Hardcastle's Frustration

by Graham Ison

  ‘I’ll give him a ring, sir,’ said Marriott.

  ‘You’ll do what?’ demanded Hardcastle, with a frown on his face. He broke off from his study of the body to stare at his luckless sergeant. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Marriott?’

  ‘I’ll, er, telephone him, sir,’ said Marriott, hastily translating his comment into proper English.

  ‘Oh, that thing,’ said Hardcastle dismissively. He always pretended ignorance of the workings of what he called ‘that newfangled instrument’. It was a piece of equipment he abhorred, even though he was competent in its use. But in common with many of his contemporaries, he regarded it as an infernal invention that would not last. ‘Better use the thing to get a couple of our people down here to shift the body to St Mary’s, then, and while you’re at it, alert Dr Spilsbury as to when they’re likely to arrive. And bring that sack with you, Marriott. It might tell us something.’

  ‘The telephone’s in the front office, Charlie,’ said the Thames Division sergeant.

  ‘Thanks, Jock,’ said Marriott, and left the room to make his calls.

  Hardcastle spent the next few minutes closely inspecting the body. With the assistance of the river policeman, he turned it on to its face.

  ‘Aha! What have we here?’ he said, moving closer to examine an injury on the back of the dead man’s head. ‘Looks like a bullet wound.’ He stepped back and tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. ‘That settles it; it’s a murder without a doubt.’

  ‘Looks that way, sir,’ said the river policeman cautiously. He was convinced, from his long experience in such matters, that a body tied up in a sack had been the victim of a murder, and wondered why the DDI had at first appeared to be in some doubt.

  ‘With your knowledge of the river, Skipper, have you any idea where the body might’ve been put in?’

  ‘Difficult to say, sir. It depends on the date and on the flow of the tide when he was dumped, and he might’ve been caught up on some obstruction before floating free again. But I’m surprised it wasn’t weighted down.’

  ‘So am I, Skipper,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Bit of an amateur killer by the looks of it. I suppose you’ve not been advised about a missing person,’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘No, sir. Reports of that sort are usually made to a land station.’

  ‘Everything’s been arranged, sir,’ said Marriott, returning from making his telephone calls.

  ‘Good. In that case, we’ll get back to the nick and put our thinking caps on, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘And we’ll get Mr Collins to go to St Mary’s and take fingerprints from the victim. You never know, he might find that there’s a record of him.’

  Detective Inspector Charles Stockley Collins was an expert in the comparatively new science of fingerprint identification. It was only thirteen years previously that such evidence had been accepted by the courts, and had been a factor in securing the conviction of the notorious Stratton brothers for the murders of a Deptford oil shop owner and his wife.

  ‘We could always chop off the fingers and send them straight to the Yard, if it’ll help, sir,’ volunteered the river sergeant.

  ‘I think we’ll let Dr Spilsbury have the whole body, Skipper,’ said Hardcastle with a wry grin, ‘otherwise he might come to the wrong conclusion. Sorry to deprive you of your fee.’ It was well known that Thames Division officers coveted the small remuneration they received for such primitive surgery.

  Mounting the steps to Victoria Embankment, Hardcastle hailed a taxi. ‘New Scotland Yard, cabbie,’ he said, and turning to Marriott, added, ‘Tell ’em Cannon Row, Marriott, and half the time you’ll end up at Cannon Street in the City.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott wearily. He had been the recipient of this advice on almost every occasion that he and the DDI had returned to the police station by cab.

  ‘Learn anything from the sack our body was tied up in, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle, when his sergeant joined him.

  ‘It’s a sugar sack, sir, stamped Henry Tate and Sons. They’ve got a refinery at Silvertown.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t help much,’ grunted Hardcastle. ‘There must be hundreds of sacks like that knocking about, although it could mean that this here murder’s down to a grocer.’ He placed his pipe in the ashtray and stood up. ‘We’ll have a trip to Kingston while we’re waiting for Dr Spilsbury to come up with some answers. See what Parker’s employers have got to say. Then we’ll have a chat with this here Daisy Benson and find out if she’s got anything useful to tell us.’ He paused in the act of donning his overcoat. ‘How do we get there?’

  ‘Train from Waterloo station, sir.’ Marriott sighed inwardly. Hardcastle was playing his usual trick of pretending not to know. But Marriott was fairly certain that the DDI could not have forgotten that they had frequently travelled to Kingston two years ago when investigating the murder of Colonel Sir Adrian Rivers.

  ‘Ah yes, I suppose so,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘D’you know where the Kingston upon Thames Gas Company’s got its offices, cabbie?’ asked Hardcastle, addressing the driver of the first cab on the rank outside Kingston railway station.

  ‘Of course I do, guv’nor,’ said the cabbie, yanking down the flag of his taximeter. ‘It’s in Horse Fair.’

  ‘Damn funny name for a street,’ muttered Hardcastle, as he and Marriott clambered into the taxi.

  It was only a short journey and the cab stopped outside offices that were close to Kingston Bridge.

  A young woman seated at a desk looked up as Hardcastle and Marriott approached her. ‘If you’ve come to pay a bill, it’s over there,’ she said curtly, pointing her pencil at a grilled counter where a short queue of people was waiting.

  ‘I’ve not come to pay a bill,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘We’re police officers and I’m here to see the manager. Be so good as to direct me to his office, young woman.’

  ‘One moment.’ With a toss of her head, the woman rose from her desk and walked the short distance to an oaken door. Knocking, she went in, returning moments later. ‘Come this way.’

  The manager, who appeared to be in his sixties, rose from his desk. One hand brushed at his heavy moustache, the other played with the albert stretched between his waistcoat pockets. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I’m Frank Harvey, the manager.’ He indicated two upright chairs. ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, Mr Harvey, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott. I understand that Ronald Parker is a member of your staff.’

  ‘Ah!’ The manager leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘It’s interesting that the police are taking an interest. What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘It’s more a case of what you can tell me, Mr Harvey.’

  ‘He didn’t report for work on Friday or Saturday. There was no explanation, no sick note, nothing. It’s most irregular and extremely unusual in Parker’s case. I did wonder whether he’d been caught up in an air raid somewhere and is in hospital. One can never tell these days. I sent one of my clerks to his home, but he received no answer. Parker’s neighbour said that Mrs Parker is working for the war effort somewhere, but she declined to reveal where. She said it had something to do with national security.’

  ‘Sounds like a shrewd woman,’ commented Hardcastle. ‘In what capacity is this here Parker employed, Mr Harvey?’

  ‘He is the chief clerk,’ said Harvey, ‘but might I enquire why you’re interested in Mr Parker, Inspector? Are you searching for him, perhaps?’

  ‘We’ve found him,’ said Hardcastle bluntly. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ Harvey stared at the inspector open-mouthed and fiddled with his watch chain again. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘We’re not sure, although the pathologist might be able to tell us, once he’s completed the post-mortem examination. However, I can tell you that his body was found in the river near Westminster Bridge this morning.’

  ‘What happen
ed? Did he commit suicide?’

  ‘That’s something I’m trying to find out, Mr Harvey.’

  ‘You say that you sent one of your staff to his home,’ said Marriott. ‘Perhaps you’d tell us his address.’ Although the letter from Daisy Benson that had been found on the body was just legible, the water had washed away the address on the envelope.

  ‘Certainly.’ Harvey took a book from the top drawer of his desk, and thumbed through the pages. ‘Yes, here we are. He lived with his wife Mavis in Canbury Park Road, Kingston. I’ll write it down for you.’ He scribbled the details on a piece of paper and handed it to Marriott.

  ‘What age was Mr Parker?’ asked Marriott.

  Harvey referred to his book again. ‘He was thirty-eight. Born on the twenty-third of July 1879.’

  ‘What sort of man was Ronald Parker?’ asked Hardcastle.

  Harvey considered the question and then replied as though he were furnishing a reference for a trusted employee. ‘He was a sober man, very punctual, and fastidious in his work. In fact, I could find no fault with him whatsoever. I understand he was a regular churchgoer too. We’ll miss him, and a replacement will be hard to find. I suppose it’ll mean employing another woman.’ Harvey sighed. ‘Most men are in the army or the navy now.’

  ‘Talking of which, have you any idea why Parker wasn’t called up?’ Hardcastle knew that Lord Derby’s 1916 Military Service Act had been widened to include all men under the age of forty-one, whether married or single. ‘Being a gas company clerk is hardly what you’d call a reserved occupation.’

  ‘He was not a well man,’ said Harvey. ‘He suffered from breathlessness quite badly. I told him it was because he smoked too many cigarettes, but he wouldn’t give them up.’

  ‘Was his marriage a happy one?’

  Harvey appeared to bridle at that question. ‘I don’t enquire into the private lives of my employees, Inspector,’ he said loftily. ‘All I ask is that they do a decent day’s work, and Parker was one of the best people I had here. Which was why the board promoted him to chief clerk a year ago.’

  ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Harvey,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ll not bother you further today, but we may need to speak to you again. Perhaps you can direct me to this here Canbury Park Road.’

  ‘It’s no more than half a mile from here.’ Harvey stood up and indicated a large-scale street map pinned to his notice board. ‘We’re here,’ he said, pointing with a pencil, ‘and Canbury Park Road is there.’ He moved the pencil to indicate the road where the Parkers lived.

  ‘I’m much obliged,’ said Hardcastle, turning to leave.

  ‘Perhaps you’d let me know when the funeral is to take place, Inspector,’ said Harvey. ‘I should like to attend, to represent the company, you understand.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Harvey, and good day to you.’

  TWO

  The Parkers’ house was a narrow, detached Victorian villa with a bay and, above it, a single sash window. Hardcastle and Marriott walked past a well-kept garden and up the side of the house to the front door. Marriott hammered on the knocker, but there was no reply.

  ‘I’ve got a feeling that this murder of ours ain’t going to go the way we want it to, Marriott,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘Better try next door, I suppose.’

  The middle-aged woman who answered the door of the adjacent house was neatly dressed and her hair was swept up and secured with an inordinate number of hairpins. She studied the two men with an enquiring gaze, as if they were itinerant salesmen.

  ‘We don’t buy at the door,’ she said curtly.

  ‘Very wise, madam,’ said Hardcastle, as he raised his hat. ‘We’re police officers.’

  ‘Oh God!’ The woman put a hand to her mouth. ‘It’s not Jimmy, surely?’

  ‘Jimmy, madam?’ queried Hardcastle.

  ‘Our son Jimmy is in the navy. Has he been killed?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, madam. We’re enquiring into the death of Mr Ronald Parker. I believe he lives next door.’

  ‘Ron is dead?’ The woman’s face displayed predictable shock at the news. ‘My God, how awful. What happened, was it an accident?’

  ‘I’m afraid our enquiries are at an early stage. May we come in, Mrs er—?’

  ‘I’m Martha Middleton. Yes, of course. I’m working in the kitchen at the moment. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m just finishing the washing up.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Hardcastle, as the woman led the way into the small kitchen at the rear of the house. ‘We knocked at Mr and Mrs Parker’s house next door, but there was no one at home.’

  ‘No, there wouldn’t be. Mavis works at the Sopwith Aviation Company,’ said Mrs Middleton. ‘It’s just down the road, at the corner of Elm Road. It used to be a skating rink until 1912,’ she added unnecessarily.

  ‘Very interesting,’ murmured Hardcastle. ‘When did you last see Mr Parker, Mrs Middleton?’

  ‘It must’ve been about a week ago, I suppose, but I’m not altogether sure,’ said Martha Middleton thoughtfully. ‘But I saw Mavis yesterday evening, just after she got in from work. I was taking in my washing, and she was taking in hers.’

  ‘Did she mention anything about her husband?’

  ‘No, and I never thought to ask.’ Mrs Middleton finished putting away the last of the crockery in a large dresser. ‘Well, you don’t, do you, not every time you meet, not living next door, if you know what I mean. I’m sorry, do sit down. I’ve just made a pot of tea. Would you like a cup?’

  ‘Very kind, madam,’ murmured Hardcastle, as he and Marriott sat down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Presumably Mrs Parker is at work now,’ said Marriott.

  ‘I should think so,’ said Martha Middleton, pouring tea. ‘She’s there every day except Sundays, of course, helping to make Sopwith Camels for the Royal Flying Corps, but I suppose I shouldn’t mention that, it being sort of secret. Sugar and milk?’

  ‘Your secret’s safe with me, Mrs Middleton. D’you happen to know what hours she works?’

  ‘She usually goes out at about twenty-five to eight, and gets back at just after six. Mind you, I s’pose she’s better off than the poor souls who work the night shift.’

  ‘Tell me, did the Parkers enjoy a social life?’ Hardcastle asked, taking a sip of tea.

  ‘I doubt they had much time, Mr Hardcastle. They both work six days a week and they always go to church of a Sunday morning. Mind you, Mavis sometimes worked on a Sunday too, when they had what she called a rush on.’

  ‘The manager at the gas company said that he’d sent a clerk to enquire why Mr Parker hadn’t shown up for work, but as he got no answer, he spoke to a neighbour.’

  ‘No one called here, Inspector. He must have gone to the neighbour on the other side of the Parkers’ house.’

  A bearded policeman stood in the centre of the main entrance to the Sopwith Aviation Company. Being March, his greatcoat was buttoned on the left. It was another bizarre idea to emanate from the Receiver’s Office and was intended to reduce wear by alternating the side upon which the coat was buttoned month by month.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, fiddling with his whistle chain.

  ‘I’m DDI Hardcastle of A.’

  ‘Ah! All correct, sir.’ Having given Hardcastle’s warrant card a cursory glance, the PC came to attention and saluted. Although curious, he knew better than to enquire why a Whitehall Division detective should be in Kingston.

  ‘Where can I find the management offices, lad?’ Hardcastle always addressed constables as ‘lad’, regardless of how old they were, and this PC was probably about the DDI’s age.

  ‘I’ll get someone to take you, sir, if you’ll follow me.’ The PC pushed open one of the heavy gates and led Hardcastle and Marriott to a small hut just inside. ‘Two police officers to see the management, Fred,’ he said, speaking to the gatekeeper through a small window.

  ‘Righto, mate.’ Fred put down his mug of tea and his newspaper, wiped his moustache and emerged from hi
s hut. ‘This way, guv’nor,’ he said to Hardcastle.

  Ascending a wooden staircase on the outside of the main building and through a maze of corridors, the two detectives were eventually shown into the works manager’s office.

  The manager was in his forties, immaculately dressed and prematurely bald. He had the studious air of a scientist and, Hardcastle thought, was probably an engineer, given the post he held. Taking off his horn-rimmed spectacles, he introduced himself as George Quilter.

  Hardcastle effected introductions and came immediately to the purpose of his visit.

  ‘I’m given to understand that you have a Mrs Mavis Parker working here, Mr Quilter.’

  ‘Quite possibly, Inspector, but I don’t happen to know the names of all the workers here.’ Quilter was somewhat disconcerted by mention of the woman’s name, but covered his apprehension by smiling apologetically. It was not the first time that the police had called on him with regard to Mavis Parker. In fact, he knew of the woman only too well, but deemed it impolitic to mention that fact, even to a DDI from the Metropolitan Police. ‘We have hundreds of personnel here. However, if you’ll bear with me, I’ll find out.’ He crossed the office and opened a door. ‘Miss Douglas, would you find out if there’s a Mrs Mavis Parker on the payroll and where she works. As quickly as you can, if you please.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Quilter,’ came a voice from the outer office.

  ‘Won’t keep you a moment, Inspector,’ said the manager. ‘Please sit down.’ He moved a couple of chairs closer to his desk and resumed his seat. The humming and clatter of heavy machinery could be heard, even in the manager’s office. Somewhere an aeroplane engine was being run up on a test bed.

  The efficient Miss Douglas appeared a minute later. ‘Mavis Parker is a day worker employed in the paint shop, Mr Quilter, and I’m told that she’s here today.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Douglas. Just wait a moment, if you please.’ Quilter turned to Hardcastle. ‘Do you wish to speak to Mrs Parker, Inspector?’