Hardcastle's Frustration

by Graham Ison

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘And now, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, glancing at his watch, ‘we’d better get our own skates on or we’ll be late for the inquest.’

  Hardcastle strode out to Whitehall and was confronted by a disabled ex-soldier playing a barrel organ. The man wore a grotesque skin-coloured mask, complete with a false moustache and dark glasses, and his free hand held a white stick. The mask was the latest example of an attempt by military hospitals to disguise appalling facial disfigurement from a sensitive public. Pausing only to drop a couple of coins into the man’s cap, Hardcastle waved his umbrella at a passing cab and instructed the cab driver to take him and Marriott to the coroner’s court in Horseferry Road.

  An attendant pulled open the heavy door of the courtroom for Hardcastle and gave him a nod of recognition.

  A couple of reporters from local papers lounged in the press box. The public gallery was occupied by a few individuals who seemingly had no interest in the proceedings, but who by their rough appearance were only concerned to find somewhere warm to languish on this cold March day.

  There was a rustle of movement as the coroner entered and those in the body of the court scrambled to their feet.

  The coroner spent a few moments in whispered conversation with his clerk, and then looked up.

  ‘In the matter of Ronald Parker, deceased,’ he said in a strained voice, glancing at the courtroom clock, and making a note in his ledger.

  ‘Inspector Hardcastle,’ cried the clerk in tones loud enough to have been heard by the DDI if he had been outside in the street.

  ‘You are Divisional Detective Inspector Ernest Hardcastle of the A or Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police,’ said the coroner. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘It is, sir.’

  ‘And are you the officer in charge of the investigation into the death of Ronald Parker?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps you would afford the court the brief facts, Mr Hardcastle.’

  ‘The body of Ronald Parker was recovered from the River Thames near Westminster Bridge at approximately eight forty a.m. on Monday the fourth of March this year, sir. It was secured in a sack and the deceased had been shot in the head. The body was later identified by Mr Harold Parker as that of his brother Ronald Parker.’

  ‘Have your enquiries led you to discover the identity of any person or persons who might have been responsible for this death?’

  ‘Not at this stage, sir.’

  The coroner made a few more notes in his ledger. ‘I shall adjourn this inquest until such time as the police have furthered their enquiries.’

  An elderly man stood up behind the table reserved for counsel. ‘I appear on behalf of the Parker family, sir, and make application for the release of the deceased’s body.’

  ‘Do the police have any objections, Mr Hardcastle?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘No objections, sir,’ said Hardcastle, and sat down.

  ‘I so order that the body be released,’ said the coroner.

  The solicitor gathered up his papers and left the court.

  ‘Catch up with that solicitor, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘find out who briefed him to attend, and ask him to let us know the date of the funeral.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ acknowledged Marriott, and when, minutes later, he was joined by Hardcastle on the pavement outside the court, he said, ‘He was briefed by Harold Parker, Ronald’s brother, sir, and he’ll let us know when the funeral is to take place.’

  ‘Good,’ said Hardcastle, and hailing a cab said to the driver, ‘Scotland Yard, cabbie.’ He turned to Marriott. ‘Tell ’em Cannon Row and half the time you’ll finish up at Cannon Street in the City.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott wearily.

  SEVEN

  Detective Sergeant Wood was indeed a resourceful officer, and skilled at keeping a discreet observation. He arrived in Caversham Road, Kingston, at seven o’clock on the Saturday morning and conducted a preliminary survey of the street. Having concluded that it was not the easiest of areas in which to remain inconspicuous, he decided that a fixed observation post would be the only way in which he could safely keep a watch on Stroud’s property.

  He made his way to the nearby Kingston police station to enquire what, if anything, was known about the occupants of the houses immediately opposite Stroud’s dwelling.

  The constable on duty ran a hand round his chin. ‘We know the man living at that one, Sergeant,’ he said, pointing a pencil at one of the addresses in Wood’s pocket book.

  ‘D’you mean he’s a villain?’ asked Wood.

  ‘Oh no, he’s a respectable gent, Skip. A retired army officer by the name of Darke, Major Joseph Darke.’

  It was eight o’clock by the time that Wood knocked at Major Darke’s house. An elderly man came to the door, but before he could say anything, Wood produced his warrant card.

  ‘Good morning, sir, I’m a police officer. Am I right in thinking that you are Major Darke?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Darke.

  ‘In that case, I wonder if you could assist me, sir.’

  ‘Well, of course, Officer. You’d better come in.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Wood removed the cloth cap he was wearing and followed the man into the hall.

  ‘Is there some trouble, Officer?’ Major Darke asked, once he had closed his front door.

  ‘Not as far as you’re concerned, sir.’ Wood stuffed his cap into one of the pockets of the old raincoat he was wearing. ‘Perhaps I’d better introduce myself: I’m Detective Sergeant Wood of the Whitehall Division.’

  ‘Whitehall, eh? You’re a long way from home, Sergeant. What’s this all about?’

  ‘A matter of national security, sir,’ said Wood. ‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate that I’m not at liberty to say any more than that.’

  ‘Ah, to do with the war effort, eh?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, sir. We have received information of a vital nature that requires me to keep a watch on one of the houses opposite. But I’m afraid I can’t reveal which one. Neither can I tell you any more about it.’ Wood was very good at making up stories to cover his enquiries.

  ‘No, of course not, Sergeant. I quite understand. I was in the Boer War, you know, but unfortunately the chaps at the War House told me that I was too old for this one. I do know a bit about national security and I worked in intelligence in South Africa, sniffing out the Boer commandos, don’t you know.’ Darke fingered a striped necktie that Wood, had he been familiar with such things, would have recognized as the regimental tie of the East Surrey Regiment. ‘So, what can I do to help?’

  ‘If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, sir, I’d like to keep observation from your front room. It should only be for a short period.’

  ‘No trouble at all, my dear fellow,’ said Darke warmly, secretly glad to be involved in what he imagined as assisting in the defeat of the Hun. ‘Come this way.’ He showed Wood into the parlour where a fire was crackling in the grate. He saw Wood glance at an assegai mounted above the fireplace. ‘That was a trophy I picked up at Spion Kop, Sergeant.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Wood, although from what little he had heard about the South African conflict, he doubted that the Boers had used spears in their fight against the British.

  ‘You’ll notice that Mrs Darke insists on net curtains, so you’ll be able to see without being seen, what?’

  ‘That’s splendid, sir, but I don’t want to cause you or your good lady any trouble.’

  ‘Good heavens, Sergeant, it’s no trouble. Only too pleased to be able to do something to help. I’ll get Mrs Darke to make you a cup of tea. Let me move this chair for you, so you can sit down and keep watch.’

  ‘That’s very kind, sir, and thank you.’ Wood slipped off his raincoat and settled down for what he hoped would not be too long a period of time.

  Ten minutes later the parlour door opened and a slender grey-haired woman entered.

  ‘Good mo
rning, Sergeant, I’m Felicity Darke. I’ve brought you some tea. If you’d be so good as to move that small table nearer the window, I can put the tray down next to you.’

  Wood leaped up and moved the table that Mrs Darke had indicated, and took the tray from her.

  ‘I’ve put a piece of fruit cake on there, too,’ said Mrs Darke. ‘I’m sure you could do with it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Darke, that’s most kind,’ said Wood.

  For the next hour, Wood maintained a close watch on the house occupied by Gilbert Stroud. He was just beginning to wonder if his quarry did not go to work on a Saturday when he was rewarded by the sight of a man emerging from the house. The man, who fitted the description of Stroud furnished by Catto, began to walk slowly down Caversham Road reading the newspaper that Wood had earlier seen delivered.

  Grabbing his raincoat, Wood moved quickly from his observation point into the hall. Major Darke appeared almost at once.

  ‘I’m off, sir. Please thank Mrs Darke for the tea and cake.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, Sergeant,’ said Darke. ‘I hope that you have a successful conclusion to your enquiries, whatever they are, and do make use of our parlour again if you need to.’

  Putting on his raincoat and cap, Wood emerged from Major Darke’s house just in time to see Stroud turn into London Road.

  Following at a discreet distance, he eventually saw Stroud turn into Richmond Road and finally to Kingston railway station.

  Fortunately there was no queue, and Wood risked moving close enough to hear Stroud ask for a return to Waterloo. Having had the foresight to buy a return ticket when he left London earlier that morning, Wood was able to follow Stroud on to the up-platform without wasting time at the ticket office. He watched his quarry enter a third-class carriage, and got into the compartment next to him, secure in the knowledge that Stroud would not alight at any of the intermediate stations.

  It was a quarter past ten when the train arrived at Waterloo railway station in central London. Wood hurriedly alighted from his compartment, just as Stroud stepped down from his.

  On the concourse, Wood thrust a halfpenny at a newsvendor and grabbed an early edition of that day’s Evening Standard. Reading the newspaper as he walked, but keeping an eye on Stroud, Wood scanned the account of the previous night’s raid on Maida Vale by three German Staaken-Zeppelin bombers. A residential building had been destroyed, killing twelve people, and four hundred houses were damaged. With a sigh at the futility of it all, Wood put the paper in his pocket and devoted his attention to finding out where Stroud was going.

  But in Waterloo Road, he almost lost his man. Stroud leaped on to a moving bus and mounted the stairs to the top deck. Fortunately, a cab hove into view and Wood hailed it.

  ‘D’you know where that number 1A bus goes?’ he asked, pointing at the departing vehicle.

  ‘I’m a cabbie, not a bloody bus driver, guv’nor,’ protested the taxi driver.

  ‘Never mind, follow it,’ said Wood.

  ‘Are you joking, guv’nor?’ asked the driver, turning in his seat. ‘That only happens in them Keystone Kops pictures.’

  ‘No, I’m not joking,’ snapped Wood. ‘I’m a police officer. Get a shift on or we’ll lose it.’

  ‘Right you are, then, guv’nor. Follow that bus, like the man says,’ muttered the driver, as he put the cab into gear and drove away as quickly as his antiquated cab would allow.

  The bus carrying Gilbert Stroud crossed Waterloo Bridge and wound its way along the Strand. It stopped frequently during its journey, either to pick up or set down passengers, or because it was held up in traffic. Finally it stopped at Charing Cross and Stroud alighted, but remained at the bus stop.

  ‘Is that it, guv?’ asked the cab driver.

  ‘No, hold on until he gets on another bus.’

  ‘Right you are, guv.’ The cab driver sniffed and wiped a hand across his moustache. ‘At least this sort of lark makes a change from the usual,’ he commented.

  A few moments later, a number fifteen bus stopped, and Stroud climbed aboard.

  ‘OK, follow it,’ said Wood.

  ‘Off we go again,’ said the cabbie.

  The bus passed Trafalgar Square and drove along Cockspur Street until finally Wood observed Stroud alighting in Haymarket.

  Quickly paying off the cab, and remembering, just in time, to note its plate number – or his claim would be disallowed – Wood followed Stroud into Charles Street and saw him enter a building called Waterloo House.

  He strolled past the elegant house, but could find no indication as to what took place within its walls. He crossed the road to where a policeman was standing.

  ‘I’m DS Wood of A,’ he said, showing the PC his warrant card. ‘Any idea what goes on in that building?’ He nodded towards Waterloo House.

  ‘Other to say that it’s some secret place to do with the government, Sarge, I don’t really know,’ said the PC. ‘But that’s why I’m stuck here on a protection post.’

  ‘Right, thanks, mate,’ said Wood, and began the long walk back to Cannon Row police station.

  It was midday when Wood tapped on the DDI’s door and entered.

  ‘What news?’ asked Hardcastle, leaning back in his chair and linking his hands across his waistcoat.

  Wood gave the DDI a full account of everything that had occurred from the moment he had taken up observation in Major Darke’s house to the point where he had seen Gilbert Stroud enter Waterloo House.

  ‘But without going in, I couldn’t find out what goes on in there, sir, but a local copper told me that it’s something to do with the government and he’s posted there to protect it, but he’s no idea what it is.’

  ‘Good work, Wood, well done,’ said Hardcastle, breaking his usual rule of not complimenting his subordinates. ‘Ask Sergeant Marriott to come in.’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Did Wood tell you what he’d found out, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle, once his sergeant had joined him.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘See what you can find out about this here Waterloo House that Stroud went into.’

  ‘I’ve done it already, sir. I spoke to the CID at Vine Street, and it turns out that it’s the headquarters of MI5.’

  ‘God help us!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘That’s all I need. I suppose that means that Stroud is one of their people.’ He was not happy at the prospect of getting involved with MI5 officers again. Their interference and obstruction into his investigation of Rose Drummond’s murder in Hoxton in 1916 had left him not wanting to repeat the experience. ‘So what’s this fellow Stroud doing getting tied up with Mavis Parker?’

  Marriott hesitated before answering, but eventually he said, ‘It’s beginning to look as though she’s up to something, sir, and I suppose it means that we’ll have to ask Special Branch.’

  But Hardcastle did not reply immediately. He reached forward, picked up his pipe and spent the next minute filling it. Once he had lit it, he leaned back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ he said, suddenly leaning forward, and pointing the stem of his pipe at Marriott. ‘You know what those buggers are like, Marriott. I think we’ll concentrate our attention on Mavis Parker because MI5 are obviously interested in her and it would be nice to beat that brainy lot at their own game, so to speak.’

  ‘I see, sir.’ But Marriott did not in fact see at all. ‘What do you propose, then?’

  ‘We’ll keep a careful watch on Mrs Parker, Marriott, that’s what we’ll do. I want to know everything she does and everywhere she goes. And I want to know who she’s seeing, because it’s pretty plain from what Wood found out that she’s not having an affair with Gilbert Stroud. Not unless MI5 officers can spare time for the occasional bit of jig-a-jig, even when there’s a war on. No, Marriott, he’s obviously befriended Mavis Parker for a reason, and I’m wondering if it has something to do with this new Sopwith aeroplane that she told Mrs Middleton about. She men
tioned it the last time we saw her.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that Mavis Parker might be spying, sir?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting, Marriott.’

  ‘But isn’t that the job of Special Branch, sir?’ Marriott was concerned that his DDI appeared to be straying into territory that was rightly the preserve of the branch that was under the control of Superintendent Patrick Quinn and closely supervised by Assistant Commissioner Basil Thomson. And indeed into matters that were the concern of Colonel Vivian Kell’s MI5.

  ‘Special Branch hasn’t told me anything, Marriott, which they should’ve done seeing as how I’m responsible for investigating Ronald Parker’s murder,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and until they do, I shall continue to investigate it to the best of my ability. It’s only common courtesy that I should’ve been told because they must’ve known he’d been topped.’ He placed his pipe in the ashtray. ‘And if we find out that someone’s been spying, I’ll let Special Branch know. But not until after Parker’s killer is standing on the hangman’s trapdoor.’

  ‘Who did you have in mind for this observation on Mrs Parker, sir?’ Marriott was extremely relieved that the DDI’s plan would not be his responsibility. He knew, from previous experience, that the head of Special Branch would not view lightly any interference in the work of his department and would undoubtedly go into a towering rage when he learned of it.

  Hardcastle gave Marriott’s question sparse consideration. ‘Wood for one,’ he said, ‘and possibly Lipton. He seems to know what he’s about.’

  ‘Will two men be enough, sir?’ Marriott forbore from suggesting Catto; he knew what Hardcastle’s reaction would be.

  But then Hardcastle confounded him. ‘I think we might also use Catto, Marriott,’ he said. ‘He knows that area now, having spent a while in Kingston.’

  ‘When d’you want them to start, sir?’

  ‘Monday,’ said Hardcastle tersely. ‘Fetch Wood in again.’

  Wood had half guessed that his observation on Gilbert Stroud would not be the end of the matter and was not relishing further surveillance work. ‘You wanted me, sir?’