by Graham Ison
‘Why is that? Are you engaged in some sort of war work?’
‘I suppose I am, in a way. I’m a bargemaster on the Thames, working out of the Pool of London.’
‘How far upriver d’you ply, Mr Parker?’ asked Marriott, just as Hardcastle was about to pose the same question. Each of them was thinking the same thing: could Harold Parker have had anything to do with his brother’s death?
‘I have been known to go as far up as Brentford, but not very often. Usually Chelsea Reach is my limit.’
‘Were you at Chelsea yesterday by any chance?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I was, sir. I took a load of timber up from Dagenham.’
‘What time would you have arrived at Chelsea Reach?’
‘At about three yesterday afternoon, or thereabouts.’ Parker seemed puzzled by the DDI’s question, but did not query why it had been asked.
‘I see.’ Hardcastle stood up. ‘There is one thing I’m going to ask you to do, Mr Parker . . .’
‘What might that be, sir?’
‘I need you to identify your brother’s body. I thought it unwise to ask Mrs Parker; the body is not in the best of condition.’
‘Certainly. I quite understand. When would you like me to do this?’
‘Now would be ideal. Your brother’s body has been moved to the Horseferry Road mortuary pending the inquest. Sergeant Marriott here will take you in just a moment.’ Hardcastle glanced at his sergeant. ‘Take a cab, Marriott.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thank you for calling in, Mr Parker,’ continued Hardcastle. ‘We’ll keep you informed of any developments.’
‘Are you able to tell me when the funeral is likely to be, sir?’
‘That’s a matter for the coroner, but as soon as he’s released your brother’s body for burial, I’ll be sure to let you know. Perhaps you’d let my sergeant here have a note of your address.’
Parker took Marriott’s proffered pocket book and scribbled the details. ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ he said, and crossed the room, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. ‘I presume that Mavis has been told about Ronald.’
‘I spoke to her yesterday, Mr Parker.’
‘She must be beside herself with grief,’ said Parker with a shake of his head. ‘The missus and me’ll call and see her this evening.’
FOUR
Marriott escorted Harold Parker into the mortuary at Horseferry Road. The attendant showed them into the small room where Ronald Parker’s body, covered with a rough sheet, was lying on a table.
With a skill borne of years of practice, the attendant flicked back the sheet sufficient to allow a view of the victim’s face. He moved away, allowing Harold Parker to approach.
‘Is that your brother Ronald, Mr Parker?’ asked Marriott.
Although he was in no doubt, Harold Parker spent several seconds gazing down at his dead brother before eventually turning away.
‘Yes, that’s Ronald, Sergeant.’
‘If you’d be so good as to come into the office, Mr Parker,’ said Marriott, ‘I’ll ask you to make a brief formal statement confirming that you have identified your brother.’
‘Of course.’ Harold Parker shook his head and followed Marriott out of the room. ‘Why on earth did it have to happen?’ he said.
Marriott reported to Hardcastle the moment he returned to the police station.
‘Harold Parker identified the body as that of his brother straightaway, sir.’
‘Of course he did, Marriott. There was no doubt.’
‘D’you think he was involved, sir?’ asked Marriott.
‘He could’ve had something to do with it, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle, slowly filling his pipe. ‘He admitted to taking his barge under Westminster Bridge yesterday.’
‘But would he have told us that if he’d murdered his brother, sir? I’d’ve thought that he would’ve made up some story about being miles away if he was guilty. Anyway, according to him it would’ve been well after the time the body was found that he went under Westminster Bridge. He said he arrived at Chelsea Reach at three o’clock yesterday afternoon. And it’s likely that the body had been in the river for quite some time before it was recovered.’
‘Quite possibly, Marriott, quite possibly. But Harold Parker might just be drawing us the long bow. Anyhow, we’ll check. Send Wilmot up there to ask a few questions.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott, and made a mental note to speak to DC Wilmot the moment the DDI had finished.
‘He didn’t seem too cut up about his brother’s death, neither, Marriott,’ commented Hardcastle. ‘Where was it he said he lived?’
Marriott opened his pocket book. ‘Seven Jacob Street, sir. It’s off Mill Street in Bermondsey.’
‘Yes, I know where Jacob Street is, Marriott. Handy for the Pool of London, that is.’ Hardcastle sat down behind his desk. ‘This business of Ronald Parker going to Holland because he was afraid to be called up . . .’
‘D’you mean the tribunal might’ve passed him fit after all, sir?’
‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking, even though Spilsbury ruled it out. But they’re so short of men these days that they’re likely to send anyone who’s capable of standing up straight for five minutes. Who deals with this business of medical tribunals?’
‘The Ministry of National Service, sir,’ said Marriott promptly.
‘Yes, I suppose they would,’ said Hardcastle thoughtfully. ‘Where are their offices?’
‘In St James’s Square, sir.’ Marriott knew that the question would be asked at some stage, and had made a point of finding out.
‘Not in Whitehall?’ Hardcastle took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at his sergeant.
‘No, sir.’
‘That’s a damned funny place for a government office to be, Marriott. I thought they were all in Whitehall, but it seems that this war has turned the world upside down. I suppose we’d better have a walk round there and see what they’ve got to say about our Mr Parker. But first, I fancy a glass of ale.’
The two detectives walked out of the police station into Derby Gate and descended to the downstairs bar of the Red Lion public house.
‘If you’re buying, Marriott, mine’s a pint of best bitter.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott grinned; he knew that neither he nor the DDI ever paid for their beer in the Red Lion. It was one of the perks they enjoyed as members of the local CID.
The Ministry of National Service occupied a white three-storied building that had undoubtedly been a fashionable town house before being requisitioned by the government, and had probably been the residence of a well-to-do family. It was evident that some families still lived in the square: straw covered much of the road to deaden the sound of traffic. The Spanish influenza pandemic was taking its toll, but only the more affluent families with sick relatives could afford the luxury of purchasing straw.
A constable from C Division’s Vine Street police station, posted there to guard the building, stood on the steps, surveying the passing scene with a bored expression on his face.
‘And what would you two gents be wanting with the Ministry of National Service?’ asked the PC as Hardcastle and Marriott mounted the steps. ‘Look a bit too old to join up, I’d’ve thought.’ He laughed at what he thought was a rather clever quip. ‘Anyway this ain’t the place for enlisting.’
‘What I’m doing here is none of your damned business, lad,’ snapped Hardcastle, thrusting his warrant card under the policeman’s nose. ‘DDI Hardcastle of A.’
‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir.’ The PC hurriedly assumed a position of attention and saluted. ‘All correct, sir.’
‘Is it indeed?’ demanded Hardcastle. ‘Well, I’ll be having a word with your sub at Vine Street, lad. We’ll see if he thinks it’s all correct. The charge will be either incivility to a member of the public or insubordination to a senior officer. You can take your pick. Make a note of his divisional number, Sergeant.’ And leaving that
threat hanging in the air, he pushed open the door. ‘Bloody slackness, that’s what it is, Marriott.’
‘Yes?’ A sickly youth of about twenty, seated at a desk inside the door, looked up as the two detectives entered. He had the surly attitude of someone clothed with a modicum of authority.
‘I’m a police officer and I want to see whoever’s in charge, lad,’ said Hardcastle. ‘And, as a matter of interest, why aren’t you in the army?’
‘I’m in a reserved occupation,’ said the youth sullenly. ‘Anyway, I’ve got adenoids.’
‘Haven’t we all,’ muttered Hardcastle, as the clerk disappeared through a door behind his desk.
‘Come this way,’ said the clerk churlishly, as he reappeared moments later. He gave the impression of being annoyed that someone had got past him.
An elderly civil servant rose from behind his desk as Hardcastle and Marriott were shown into his stark office. It seemed that His Majesty’s Government was not greatly interested in providing comfortable accommodation for its servants.
‘My name’s Makepeace.’ It seemed an inappropriate name for a man in his employment. ‘My clerk tells me that you’re police officers,’ he said, peering at the two detectives over his half-moon spectacles.
‘Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division and this here is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
‘Please sit down and tell me how I can help you, gentlemen.’ Makepeace indicated a couple of uncomfortable chairs as he resumed his own seat.
‘I’m investigating the murder of a man named Ronald Parker, Mr Makepeace,’ began Hardcastle, ‘and I understand that he recently appeared before a tribunal to assess his fitness for conscription.’
Makepeace gave a short, cynical laugh. ‘There are hundreds of them going through the system on an almost daily basis, Inspector. Do you happen to have an address for Parker?’
Hardcastle glanced at his sergeant. ‘Marriott?’
‘Canbury Park Road, Kingston upon Thames,’ said Marriott, and furnished the full details of Parker’s employment. ‘And he was born on the twenty-third of July 1879.’
‘One moment while I look him up.’ Makepeace crossed to one of several wooden filing cabinets and after a short search took out a Manila folder. ‘Here we are,’ he said, sitting down again. He adjusted his spectacles and studied the docket for a few moments before looking up. ‘What exactly did you want to know, Inspector?’
‘Whether the tribunal found that he was eligible for military service, Mr Makepeace.’
‘Definitely not. He was examined by a medical board for the second time on the fifteenth of February this year and declared to be unfit. He was sent a letter notifying him of that result on Monday the eighteenth.’ Makepeace closed the docket. ‘But you say he’s been murdered.’
‘Yes, his body was recovered from the river on Monday last.’
‘I’m afraid we’ll need to have a death certificate to keep our records straight, Inspector.’ Makepeace picked up a pen, dipped it in the inkwell and looked expectantly at Hardcastle.
‘I dare say,’ said Hardcastle, not wishing to become involved in the administrative niceties of the civil service. ‘I suggest you communicate with the coroner at Horseferry Road coroner’s court. He’ll doubtless be able to assist you, once he’s reached a verdict, that is.’
‘It’s all very irregular,’ muttered Makepeace, as he put down his pen and closed the file.
‘Yes, it must be,’ said Hardcastle, rising from his seat. ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Makepeace.’
The policeman saluted again as Hardcastle and Marriott left the building, but the DDI ignored him.
‘There’s definitely something funny going on here, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, once they were back at the police station.
‘It looks as though he never got the letter, sir, otherwise he wouldn’t have set off for Holland.’
‘If he ever did, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Frankly, I don’t think he travelled any further than the distance between Kingston and where he was chucked in the river. And remind me to speak to the sub at Vine Street about that PC on the fixed point in St James’s Square. The man should be put on the report.’
Detective Constable Fred Wilmot took the Underground train for the tortuous journey from Westminster to Dagenham Heathway. He was tempted to take a cab to Dagenham Dock, but feared that Hardcastle would disallow the cost as an unnecessary expense. Consequently, he walked the two miles to the dock gates.
‘Where can I find the dock-master, mate?’ he asked a passing stevedore.
‘Should be in his office over there, guv’nor.’ The docker pointed to a low grey building.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Lynch, Pat Lynch, but everyone calls him Paddy. He’s not Irish though, he comes from Canning Town,’ responded the docker, and carried on walking.
The dock-master looked up as Wilmot entered.
‘Mr Lynch?’
‘That’s me, but we ain’t hiring today,’ said Lynch, ‘and you’d be too late even if we was. You know the rules: you have to be here at six o’clock in the morning and take your chances with the rest and hope that the calling-foreman would take you on.’
‘I’m a police officer, Mr Lynch,’ said Wilmot, cutting off Lynch’s short lecture on the hiring of dock hands.
‘Oh, sorry, guv,’ said the dock-master. ‘What can I do for you? Got a warrant for someone here, have you? That’s the usual reason the law comes down here.’
‘Nothing like that,’ said Wilmot. ‘D’you know a bargemaster called Parker?’
‘What Harry Parker? What’s he been up to?’
‘Nothing that we know of, but can you tell me if he took a load of timber from here to Chelsea Reach yesterday?’
‘Seems to ring a bell,’ said Lynch. ‘Half a tick, guv’nor.’ He thumbed through a pile of manifests that threatened to overwhelm his desk. ‘Yeah, he did, on his barge the Tempest.’
‘He told us that he arrived at Chelsea Reach at about three o’clock yesterday afternoon. Would that be correct?’
Lynch glanced briefly at the large clock on the wall, as though that would give him the answer. ‘Yeah, that’d be about right,’ he said, looking back at Wilmot.
‘So he couldn’t have gone under Westminster Bridge at about eight in the morning.’
‘Not a chance, guv,’ said Lynch. ‘Anyway, what’s this all about?’
‘A body was found in the water there at about eight, and we wondered whether he’d seen anything.’
‘Oh, I see. If he had, he’d’ve reported it to you lot. Very law-abiding is Harry Parker.’
‘Thanks for your help, Mr Lynch,’ said Wilmot, turning to leave. ‘Who in Chelsea Reach would want a load of timber? There’s no building going there, as far as I know.’
‘Don’t ask me, guv’nor,’ said Lynch. ‘I’m only the dock-master and that keeps me busy enough without enquiring into things like that.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Wilmot. ‘Thanks.’ And with that confirmation of what he had guessed would be the case, he made his weary way back to Westminster.
On the Wednesday morning, Hardcastle made a decision. ‘We’ll go to Kingston, Marriott,’ he said.
‘What for, sir?’
‘To call on Mavis Parker.’
‘But she’ll be at work, sir.’ Once again, Marriott wondered whether his chief was playing some arcane game.
‘I should hope so, Marriott. And then we’ll call on her neighbour. What was her name?’
‘Martha Middleton, sir,’ said Marriott promptly.
‘So it is, so it is,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You see, Marriott, if Mavis Parker is at home, we can’t very well then go next door to her neighbour without Mavis knowing and wondering why. But if the worst comes to the worst, I’m sure we can think of a few questions for Mavis Parker if she does happen to be at home.’
‘I’m not walking this morning, Marriott,’ said the DDI, when the two detecti
ves arrived at Kingston railway station. ‘We’ll take a cab.’
It was ten o’clock when they arrived at the Parkers’ house in Canbury Park Road. As Hardcastle had hoped, there was no answer, but a moment later, the head of Martha Middleton appeared over the neighbouring fence.
‘She’s at work.’ There was a second’s pause, and then she said, ‘Oh, you’re the policemen who called on Monday.’
‘That’s correct, Mrs Middleton. But perhaps you might be able to help us.’
‘Of course, Inspector, do come in.’
‘Thank you.’ Hardcastle and Marriott made their way round to Martha’s front door.
‘I’ve just put the kettle on. I dare say you could do with a cup of tea seeing as how you’ve come all the way from London.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Middleton,’ said Hardcastle. It seemed that Mrs Middleton had always just made a cup of tea. He and Marriott stepped over the threshold, removing their hats as they did so.
‘Do sit yourselves down in here, gentlemen. We normally only use it of a Sunday.’ Martha unlocked the parlour door, showed the two detectives in, and lit the gas fire. ‘I won’t be a mo,’ she said, and disappeared into the kitchen.
‘She don’t miss much, Marriott,’ whispered Hardcastle, as the pair settled themselves on a sofa. ‘Thank God!’ he added, as he glanced around the room. It was comfortably but drably furnished. There were brown velour curtains and nets at the windows. Above the fireplace there was a large mirror, beneath which was a mantel clock. Bric-a-brac adorned every available shelf and table. In the bay window there was a baby grand piano, the keyboard lid of which was raised and the sheet music of Titwillow open on the rest. A photograph of a young man in naval uniform occupied a prominent place on top of the piano.
‘Here we are, then.’ Mrs Middleton entered the room bearing a tray on which were an electroplate teapot, sugar bowl and milk jug. The teacups and saucers were of good quality bone china, the sort that was only brought out for visitors. There were also some side plates and cake and biscuits. ‘Sugar and milk?’ she asked. ‘Oh yes, of course you do. I remember from the last time you were here,’ she said, seating herself opposite Hardcastle and Marriott. ‘I can’t get lemons for love or money,’ she added apologetically.