerade. “What makes you think it’s only going to be a couple of bombs? This isn’t a sodding poncey boys’ club we’re talking about, Bri. We’re frigging serious. Look at it like an incendiary. Not so powerful in itself, but when it spreads – watch out. One bomb can set a whole bloody city ablaze, and after that, the country.”

Brian guffawed. “My God, Donny, you should hear yourself. That’s the worst kind of shite I’ve heard in a while. Who’s your ventriloquist? You couldn’t come up with rubbish like that on your own, that’s for sure.”

Donny’s façade cracked, and briefly raw, primitive anger showed through. Brian had scored a hit. He tried to balance his weight so he could be ready for an attack if it came. His heart was pounding and he was giddy.

“No need to insult a pal,” said Donny. “Anyways, whether you believe me or not don’t matter a piss. I know it’s true. So whaddya think? All I want from you is to make the timers.”

“People will be killed.”