Hardcastle's Frustration

by Graham Ison

  TWELVE

  Detective Constable Henry Catto was still in a disagreeable mood about his cancelled leave day when he and Lipton took up their observation early on the Sunday morning. There was a butcher’s shop near Queen Elizabeth Road, and it was from there that the two detectives were able to see anyone coming out of Mavis Parker’s house.

  ‘I still don’t know what’s so urgent about this murder that the guv’nor had to cancel my day off,’ complained Catto, stamping his feet and turning up his collar against the chill March wind. ‘I don’t know why people can’t get murdered in the summer. I’m bloody freezing.’

  ‘Yeah, tough luck,’ said Lipton unsympathetically, hands deep in his overcoat pockets.

  ‘I wonder how long we’re going to be hanging about here,’ said Catto.

  ‘As long as it takes,’ said Lipton.

  ‘But what if she doesn’t go out today, Gordon?’

  ‘Then we’ll be back here next Sunday, I suppose.’ Lipton was no more enamoured of their boring duty than was Catto, but at least the DDI had not cancelled his day off. Next Sunday, however, would be his day off and he hoped that discovering what Mavis Parker did on a Sunday would be resolved today.

  At twenty minutes to eleven their long wait was finally rewarded. Mavis Parker came out of her house and set off at a brisk pace towards Lipton and Catto. Quickly moving away from their vantage point, they pretended interest in a shop window further down the road.

  As befitted a recently widowed woman, Mrs Parker was clothed all in black. On her coat, of a length to reveal only button boots, was a small black glass and pearl mourning brooch, and her straw hat bore a veil that covered her face. A handbag was hooked over her left arm and she held what looked like a prayer book or a Bible in one hand and an umbrella in the other.

  ‘Looks like she’s off to church, Gordon,’ said Catto.

  ‘That’s a very shrewd observation, Henry,’ said Lipton caustically.

  Mavis Parker turned into Queen Elizabeth Road, and Lipton and Catto followed. A couple of hundred yards further on, she entered the John Bunyan Baptist Church.

  ‘I reckon we’ve got time for a cup of tea somewhere, Gordon,’ said Catto.

  ‘Firstly, Henry, I’ve no idea where you’d get a cup of tea round here on a Sunday morning, and secondly we don’t know what time the service will finish. And what if she comes out early? Being recently widowed, she might have a fainting fit and have to go home. If you’re prepared to tell the DDI that we lost her, I’m not.’

  ‘P’raps you’re right,’ said Catto grudgingly.

  ‘Of course I’m right,’ snapped Lipton.

  It was another hour and a half before the congregation started to emerge. The minister stood at the church door and shook hands with those of his parishioners who paused to exchange a few words. When Mrs Parker stopped, the minister held her hand and spoke to her at some length, presumably commiserating about the death of her husband. Twenty minutes later, she was back indoors.

  ‘Now what?’ demanded a thoroughly disgruntled Catto. ‘I’m starving hungry.’

  ‘We wait.’ Lipton had originally been junior to Catto, but since passing the written examination for detective sergeant their status had been reversed, and he was now the senior man. It would, however, be months, if not years, before he was promoted to third class sergeant, even though he had ‘acted up’ on occasion. Consequently, he was very conscious of the fact that if this observation, for which he was responsible, went wrong, it could well put his promotion in serious jeopardy. The DDI was known to be very unforgiving when it came to what he described as ‘dereliction of duty’.

  ‘What about that pub over there?’ suggested Catto, pointing at the Canbury Arms.

  ‘We wait,’ said Lipton again.

  For an hour and a half, the two observers loitered in Canbury Park Road, strolling up and down, chatting and generally attempting to appear inconspicuous. And trying to keep warm.

  Then, at just past two o’clock, they saw Mavis Parker come out of her house and walk towards Richmond Road. In place of her sober churchgoing outfit, she now wore a green coat with a brightly-coloured knitted scarf slung casually around the shoulders, and a small green beret, but she had kept the button boots she had been wearing previously. A handbag and an umbrella completed the outfit.

  ‘She soon dispensed with her widow’s weeds,’ said Catto, and he and Lipton began to follow the woman.

  ‘It’s the war,’ said Lipton. ‘People can’t be bothered too much any more.’

  Mavis eventually arrived in Canbury Gardens and spent several minutes gazing at the river. A hardy young man, attired in a singlet and shorts, was sculling rapidly towards Teddington Lock and he seemed to hold Mavis’s attention all the while he was in her sight.

  ‘I hope she’s not going to jump in and commit suicide,’ said Catto.

  ‘I’ve come to the conclusion, Henry,’ said Lipton, ‘that you’re a bloody pessimist.’

  Five minutes later, a man strolled up to Mavis and they embraced.

  ‘I wonder who he is,’ queried Catto unnecessarily.

  ‘That’s what we’re here to find out,’ said Lipton, becoming increasingly intolerant of Catto’s inane remarks.

  Arm in arm, Mavis Parker and her male companion walked back to the Lower Ham Road where the man ushered her into a Morris Oxford two-seater tourer. He spent a few minutes putting up the hood before taking a starting handle from inside the car. Inserting it in the radiator, he swung it vigorously until the engine burst into life. Mounting the driver’s seat, he leaned across and pecked Mavis lightly on the cheek.

  ‘That’s torn it!’ exclaimed Catto. ‘We’ll never get a taxi here,’ he added, looking around in the hope of finding one.

  ‘All is not lost, Henry. Get the details of the number plate.’

  Catto produced his pocket book and pencil, and began to write.

  ‘Discreetly, for God’s sake, Henry,’ cautioned Lipton. ‘You don’t want them to see you taking their number.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Catto, and turned his back while he finished writing.

  ‘And write this down, Henry: late thirties, five foot seven, moustache, leather motoring coat, brown tweed cap worn back to front, and goggles.’

  ‘Is that the man you’re describing?’ queried Catto.

  ‘Of course it is, you idiot. The last time I saw a woman with a moustache was at the circus. And she had a beard as well.’

  ‘Who’s got a beard?’

  ‘Shut up, Henry, and just get on with it,’ said the exasperated Lipton. ‘I sometimes wonder whether you’re serious or just playing the fool all the time.’

  The man fiddled about with the car’s controls and he and Mavis set off towards Richmond.

  ‘She doesn’t waste any time, Gordon,’ commented Catto. ‘First of all there was Wilfred Rudd, now there’s this bloke. And to think she only planted her husband last Wednesday.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing more we can do today,’ said Lipton. ‘We might as well go home.’

  ‘But what if they come back?’ asked Catto.

  ‘If they do, it’s unlikely they’ll come back to this exact spot,’ Lipton said. ‘Anyway, they could be hours. It might even be tomorrow morning before they come back.’

  However, neither of the detectives had seen the man watching them from behind a tree.

  Lipton and Catto were waiting outside the DDI’s door when he arrived promptly at eight o’clock on Monday morning.

  ‘What are you two hanging about for?’ barked Hardcastle, entering his office and hanging up his hat and coat. He dropped his umbrella into the hatstand with a resounding clatter as the ferrule hit the metal tray.

  ‘It’s about yesterday’s observation, sir,’ said Lipton, as they followed the DDI.

  ‘Well?’ Hardcastle settled himself behind his desk and began to fill his pipe. ‘And shut that bloody window, Catto,’ he said. ‘I can’t hear myself think with those trains going in and out.�
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  Catto darted across to the window. ‘It’s stuck, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Well unstick it for God’s sake,’ growled Hardcastle, and turned to Lipton. ‘Well?’

  Lipton outlined what they had learned of Mavis Parker’s movements the previous day, finishing with a description of the man with whom she had left Canbury Gardens.

  ‘Who does this car belong to, Lipton?’

  ‘I did a check with the London County Council’s register, sir. It took me some time to wake up the night watchman and—’

  ‘Cut out the frills and get on with it,’ said Hardcastle sharply.

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s a 1914 Morris Oxford registered to a Mr Lawrence Mortimer,’ said Lipton.

  ‘That must be the L. Mortimer the manageress at the skating rink told Sergeant Marriott and me about,’ said Hardcastle. ‘In that case, you needn’t bother with keeping observation there again.’

  ‘The address the county council has for him is a Westminster one, sir.’ Lipton hurried on with his report. ‘It’s a block of apartments called Ashley Gardens in Thirleby Road. I’ve written down the details, sir.’ Lipton proffered a slip of paper bearing the full address.

  ‘I don’t need that, Lipton,’ said Hardcastle, waving away the piece of paper. ‘Find out all you can about this here Lawrence Mortimer.’ He stared at the two detectives. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ But then he changed his mind. ‘Wait!’

  ‘Sir?’ Lipton turned at the door.

  ‘On second thoughts, I think this is a job for Sergeant Wood. Send him in.’

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’ said Wood, as he entered a moment or two later.

  ‘I’ve got a job that demands your special talents, Wood.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Wood was not in the remotest fooled by the DDI’s blandishments; he had heard them too often in the past.

  Hardcastle gave Wood the broad outlines of what Lipton and Catto had seen the previous day. ‘I want you to find out all you can about this man Lawrence Mortimer, but you must be very circumspect, Wood. I don’t want him to have the slightest idea that we’re interested in him, so to speak. Lipton will give you a description of the man.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  At ten o’clock, Hardcastle donned his hat and coat and picked up his umbrella. Crossing the corridor, he put his head round the door of the detectives’ office.

  ‘Time we were getting round to the inquest, Marriott,’ he said.

  ‘Coming, sir.’ Marriott grabbed his overcoat and bowler hat, and followed the DDI down the stairs.

  Five minutes after Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at the coroner’s court in Horseferry Road, the coroner took his seat and the jury of seven men was sworn in.

  The two detectives seated themselves next to Dr Bernard Spilsbury.

  ‘I hope this damned coroner fellow isn’t going to make a day of it, Hardcastle,’ said Spilsbury. ‘I’ve three cadavers waiting for me on the slab back at St Mary’s.’

  ‘In the matter of Ronald Parker, deceased,’ announced the coroner in dry tones. ‘Inspector Hardcastle?’

  ‘Sir?’ Hardcastle stood up.

  ‘Have you made any progress, Mr Hardcastle?’

  ‘I regret to inform the court, sir, that despite extensive enquiries, I am, as yet, unable to discover who was responsible for the death of Ronald Parker.’

  ‘Do you think that such a person might be identified in the foreseeable future?’

  ‘At this stage of my enquiries, sir, no,’ said Hardcastle. In fact, he never gave up, but was trying to avoid an appearance before the coroner once a week.

  ‘Very well. Take the oath.’

  Hardcastle crossed to the witness box, took the New Testament in his right hand and recited the oath without reference to the card on the ledge of the box.

  ‘Sir, as I said at the first hearing, Ronald Parker’s body was found in the River Thames near Westminster Bridge at approximately eight forty a.m. on Monday the fourth of March this year. It was tied up in a sack and the victim had been shot in the head. The body was later identified by Mr Harold Parker as that of his brother Ronald Parker of Canbury Park Road, Kingston upon Thames.’

  ‘Any questions?’ asked the coroner, glancing at the jury.

  ‘No, sir,’ said the foreman.

  ‘Dr Spilsbury?’ The coroner looked enquiringly at the pathologist.

  Bernard Spilsbury gave his evidence in succinct medical terms, and attributed death to a gunshot wound to the back of the head.

  Again the coroner satisfied himself that the jury had no questions. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘you may retire to consider your verdict.’

  It took but twenty minutes.

  ‘Are you agreed upon a verdict?’ asked the coroner when the jurymen filed back into court.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the foreman. ‘We find that Ronald Parker was murdered by person or persons unknown.’

  ‘So be it,’ said the coroner. ‘I shall record your verdict. That is all. The court is adjourned.’

  ‘Well, that’s it over, I suppose, sir,’ said Marriott.

  ‘Over!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘I’ve only just begun, Marriott.’

  Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood set about his task immediately. His first call was to the London County Council’s offices in Spring Gardens, a turning off The Mall. There he discovered that the previous owner of Lawrence Mortimer’s car was a Mr Marcus Sawyer of Dordrecht Road, Acton.

  Wood boarded an Underground train at Trafalgar Square and, after a change at Holborn, eventually alighted at Shepherds Bush. He walked the rest of the way to Dordrecht Road, hoping that after such a tortuous journey he would find Mr Sawyer at home.

  A maidservant answered the door and cast a discerning eye over the detective.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is Mr Sawyer at home?’ asked Wood.

  ‘Who shall I say it is?’ asked the maid.

  ‘I’m a police officer, miss.’

  ‘I see. Wait a moment.’ Leaving Wood on the doorstep, the maid disappeared into the house. Moments later, she returned. ‘Come this way, please,’ she said, and showed Wood into the parlour. ‘The policeman, sir,’ she announced.

  Sawyer was about fifty, wore a black jacket and striped trousers, and had a beard and a moustache. He was standing in the centre of the room, reading a docket.

  ‘Sarah tells me you’re a police officer,’ he said, allowing the monocle to drop from his eye as he closed the file he was holding.

  ‘Yes, sir. Detective Sergeant Wood of the Whitehall Division.’

  ‘And what can I do for you, Sergeant,’ said Sawyer as he shook hands. ‘Does it concern some case I’m dealing with?’

  ‘Case, sir?’ queried Wood.

  ‘Yes, I’m a solicitor. I presumed you wished to see me on some official matter.’

  ‘No, sir, it’s to do with the car you once owned.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You’d better sit down, and tell me what you wish to know.’

  Wood referred to his pocket book. ‘I understand that you sold a Morris Oxford tourer to a Mr Lawrence Mortimer of Ashley Gardens, Thirleby Street, Westminster, on the fourth of October 1917, sir.’

  ‘That’s correct, Sergeant, but it was all perfectly above board.’ Sawyer walked across to a bureau in the corner of the room. ‘I can show you all the documentation,’ he said, opening the bureau’s flap.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, sir, but we’re rather interested in Mr Mortimer.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Sawyer closed the bureau and turned.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, other than it might concern a matter of national security.’

  ‘Ah, you interest me, Sergeant. What can I tell you, then?’

  ‘I wondered what sort of opinion you formed of Mortimer, sir.’

  Sawyer placed his forefingers in the top pockets of his waistcoat and gazed thoughtfully at a picture on the wall behind Wood.

  ‘A strange sort of chap,’ he said, redirecting his attention to Woo
d. ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t think he knew a damned thing about cars. He didn’t ask the sort of questions that most people would ask, like how many miles it did to the gallon, or how long I’d owned it and why I was selling it. Neither did he quibble about the price. I rather thought that any potential purchaser might try to knock me down a bit, and I’d purposely raised the price a little in anticipation of some bargaining. But he just wrote me a cheque, there and then.’

  ‘Do you happen to recall which bank his cheque was drawn on, sir?’

  Sawyer went back to the bureau and sorted through some paper. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually, ‘I made a note of the cheque details in case it was returned “no account”, but it was in fact paid. It was Williams Deacon’s Bank at their Victoria Street branch.’

  ‘Did he, by any chance, happen to say what he did for a living, sir?’ asked Wood.

  ‘Yes, he mentioned that he was a commercial traveller of some description and needed a car for his business. I think he said that he sold corsets. It seemed a damned odd thing for a chap of his age to be doing, especially with a war on. Couldn’t understand why he wasn’t at the Front.’

  ‘How old was he, then, sir?’

  ‘Nearing forty, I’d’ve thought. On reflection, perhaps he was a bit younger.’

  ‘He didn’t happen to mention the company he worked for, I suppose.’

  ‘Not that I recall, and I certainly didn’t bother to ask him. All I wanted to do was dispose of the Morris. I’ve bought a rather splendid new Vauxhall. Perhaps you saw it on your way in; that’s it outside. Are you interested in cars, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, I am, sir, but I can’t afford one. What would people say if they saw a policeman driving about in his own car?’

  Sawyer laughed. ‘They’d probably say you were being paid too much.’ He paused and laughed again. ‘Or that you were up to no good.’

  ‘I’m much obliged to you for your assistance, sir,’ said Wood, rising to his feet. ‘I’ll not take up any more of your time.’

  THIRTEEN

  Wood stopped off at a pub and treated himself to a ham sandwich and a glass of light ale. He returned to Westminster at about two o’clock and made his way to Thirleby Road. According to the address held by the motor vehicle licensing authority, the apartment in Ashley Gardens occupied by Lawrence Mortimer was on the first floor.