Beware This Boy (10 page)

In spite of what she had said, he had followed her. “Propaganda, I suppose you’d call it. I’m to demonstrate the rewards of working in a factory like Endicott’s.”

She grimaced. “I’d hardly say we were a good advertisement.”

“I’m very sorry about what happened. It must be awfully upsetting for everybody.”

His voice was so kind that all she could do was nod, not trusting herself to speak. She was rescued by the shrill whistle of the tea kettle announcing the water had boiled. As she removed it from the stove and poured a splash into the pot to warm it, Kaplan watched with as much interest as if he were an anthropologist studying aboriginal habits in the Dark Continent.

“Go and sit in the waiting room,” she said abruptly. “I’ll bring it in.”

“Yes, Sister,” he said meekly.

While she was dispensing the tea, Kaplan looked around. “This room has a nice welcoming feel to it.”

Eileen was pleased by the compliment. She had paid a lot of attention to the clinic, wanting to make it as friendly as possible. There was a wool rag rug on the floor that she’d begged from her mother. The two matching chairs and the loveseat were comfortable. She had even hung a couple of prints on the wall. One of them was a stunning photograph of St. Martin’s Cathedral, taken at sunset.

“It’s a lovely church,” murmured Lev as he stood in front of the picture. “Such a pity it got hit.”

“One of Birmingham’s jewels,” said Eileen.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. The appalling devastation that the bombing raids were inflicting on English cities was almost impossible to absorb.

She handed Lev a cup of tea. He waved away the offered milk and sugar.

“Black for me – another Yankee quirk.” He sat down on the loveseat. “I’d like to shoot some footage in here. Is that all right with you?”

“As long as I’m not in the picture, I don’t mind.”

“Of course you must be in the picture. People like to see pretty nurses. It’s reassuring.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Mr. Kaplan, do all Americans lay it on with a trowel the way you do?”

“ ‘Lay it on with a trowel’? I don’t know what that means.”

“Never mind. But tell me, how are you going to make a film at Endicott’s given what has happened?”

“I understand the factory will reopen tomorrow on a limited basis. I’ll shoot some film of the workers on the floor. Needless to say, we need recruits for the war work, but I’ll leave it up to the ministry to decide what they show.” He put down his cup and stood up, giving his arm another tentative twist. “Good. All hunky-dory. I’d better get going and scout around. Thanks for the most delicious cup of tea I’ve had since I arrived.” He gave a half-bow. “We shall meet again, Miss Abbott. Is it possible that on our second meeting I may call you Eileen? And on our third, may I invite you to come to the pictures with me?”

“Mr. Kaplan, you are moving far too quickly. No first names for at least six months, and certainly no walking out for at least a year.”

“Very well. I shall return tomorrow.”

He left and Eileen took the tray out to her kitchen. For a few sweet moments the situation at home had receded from her mind.

Brian waited to be sure his grandparents had well and truly left him, then he went to his auntie’s room.

Where would she have put those pills? He yanked open the drawer of the bedside table. Ha. There they were, together with her Aspirin and a few medical samples she must have brought from the clinic. He poked at them. Painkillers, all sealed.

He took out the
RAF
pills, twisted off the lid, and shook out a couple into his palm. He gulped them down, not even bothering to get some water. He replaced the bottle. She wouldn’t like to know he’d been going through her drawer.

Tap, tap … tap, tap
.

He froze. Somebody was knocking at the front door. Softly. Surely it wasn’t Gran already. She’d said she’d knock three times. Then he heard somebody lift the mail slot and a voice whispered.

“
It’s me – Jack. Let me in
.”

Brian went to the door and opened it a crack, enough so he could see his brother.

“Come in. Quick.”

Jack stepped forward but another person was right behind him, already inside and closing the door. They both stood in the narrow hall, Jack with his head low, the other fellow, a grin on his face, staring brazenly at Brian.

“Hey, Bri. Fancy seeing you here. Remember me?”

“Yeah. You’re Donny Jarvis. You’re the shite who stole some of my tools when I was doing a job in one of the back-to-backs.”

Donny smirked. “Come on, Bri. Isn’t a bloke innocent until proven guilty? I just happened to be in the vicinity. You never knew for sure it was me nicked your things.”

“Don’t give me that shite. It was you all right. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’ve brought back my pliers.”

Donny chuckled. “I heard you was in a spot of trouble. Thought I might be able to help.”

Jack was looking completely miserable and he had yet another bruise on his chin. “I’m sorry, Bri … I –”

Donny slapped him on the shoulder, supposedly playfully but so hard he almost fell.

“Don’t blame Jackie. I’m a persuasive kind of bloke. I got him to tell me all.”

“So? What are you going to do now you know?”

Brian’s pulse was racing so fast he thought he was going to explode. Either that or smack the smirk off Donny’s mouth.

The other boy must have sensed what he was feeling, because he shifted slightly out of reach.

“Tell you what, why don’t we go where it’s more comfy. Jack, you stay here and keep a lookout. If your old gran or granddad comes back, stall them.”

“But Donny –” pleaded Jack.

Donny pinched Jack’s cheek. “Such a mitherer. Give ’em a bloody clout if you have to … No, no, silly, I’m joking. We won’t be long so they probably won’t be back until I finish my chinwag with Bri here. But you’re a bloody Boy Scout. You know you’ve got to be prepared at all times.”

He looked at Brian and his eyes were frighteningly cold. Old as death itself. He gestured to the living room.

“Shall we, me old mucker?”

Cudmore trotted slightly ahead of Tyler along the passageway, which ended at a fire door. Here a second open walkway branched off to the left.

“That passageway leads to Section A. As you can see, it is separated from Section B and there are two blast walls in between. Good thing too, or I’m afraid we would all have gone up in smoke.” He shook his head. “Such dangerous
work. I confess to being a coward in this regard, Inspector. I wouldn’t do it.”

He pushed open the door directly in front of them and they went inside.

“This is where the assembly of the filled fuses is completed. And here, alas, is where the explosion occurred.”

Immediately they were assailed by the acrid smell of cordite and burnt wood and the other, more subtle, but to Tyler unmistakable, stink of torn flesh and spilled blood. Not even the overlay of carbolic cleaning fluid could mask it.

The room was long and low-ceilinged, with no windows. Light was filtering through a canvas tarpaulin covering a huge hole in the roof. There were two workbenches. One had collapsed into a heap of blackened shards and splinters. The other was in two pieces and was lying on its side where it had presumably been blown.

Tyler began to walk slowly around the area, which had obviously been scrubbed clean. Not conducive to a crime investigation, but he could understand the impulse.

“What would the women have been working on?”

Cudmore had obviously been anticipating some question of the sort. “I’m more familiar with the administrative side of operations so I thought I’d better write everything down.” He took a notebook from his inner pocket and flipped it open. “Perhaps I should start with the work that is done in Section A. As I said, the prepared casings are taken there first, where they are filled with the explosive. Five-grain
ASA
powder. We tend to use the words
detonator
and
fuse
interchangeably, although that is probably not quite correct.”

Tyler nodded. “So far it’s clear, Mr. Cudmore.”

“The fuses are the vital part of the shells,” continued the secretary. “Without a live fuse, the shell casing itself, even with the cordite inside, is inert, not dangerous at all unless you set
fire to it, which is what the fuse is supposed to do. Some are timed to explode in the air, where they do their damage by creating shrapnel. Artillery use those.”

“I’ve had experience with that kind of shell, Mr. Cudmore.”

“The Great War, I presume, sir?” He sighed. “Who’d ever have thought we’d be embroiled in another world conflict within a generation?”

“Who indeed.”

“Well, then, where was I? Oh yes. The shells we fill here at Endicott’s are meant to explode on impact. That is why we are dealing with such volatile powders. Section A operatives fill the fuses with the powder. There are usually eight operatives. Seven here in Section B. Yesterday there were three absentees, one from Section A and two from B. I suppose they are considering themselves lucky.” He went back to his notebook. “The fuses, which are now filled and therefore potentially lethal, are then conveyed in a special box to the magazine shed, which is located between the two sections.” He pointed to the end of the room. “As you can see it is closed off by a fire door. And again I have to say thank goodness for that. The magazine-keeper counts the number of fuses and then they are brought to Section B, where they are finally assembled.” He hesitated. “Perhaps I should mention, sir, that when I was speaking to the supervisor, she did say there was some problem with the tally.”

“What sort of problem?”

“I’m not sure exactly. The magazine-keeper should be able to tell you. He is Phil Riley. I’ve underlined his name and written
MK
beside it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cudmore. Anyway, do go on. We have the operatives in Section B assembling the fuses. How do they do that?”

“The first girl takes fifty at a time from one of the special pots that are in the box. This is referred to as ‘traying up.’ She
attaches each fuse to a plug, which she then hands over to the girl seated next to her. That operative places the plug and fuse into a holder and screws it in place.”

“That sounds like a lot of handling for what is, as you say, a potentially lethal weapon.”

“Yes, sir, I agree.” Cudmore bit his lip. “We probably need more supervision but we always seem to be short-handed. There is one supervisor to oversee both sections. She has to go back and forth. She was in the magazine room when the explosion happened. Normally she would have been in here. She is devastated. Strictly speaking, she is not supposed to let the girls tray up on their own. Obviously they went ahead without her. She feels terrible guilt, the poor woman, terrible guilt.”

“I can imagine she would.”

“I’ve marked her name. Mrs. Valerie Castleford. Very decent sort. Tragic all round, isn’t it, sir. The families of the dead suffer as well.”

Tyler knew all about that. “How are the detonators conveyed from place to place?”

“The dillie man does all that.”

“Dillie man?”

“Er, that’s what we call him, sir. Don’t know why, come to think of it, but he has a trolley with rubberized wheels. That’s the dillie. There’s a man on each shift. I’ve marked their names. The one who works the morning shift is Mick Smith. A good, reliable worker who’s been with us for three months. He had already left the premises when the accident occurred. The dillie man on the afternoon shift is Joe Abbott, a very experienced worker. He’s been with Endicott’s for decades. In fact, his daughter is our resident nurse. She was off duty yesterday but she rushed here to help.” He couldn’t suppress a shudder. “She was invaluable in dealing with the situation.”

“Where was Mr. Abbott?”

“He wasn’t yet in the factory. In the interest of efficiency, some workers such as the dillie men and the canteen workers don’t report for duty until the shift has started. No sense in them sitting around, is there?”

“Not if they are on an hourly wage.” Tyler gazed up at the ceiling. “That’s a bloody big hole, Mr. Cudmore.”