by Graham Ison
Although the Flying Squad had a roving commission, it was some time since Walter Hardcastle had set foot in Putney police station in the Upper Richmond Road, which had recently been established as the divisional headquarters of the V or Wandsworth Division.
‘Yes, sir? Can I help you?’ The station sergeant stopped writing in the Occurrence Book, a record of everything that happened on the Putney sub-division, and glanced up, mildly irritated at being interrupted.
‘Where’s the DDI’s office, Sergeant?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t have a DDI, sir, if that’s who you was hoping to see. He’s been transferred. But why are you so interested in him? D’you want to report a crime?’ It suddenly occurred to the station sergeant that he had not enquired as to the identity of this inquisitive caller, but his unasked question was answered immediately.
‘Because I’m the new DDI. My name’s Hardcastle.’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the station sergeant, hurriedly scrambling to his feet. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Understandable. It won’t be in Orders until tomorrow.’
‘Allow me to show you to your office, sir.’ The station sergeant suddenly became very helpful. ‘At the moment Mr Simmons is occupying it.’
‘Just tell me where it is. I’ll find it.’
‘Top of the stairs, sir, and it’s the door facing you. There’s a sign on the door that says “DDI”.’
‘That’s useful.’ Hardcastle sprinted up the stairs and pushed open the door of his new office to see a familiar face. ‘Hello, Bob. What are you doing here?’
‘Blimey! Wally Hardcastle as I live and breathe. More to the point, what are you doing here, Wally? The Squad getting too much for you?’
‘I’ve just been posted here as DDI.’
‘My congratulations, sir,’ said a laughing Simmons, and stood up to shake hands.
‘Are you acting DDI, then, Bob?’
‘Not really. I was just using this office to catch up on a report I’m writing. It’s a bit quieter in here, but I’ll get my stuff shifted.’
‘Don’t hurry. I’ve got to go back to the Yard and pick up my gear, so just give me a quick rundown on what’s happening.’
Simmons summarized the state of crime on the division and said that Hardcastle’s predecessor had been particularly concerned about a spate of burglaries in the Kingston area, and to a lesser degree in Surbiton.
‘Was anything done about that, Bob? Extra patrols or particular attention paid by beat-duty men?’
‘Between you and me,’ said Simmons, ‘I think the last DDI was a bit overwhelmed by all the extra stuff that had been put on the police in case there’s a war.’
Hardcastle nodded. It was the same everywhere. Not a panic, but the complete opposite as the population was disinclined to believe it would ever happen. After all, they had Neville Chamberlain’s assurance of ‘peace for our time’.
‘I’d better make that one of my priorities, Bob, but right now I must report my arrival to the superintendent. What’s his name, by the way?’
‘Geoffrey Swain. He’s all right,’ said Simmons. ‘For a Uniform Branch man,’ he added, with a smile.
TWO
It had taken Walter and Muriel Hardcastle nearly six months to find a suitable house, but on Monday morning, the twenty-eighth of August 1939, they were moving to a detached property in Canbury Park Road, Kingston. And it was raining. Despite the best efforts of Pickfords removal men, it was inevitable that the Hardcastles’ furniture would get wet as it was brought into the house.
But Muriel Hardcastle was undeterred by such a minor problem. The move from Brockley in south-east London to the far more prestigious Royal Borough of Kingston upon Thames in Surrey was very much to her liking.
There were drawbacks, of course. The children, Edward, Kate and Douglas, would all have to leave their friends behind and be placed in new schools. But having a police officer for a father had accustomed the three of them to his irregular hours and upheavals, particularly during his years on the Flying Squad. For Muriel, in her fifteen years of marriage to Walter, it had become a way of life.
‘Wally,’ said Muriel, ‘there’s a little green van pulled up behind the Pickfords lorry. What’s that, d’you think?’
‘I’m hoping it’ll be an engineer from the Post Office come to connect a telephone.’
Minutes later a man appeared at the open front door. ‘Mr Hardcastle?’
‘That’s me.’
‘I’ve come to connect you, sir.’ The engineer held up one of the new black telephones, and then stepped aside to admit two removal men carrying a table.
‘Are you going to do it now?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘I am, sir. Fortunately, there was a connection here previously, so it won’t take long. Even so, guv’nor, I reckon you’ve got a bit of clout, getting one of these phones and getting connected so quickly. You’re very lucky.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Hardcastle who, like his father before him, knew that from now on he could be ‘got at’ whenever one of his officers felt inclined to dial his number. Ernest Hardcastle was always opposed to having ‘one of those wretched machines’ in his house, although he was eventually persuaded by his wife Alice to have one installed.
After a brief discussion, Muriel and Walter decided that the telephone should be placed in the kitchen-cum-dining room at the rear of the house.
‘Good. That’s that,’ said Hardcastle, rubbing his hands together as the telephone engineer left the house an hour or so later, followed by the removal men. ‘What’s next, darling?’
‘A cup of tea,’ she said. ‘I’m parched.’
‘How are the children taking the move, Muriel?’ When they had first met, Walter had once shortened his future wife’s name to ‘Moo’, but her sharp reaction was such that he never did so again.
‘There was a bit of an argument about bedrooms, love. But I explained that Kate must have her own room, now that she was twelve, and Edward and Douglas would have to share.’
‘Are the boys happy about that?’
‘No,’ said Muriel, laughing, ‘but I explained to them that it was a maternal order and carried with the full force of law. Your law.’ She turned her head at a sudden noise. ‘What was that, Wally?’
‘Surprisingly enough, it was someone knocking at the front door,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘Probably one of our new neighbours come to say hello.’
Hardcastle opened the door to be confronted by a policeman.
‘DDI Hardcastle, sir?’ asked the PC.
‘Yeah. What is it?’
‘I’m PC Suttling from Kingston, sir.’ The policeman raised a hand from beneath his glazed cape and sketched a salute before struggling to produce a piece of paper from a pocket. ‘A message for you from Commissioner’s Office, sir. You’re to report to the Chief Constable CID as a matter of urgency, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hardcastle, and glanced over the policeman’s shoulder. ‘I suppose you didn’t come in a car?’ he asked, looking in vain for a police vehicle.
‘No, sir.’ Suttling grinned. ‘On a bicycle.’
‘What’s the quickest way to get to London from here, Suttling? I’ve only just moved in.’ Although Hardcastle had familiarized himself with much of the sprawling V Division, he had not thought to work out the quickest way to get to London from his new house.
‘London, sir? Now let me see.’ Suttling ran a hand round his chin as he considered the question of getting to somewhere that, as far as he was concerned, might as well have been on the other side of the world. ‘I suppose the train would be your best bet, sir. Go to Waterloo from here and then get the Underground to Westminster.’
‘Where is the railway station, then?’
‘You go straight down this road as far as Richmond Road, sir, go under the bridge on your left, and you’ll see the station on your right-hand side.’
Hardcastle shut the door and ret
urned to the dining room. ‘That was a PC at the door, darling. I’ve got to go up to the Yard.’
‘Oh no! But there’s an awful lot to do here to get organized.’
‘Sorry, darling, but that’s the job for you.’
‘You don’t have to tell me, not after all this time. Your mother told me I was making a terrible mistake marrying a policeman,’ said Muriel, but she was smiling as she said it. ‘I hope to God they’re not going to transfer you again.’
‘I don’t think there’s any chance of that.’ Hardcastle put on his raincoat and grabbed his trilby before kissing his wife. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can, darling.’
‘Why don’t you telephone me and let me know what’s happening,’ said Muriel.
‘Good idea. I’ll write down the number because I’ll never remember it. Not immediately, anyway.’ Hardcastle walked to the front door and paused to shout up the stairs. ‘Got to go to the Yard, kids. See you later. Mum needs a hand, so see what you can do for her.’
When Hardcastle reached the east end of the large Hawker factory, at the bottom of Canbury Park Road, he was confronted by a policeman manning a barrier.
‘D’you have business down here, sir?’
‘No, I’m on my way to the railway station.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go round by way of Cromwell Road, sir. This road’s closed to the general public.’
‘My name’s Hardcastle. I’m the DDI on this Division.’
‘Oh, I see, sir,’ said the PC as he examined Hardcastle’s warrant card. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t recognize you.’
‘What’s this all about?’ asked Hardcastle, pocketing his warrant card and waving at the barrier.
‘New orders, sir, said to have come from the Air Ministry. Anyone who hasn’t got business with the Hawker factory won’t be allowed to come down this road any further than here. I don’t know what these clever chaps in Whitehall think’ll happen if we let them walk past it. Blow it up, perhaps. Mind you, they’re quite happy to let the ice-cream barrow stay at the other end, and the bloke who owns it is an Italian. The rumour is that if we go to war, that clown Mussolini will join his mate Hitler.’
‘The DAC is down the road at the War Office, Wally, and I’m acting for him,’ said Chief Constable Henry Catto. Even at forty-eight years of age, there was still a trace of the dandy about Catto, for which Ernest Hardcastle blamed William Sullivan, the DDI of C Division where Catto had been a sergeant. Ernest Hardcastle detested Sullivan, who always wore a curly brimmed bowler hat and a monocle. Local villains called him ‘Posh’ Bill with the Piccadilly window, but it was now five years since Sullivan’s death, and in a forgiving mood, Ernest Hardcastle had actually gone to his old adversary’s funeral. ‘Take a pew and I’ll tell you what’s worrying us.’ He donned a pair of black-rimmed spectacles. ‘Incidentally, how’s your father these days?’
‘Still telling me what to do, sir.’ Hardcastle hoped that one day people would stop asking him about his father, but Mr Catto had been one of the officers under Ernest Hardcastle’s command during the Great War and for a few years as a sergeant after the Armistice.
‘Sounds familiar,’ said Catto. ‘I suppose your brother-in-law has got some high-powered job.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.’
‘It’s not a secret, sir. He’s got a post at the War Office at the moment, but now that he’s a major general, he’ll probably be given command of a division if war does break out.’ Hardcastle’s brother-in-law was Charles Spencer, a regular army officer, who had married Walter’s sister Maud in 1919. In the latter months of the Great War, Spencer had been wounded in Flanders and Maud had nursed him back to health. It had been a fairytale romance and they had been married shortly after Charles had been discharged from hospital.
‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about that, Wally. Now, the reason I sent for you concerns a number of burglaries on your patch. Mainly the Kingston area.’
‘I know, sir.’ Hardcastle felt like telling Catto that he had been told of this and its possible reasons by DAC Marriott. In any case, now that he was the DDI, he had very quickly familiarized himself with what was happening in his new bailiwick.
‘Several of the senior management of the Alan Moore facility at Kingston have had their houses broken into, but oddly enough very little was taken and the thief or thieves have, in quite a few cases, left valuable stuff untouched.’
‘I did know that, too, sir.’
‘I imagine you did, Wally, but just hear me out. Special Branch are concerned that this is a concerted effort by German espionage agents searching for vital information about the new project that the Moore factory is working on. Personally, I think it unlikely that people working on such a project would take important paperwork or plans home. And even if they did, I doubt that they’d leave them lying about.’
‘But that’s a Special Branch job, surely, sir.’
‘As far as SB is concerned, it’s straightforward crime at the moment, but with the underlying suspicion of spying. If your people can catch the burglar or burglars, Special Branch will take it over from there.’
‘Typical,’ said Hardcastle. ‘My old man warned me about that lot. Once the dirty work’s been done, they step in and grab all the glory.’
‘Yes, I know. Your father had a bee in his bonnet about SB. But this is serious, Wally.’
‘We’re not at war,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Perhaps not, but I reckon we will be by the end of the week. That’s the informed opinion of the Whitehall warriors, anyway.’
‘I’ll get on to it straight away, sir.’
‘You can tell your men why you’re intensifying the search for these housebreakers, obviously, but tell them not to talk to anyone about it. Everything these days is on a need-to-know basis.’ Catto tapped the side of his nose. ‘But anyone you think ought to know must be informed.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Hardcastle had every intention of telling his detectives why the operation to find the mysterious burglar or burglars was being stepped up, even if he’d been told not to.
‘Well, that’s it, gentlemen,’ said Hardcastle, when he’d finished briefing the CID officers of the Surbiton, Kingston, and Richmond sub-divisions. The addition of the last two was because some burglaries had taken place at properties in those areas occupied by members of staff of Alan Moore and Company Ltd. ‘I need hardly say,’ the DDI continued, ‘that what we’ve discussed in this room must go no further. Anyone found talking out of turn will face strong sanctions, the very least of which is likely to be dismissal. On the other hand, any disclosure could be a contravention of the Official Secrets Act. I hope that brings home to you the seriousness of the situation.’
There were a few mumbled acknowledgments before the detectives dispersed.
‘Come up to my office, Bob,’ said Hardcastle, as Detective Inspector Simmons was about to leave the subterranean parade room at Putney police station where the briefing had been held.
The two detectives mounted the stairs and Simmons followed Hardcastle into the latter’s office.
‘Take a seat.’ For a few moments, Hardcastle stood at the window, hands in pockets, staring down at the traffic in the Upper Richmond Road. ‘From time to time, Bob, I’ll need a skipper to act as a bag carrier,’ he said, turning to face Simmons. ‘Who can you recommend?’ Crossing the room, he seated himself behind his desk.
‘If I was looking for someone to help me out, I would pick Jack Bradley without hesitation, guv’nor.’ Simmons had quickly adapted to Hardcastle being his superior officer. ‘He’s thirty years of age, a sergeant first-class and he’s been here at Putney for a year. He was a second-class at Vine Street on C Division before his promotion.’
‘If he’s in the nick at the moment, ask him to come and see me, Bob.’
The tall, slim, well-dressed man who appeared in the DDI’s office possessed a full head of brown, wavy hair, and a neat moustache that did not seem to suit his smooth f
eatures. His necktie looked as though it ought to represent a regiment or a school.
‘DS Bradley, sir. Mr Simmons said you wanted to see me.’ The voice was an educated one that some people erroneously referred to as an Oxford accent.
‘Sit down, Jack. Smoke if you want to.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Bradley pulled out a chrome cigarette case, opened it and offered it to Hardcastle.
The DDI shook his head. ‘I’m a pipe man, thanks. One of the bad habits I picked up from my father.’ As if to confirm what he had just said, he took out his pipe and slowly filled it with Player’s Navy Cut tobacco. ‘It’s one of life’s inevitabilities, Jack, that sooner or later a murder will occur on this division and, when it does, I’ll need a good bag carrier.’ He lit his pipe and waved the smoke away. ‘I’ll also need a skipper who’s close at hand – like in the next office – so that he can assist me with any other important enquiries,’ he added with a smile. ‘D’you think you’re up to it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Bradley replied without pausing to consider the request. ‘Have we got one?’
‘Got one what?’ Hardcastle was briefly nonplussed by the question.
‘A murder, sir. I thought that’s why you’d sent for me.’
‘Not yet.’ Hardcastle laughed. ‘I was just making sure that if and when we have a murder to deal with, I know who to shout for. Are you married?’
‘No, sir. I’ve been going out – on and off – with a girl called Blanche since last year, as a matter of fact.’
‘She obviously knows you’re in the job, then, or do you intend keeping that a secret until after you’ve proposed to the girl?’
For the first time since arriving in Hardcastle’s office, Bradley smiled. ‘Oh, she knows, sir, but I’m not too sure she knows what she’s in for if we should get spliced.’
‘Incidentally, I noticed that you had some sort of crest on your cigarette case. Is that something to do with your girlfriend?’