by Graham Ison
‘No,’ said Nancy promptly, but the swiftness of the woman’s reply gave the DDI further cause for suspicion.
‘You didn’t execute the warrant, sir,’ said Marriott, when the two police officers reached the street. He was still wondering why the DDI persisted in this fiction about Lieutenant Geoffrey Mansfield when it had been proved beyond doubt that he had nothing to do with the case.
‘No, we’ll keep that for tomorrow, Marriott. If the young bugger hasn’t been to see us by then, we’ll turn his drum inside out. But I have a shrewd suspicion that we won’t see him until we feel his collar.’
‘And you didn’t tell Mrs Utting that you knew that her husband hadn’t been home.’
‘You don’t tell people everything, Marriott.’
FIFTEEN
The moment he returned to the police station on Thursday afternoon, Hardcastle sent for Catto and Lipton.
‘I want the pair of you to resume your observation on Utting’s house in Francis Street immediately. I know Utting’s there, and when the bugger appears you can nick him this time. Got that, Catto?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Catto. ‘What for?’
‘Anything you can think of. But obstructing police in the execution of their duty might be good for a start. If he doesn’t show up, keep the observation going all night, and report back here tomorrow morning at eight thirty sharp.’ Hardcastle might have added that Utting could also be arrested for living on immoral earnings, but he kept that surprise to himself for the time being.
‘Do you want us to knock again, sir, to see if he’s there?’ asked Catto.
‘If I wanted you to knock on the bloody door, Catto, I’d’ve said so. And I wouldn’t have asked you to keep up the observation all night. Now, have you got that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the two detectives in unison. Catto and Lipton were not at all pleased at being saddled, yet again, with what could well turn out to be an all-night stint of duty, and they hoped fervently that Jack Utting would appear not later than six o’clock that evening. But it was not to be.
Hardcastle arrived at Cannon Row Police Station at eight o’clock on the Friday morning, and waited impatiently until half past the hour.
‘Where the hell’s Catto, Marriott?’ he asked, pulling out his watch and peering at it. ‘I told him to report at eight thirty sharp.’
‘I’ll get him, sir. He’s next door.’
‘Sir?’ Catto hovered nervously in the doorway of the DDI’s office.
‘Come in, man, for God’s sake, and tell me what you’ve learned.’
The apprehensive Catto moved to the front of the DDI’s desk. ‘We maintained observation from five o’clock yesterday evening until eight this morning, sir, but Utting didn’t show up.’
‘What, not at all?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Right, Marriott, that does it.’ Yet again, Hardcastle took out his hunter, stared at it, briefly wound it, and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘Time we executed that search warrant.’
‘D’you want to take anyone with us, sir? One of the DCs for example?’
Hardcastle laughed. ‘I think we can manage to turn over Utting’s drum quite easily on our own,’ he said, and seized his hat and umbrella. ‘I’m quite looking forward to this.’
‘Where is your husband, Mrs Utting?’ demanded Hardcastle, when the two detectives had been shown into the Uttings’ parlour once more. The Uttings had made no apparent progress in the process of settling in to their new house, and the same boxes still occupied the armchairs, the sofa, and the floor.
‘Out looking for work, Inspector. I told you that yesterday.’
‘No he’s not,’ said Hardcastle bluntly. ‘I’ve had two officers keeping this house under observation since yesterday afternoon, and your husband hasn’t been anywhere near here. Now, my girl, where is he?’
Nancy Utting immediately dissolved into tears. ‘I don’t know where he is, Inspector.’ She looked up at Hardcastle with an imploring look on her tear-stained face. ‘I’m so worried. I think something might’ve happened to him.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Hardcastle did not believe Nancy Utting and, recalling that she was an actress, thought that her display of histrionics was an act put on for his benefit. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘The day before yesterday, when we moved in here.’ Nancy dabbed at her tears with a handkerchief. ‘He said he was going out to look for work, but he never came back.’
‘Why didn’t you report his disappearance to the police, Mrs Utting?’ asked Marriott. He shared the DDI’s view that the woman was lying. ‘You said earlier that you were worried about him being in danger.’
‘I thought he’d come home.’ Nancy sniffed, and blew her nose noisily.
‘I have a warrant to search this house, Mrs Utting,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and I propose to execute that warrant now.’
This announcement brought about a fresh onset of sobbing. ‘But I’ve only just put Archie down. You’ll wake him.’
‘Both Sergeant Marriott and I are fathers, and we’re accustomed to small children,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We won’t disturb the boy. Come, Marriott.’ The DDI turned towards the door. ‘We’ll start upstairs,’ he added.
The two CID officers mounted the stairs, and Hardcastle opened the first door he came to. It proved to be the front bedroom.
A man was in the act of leaving through the window.
‘I shouldn’t jump out, Utting,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You’ll probably break both your legs.’
Jack Utting turned from the window with a resigned expression on his face. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ he said.
‘Then why were you trying to escape through that window? Or is that the way you usually go out when you set off to look for work?’
‘It’s not what you think, Inspector,’ said Utting. ‘I was just letting some fresh air in.’
Hardcastle emitted a guffaw of sarcastic laughter, and turned to his sergeant. ‘Isn’t it amazing, Marriott? Every time we find someone in circumstances they can’t – or won’t – explain, they always say it’s not what I think.’ He took a step towards Utting. ‘And what is it that I’m thinking, lad, eh?’
‘You think I had something to do with Mr Somers’ murder, don’t you?’
‘Now why should I think that?’
‘Well, you keep calling here, asking for me, and I thought you were out to get me.’
‘You’re certainly right about that, Utting,’ said Hardcastle, a statement that afforded little comfort to the former bank clerk. ‘I originally wanted to ask you about the procedure for running that kiosk at Victoria Station, but since you didn’t come to see me at my police station, I’ve come to the conclusion that you might’ve had something to do with this here murder after all.’
‘Well, I never had anything to do with it,’ said Utting. It was an anguished denial.
Hardcastle studied Utting for some seconds. ‘Well, be that as it may, lad, you’re now going to accompany me and Sergeant Marriott here to the police station where we’ll have what you might call a heart-to-heart chat.’
They escorted Utting downstairs. Nancy Utting was standing in the doorway of the parlour.
‘Jack! What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I’ve got to go to the police station with these officers,’ said Utting.
‘Oh, Jack!’ exclaimed Nancy, and burst into tears yet again.
‘I’m sure you’re a very good actress, Mrs Utting,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but it’s no good playing to the gallery, because there ain’t one. And I’m not about to sign you up for a play. I’m no angel.’
The interview room at the front of Cannon Row Police Station was a cheerless place. Its only furnishings were a table with a scarred wooden top, and three chairs. The windows were barred, and the view from them obscured with dull brown paint.
‘Sit down,’ said Hardcastle, and took out his pipe. He spent several minutes scraping out the bo
wl and refilling it with tobacco. Having got it alight to his satisfaction, he turned his attention to Utting.
‘How well d’you know Lieutenant Geoffrey Mansfield, Utting?’
‘He’s my brother-in-law.’
‘I know he’s your brother-in-law, but I asked how well you know him.’
‘Not very well. I only met him once.’
‘Did he come to your wedding?’
‘No, he was away in the army. At the Front. It was just Nancy and me, and a couple of witnesses. I don’t know who they were. They were just sort of hanging about.’
‘And at which church was it that these here witnesses were just sort of hanging about?’ asked Hardcastle sarcastically.
‘It was the registry office at Caxton Hall.’
‘It’s a register office, not a registry office,’ murmured Hardcastle, who had an ingrained dislike of people who misused the English language.
‘Were Major and Mrs Mansfield there?’ asked Marriott.
‘Who?’
‘The bride’s parents.’
‘No, they live too far away.’
‘I wouldn’t have called Twickenham too far away,’ commented Hardcastle drily. ‘But what I really wanted to ask you was the routine at the exchange office you ran at Victoria Station.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Utting suddenly sounded much more confident. ‘What d’you want to know?’
‘What time did you normally get there in the morning?’
‘I used to arrive at nine o’clock, in time to meet the van from the bank. That would arrive with a military escort. I’d open up and start business as soon as the first troop train arrived. There’d be quite a few breaks during the day when I could get a cup of tea, or something to eat. Then at six o’clock, I’d shut up shop, supervise the cash being loaded into the truck, and away it’d go with the army. Then I’d go home.’
‘You closed down at six o’clock, did you say?’ Marriott looked up from his pocketbook. He had been making a pretence of taking notes, but it was all part of putting Utting at ease in the hope that he might say something that would give him away.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Utting leaned back in his chair, almost cocky now.
‘And when you went for a cup of tea did you lock up?’
‘Yes, of course. And I’d get a military policeman to stand guard while I was away. There was always quite a few of them on the station.’
‘How many?’ asked Marriott, aware that there appeared to be only two on the morning of the murder.
‘Six or seven,’ replied Utting.
‘What regiment is your brother-in-law in?’ asked Hardcastle suddenly.
‘The North Staffordshire Regiment.’ Utting replied quickly, but then realized he might have given himself away. ‘Er, I think it’s the North Staffordshires.’
‘And where do your parents live?’
‘My parents?’
‘It’s a simple enough question. Where do they live?’
‘In Clapham, but my mother’s dead.’
‘Where in Clapham does your father live, then?’
‘Acre Lane.’
‘And Lieutenant Mansfield is serving in Arras, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he—’ Utting paused again. The detective’s questions were coming too fast, and gave him no time to think. ‘Well, I think that’s where Nancy said he was.’
‘It strikes me you know a lot more about Mr Mansfield than you’re letting on, Utting,’ suggested Marriott.
But before Utting had time to think about that, the DDI changed the subject, albeit slightly.
‘Turning to another matter, Utting,’ said Hardcastle, ‘you told Mr Richards, the manager of your bank, that the day before Mr Somers was murdered, you were knocked down by a bicycle, and weren’t able to go to work.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But when Sergeant Marriott and me saw you after the murder, you told me that you’d had a bilious attack.’ Hardcastle turned to his sergeant. ‘Ain’t that right, Marriott?’
Marriott studied his notes, even though he knew the answer. ‘Yes, sir, that’s what he said.’
‘So which was it?’ demanded Hardcastle, facing Utting again. ‘Or was it neither, because you knew that Mr Somers was going to get robbed that day.’
‘No, I never knew that was going to happen. I can only thank God that I wasn’t there, otherwise it might’ve been me that was killed.’
‘Yes, that would’ve been dreadful,’ commented Hardcastle with undisguised sarcasm. ‘But you still haven’t answered my question. Why did you tell Mr Richards one story, and me another, eh?’
‘To tell you the truth—’
‘That’ll make a change,’ observed Hardcastle.
‘You see, Inspector, Nancy wasn’t very well that day, and young Archie was playing up, what with his teeth coming through and everything. I just didn’t feel like leaving them, so I made up that story. But when you asked me, I’d forgotten what I’d told Mr Richards. I didn’t think he’d be too pleased if I said I was staying at home to look after my wife.’
‘Where did you spend that day?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Er, at home, like I just said. Because Nancy wasn’t too well, and Archie was playing up.’
Intent upon dividing husband and wife, Hardcastle said, ‘Well, your wife didn’t seem to think you stayed at home that day.’
‘Well, I did.’ But uncertain what his wife might have told the police, the question had disturbed Utting.
‘Now, let’s deal with something else that’s been vexing me,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Your wife.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s been plying her trade as a common prostitute in the West End.’
‘That’s a lie.’ Utting leaped to his feet in a display of outrage. ‘My Nancy’s a well brought up, decent girl. She wouldn’t do anything like that.’
‘Sit down, Utting.’ Hardcastle ignored the man’s little outburst. ‘And I know that to be true because she has several convictions recorded at Vine Street Police Station. She’s been up before the Marlborough Street beak several times as Nancy Mansfield, and at least once as Nancy Utting. Now then, given that you’re unemployed, I reckon you’re living on her immoral earnings, and that, my lad, is an offence. And if I take you up the steps to the Inner London Sessions you could cop two years in chokey.’ The DDI thought there was little chance of securing a conviction without detailed evidence, and he did not intend to bother too much about it; he had more important matters to pursue.
‘I never knew nothing about that, so help me!’ exclaimed Utting, resuming his seat. ‘You wait till I get home. I’ll sort her out.’
‘I hope you’re not contemplating any violence, my lad.’ Hardcastle stood up and stared at the young man opposite him. ‘All right, Utting, you can go. And I hope you get a job. You could always join the army, of course.’
‘I don’t think Nancy would let me.’
‘I doubt that her opinion would count for much if Lord Derby has anything to do with it,’ said Hardcastle.
‘I’m surprised you let him go, sir,’ said Marriott.
‘There was nothing to hold him on,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Climbing out of a window wasn’t an offence the last time I looked. And we’d be pushing it to get him sent down for living on immoral earnings. But don’t vex yourself, Marriott, give him enough rope and he’ll hang himself.’ It was a proposition that he fervently hoped would come true. Literally.
‘What about the observation that Catto and Lipton were doing, sir?’
‘Take it off. I doubt that we’d learn much. No, Marriott, we’ve got to cast our net a bit wider.’
The front-office sergeant stood up as Hardcastle and Marriott walked through the station following their lunch at the Red Lion.
‘Excuse me, sir. There’s a message from Colonel Frobisher at Horse Guards.’
Hardcastle stopped. ‘And what does Colonel Frobisher want, skipper?’
‘He has some information for you
, sir. He said it would be best if you called on him.’
Hardcastle glanced at his watch. ‘Now’s as good a time as any, Marriott,’ he said, and turned on his heel.
‘Ah, Mr Hardcastle. Good of you to call in. I thought it better to give you the information that I have personally.’
‘I hope it’ll help me catch this murderer of mine, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott sat down opposite the APM’s desk.
‘I’m not sure about that, Inspector, but it might tidy up a few loose ends. You recall the business of the four officers who appeared to be absent …?’
‘Bryant, Morrish, Nash and Strawton, if I remember correctly, Colonel.’
‘Exactly so.’ Frobisher raised his eyebrows, surprised once again at Hardcastle’s ability to recall facts. When it suited him. ‘We have news of two of them.’ The APM referred to a file on his desk. ‘Bryant eventually caught up with One Corps Troops Column.’ He looked up. ‘Apparently they’d moved, several times, but he got there in the end. As for Strawton, his troopship was sunk off the coast of Haifa, and, I’m sorry to say, he was among those drowned.’
Hardcastle said nothing about the loss of the former footman. ‘How about Nash and Morrish, Colonel?’
Frobisher looked apologetic. ‘Nothing so far, but I’m sure they’ll turn up sooner or later.’
‘Thank you, Colonel. That reduces my list of suspects. Perhaps you’d let me know if they do surface somewhere.’
‘Of course, Inspector.’
Hardcastle nodded, but kept to himself any comments he might have harboured about military efficiency. Or lack of it. But Hardcastle’s knowledge of conditions at the Front was extremely limited, as he would be the first to admit. He was not to know that whole divisions could be lost, albeit temporarily, in the heat of war, let alone individual officers.
Hardcastle and Marriott returned to Cannon Row.
‘I’m not sure that helps us any, Marriott,’ said the DDI. ‘We have to consider the possibility that either Nash or Morrish stole the clothing from Buller Barracks. On the other hand, it might’ve been neither of ’em. We’ll just have to wait and see, I suppose.’