by Graham Ison
‘Oh, that.’ Bradley took out the case again and laid it on the desk. Attached to the centre of it was a shilling dated 1938. ‘When I asked Blanche out for the first time, this mate of mine on the Fraud Squad bet me a shilling that she’d turn me down flat.’ He laughed. ‘I won and just to make sure I’d never lose it, I had it soldered on to my cigarette case.’
‘And if she finishes up marrying someone else, will you take it off?’
‘I haven’t thought that far ahead, sir.’
‘Where are you living at the moment, Jack?’
‘I’ve got a flat in Richmond, sir. It’s rather small, but it will be all right for the two of us if we do marry. However, if a baby comes along, I think we’d have to look for something bigger. But that’s all in the future at the moment – assuming we have a future, particularly with war looming.’
‘If you want some advice, Jack, steer clear of police married quarters.’
‘Right, sir.’ Bradley laughed again. ‘I don’t think I could sell that idea to Blanche anyway.’
Hardcastle’s next task was to brief the officer commanding V Division. He walked along the corridor to Superintendent Geoffrey Swain’s office.
‘D’you have a minute, sir?’
‘Yes, of course, Mr Hardcastle. Take a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.’ Swain, a product of Trenchard’s Police College, was a tall, rather portly man with prematurely greying hair. A graduate of Oxford University, he wore his uniform in such a way that it gave the appearance of having been made to measure. He had a rather disdainful air about him, giving the impression that he was wondering what on earth he was doing in the Metropolitan Police Force. Whether it was his upbringing or his education that gave him that slightly aloof air, he certainly behaved in the way he thought a senior officer should behave. And that included addressing all his subordinates as ‘Mister’. At least, those of inspector rank and above.
‘I’ve been strictly cautioned by Chief Constable Catto not to mention this to anyone who doesn’t need to know, sir, but clearly I must put you in the picture.’
‘Sounds mysterious, Mr Hardcastle. Do go on.’
The DDI outlined the concerns that Henry Catto had expressed about senior executives at the Alan Moore factory being targeted by burglars who may be enemy agents.
‘I could arrange for extra patrols in the vicinity of those properties,’ said Swain, ‘if you think that would help.’
‘The problem is that we don’t have the addresses of the people who might become victims of that particular burglar’s interest, sir,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Although I said burglar, in the singular, there may be more than one. I had considered asking the managing director of the company for them, but that might create unnecessary concern. It could even result in action being taken by the occupiers to safeguard their property. As I understand the situation, that might frighten off these suspect spies when, in fact, Special Branch would very much like to lay hands on them. Apart from which, we’d look rather foolish if it turned out that there wasn’t a war.’
‘Frankly, Mr Hardcastle, I don’t think there’s any doubt that there will be one. God help us if there is, because I don’t think Chamberlain’s the man to steer this country through a crisis of that sort. However, I’m not sure that we should allow householders to be used as bait. The job of the police is, after all, the prevention of crime, but I suppose the circumstances justify the means.’
THREE
DAC Marriott, Chief Constable Catto and Superintendent Swain had been right in their predictions. By the end of the week, world events began to move with giddying swiftness.
On Friday the first of September 1939, Hardcastle arrived home at half past seven in the evening. He had remembered to telephone Muriel so that she was able to time the preparation of supper.
‘Have you heard the news, Wally?’
‘I’ve been a bit busy. Why, what’s happened?’
‘I’ve had the wireless on nearly all day. Hitler’s air force has bombed Warsaw and his troops have crossed the border into Poland. They’ve occupied the whole country. Apparently, Parliament is going to sit tomorrow. Would you believe it, sitting on a Saturday?’ Muriel paused. ‘D’you know, the BBC is still calling that wretched man Herr Hitler.’
On Sunday morning, the third of September, in common with most people in the country, the Hardcastle family was seated around the wireless set in the front living room. They listened in to the BBC’s frequent news bulletins in the hope that, even at this late hour, a way to avoid conflict could be found.
But it was to no avail.
Finally, at eleven fifteen, the doleful, grating voice of the prime minister, speaking from the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street, announced the news that no one wanted to hear.
‘This morning,’ he began, ‘the British Ambassador in Berlin handed a final note to the German government stating that, unless we heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.
‘I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.’
‘Well, that’s it, then,’ said Hardcastle. ‘So much for Chamberlain’s bit of paper that he waved so triumphantly.’
Twenty-seven minutes after the end of the broadcast, the ominous sound of an air-raid siren filled the air. It was a sound that would soon become all too familiar, and which the irrepressible British christened ‘Moaning Minnie’.
Muriel and the three Hardcastle children looked at Walter as if seeking his leadership in this dark hour. As a policeman, they expected him to know about such things as air-raid warnings and what to do when one sounded.
‘That’ll be a false alarm,’ said Hardcastle. ‘The Germans can’t possibly have got here in that short space of time.’ He sounded more confident than he felt; he really did not know how fast a German bomber could travel, and in any case, it had been revealed that the German bombing of Warsaw had taken place without any prior warning. ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Ted,’ he said to his eldest son, Edward, now fourteen years of age. ‘We’ll take a turn round to the Fairfield and have a look at the air-raid shelters the council has built.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘Are you coming with us, love?’
Muriel scoffed. ‘Someone has to stay here and make Sunday lunch, Wally, war or no war,’ she said. ‘It won’t cook itself. You be careful,’ she added, after a moment’s pause, as if taking care would be sufficient to avoid the effects of an incoming bomb.
‘What’s that smell, Dad?’ asked Edward as he and his father descended the steps and made their way along the tunnel-like structure of the air-raid shelter. It was lined on either side by a continuous row of wooden benches.
‘That smell is the concrete they use, son.’
It was an odour that was to remain with Edward Hardcastle for the rest of his life, and he would be winged back to that first day of the war every time he smelled it.
‘Where are the toilets, Dad?’
‘There aren’t any, son.’
‘I’ve decided that I want to join the Royal Air Force, Dad,’ announced Edward.
‘This lot will be over before you’re old enough, Ted. The last lot only lasted four years and a bit.’
But in that, Walter Hardcastle was wrong. The war lasted until August 1945, when the Japanese surrendered.
On the Monday, the day following the declaration of war, Hardcastle and Detective Sergeant Bradley made their way to the establishment of Alan Moore and Company Ltd in Portsmouth Road, Kingston. It did not look much like a factory and turned out to be two three-storey houses converted into one and enclosed by a newly built high-brick wall topped with barbed wire surrounding the entire building.
The gatekeeper who confronted them was a squat, red-faced man with a bushy moustache. His blue tunic bore the ribbons of the three Great War medals known jokingly as Pip, Squeak and Wilfred.
‘Yes?’ The gat
ekeeper, thumbs tucked beneath the buttons of his tunic top pockets, seemed to puff himself up, as if to emphasize the importance of his job now that there was a war on.
‘We have an appointment to see the managing director,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Have we now? And when was this here appointment made, might I ask?’ The gatekeeper peered closely at Hardcastle and Bradley, both of whom were, in his view, quite clearly spies attempting to gain admittance to this secret building with some spurious story about having an appointment.
‘This morning.’ Realizing that he was dealing with a rather dim individual, Hardcastle clarified his statement. ‘It was made this morning for this morning.’
‘Really? In that case, it’s very likely been cancelled now there’s a war on.’ The gatekeeper failed to see the illogicality of that statement as the war had been on since yesterday. ‘But wait here while I look in my book.’ He nodded at the sentry standing next to the gate, armed with a rifle and fixed bayonet. ‘Keep an eye on ’em, Charlie.’
‘He’s taking the war very seriously, guv’nor,’ said the sentry, and eased the chinstrap of his steel helmet with his free hand. ‘Probably worried he’ll get called up again for a second go at Fritz if the management think he’s surplus to requirements.’
The gatekeeper returned. ‘I’ve just had a word with the MD’s secretary and there’s only one appointment booked for today. What’s your name?’
‘Hardcastle,’ said the DDI.
‘Oh! That’s the name what the young lady give me. Have you got any identification on you?’
‘Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle.’ The DDI held up his warrant card so that the gatekeeper could inspect it. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Bradley.’
‘Oh, you never said as how you was police officers, sir,’ said the gatekeeper, suddenly becoming very respectful. ‘You should have said, sir. I mean we’re all on the same side now, ain’t we?’
‘I sincerely hope so,’ said Hardcastle, wondering what the man’s odd cliché actually meant. ‘How do I get to the managing director’s office?’
‘Oh, well, I …’ It was a quandary. The gatekeeper could not leave his post, but was uncertain where the MD had his office. But he was saved by the appearance of a middle-aged woman.
‘Mr Hardcastle?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Grace Lovell, Mr Austin’s secretary, Mr Hardcastle. If you’d like to come with me, I’ll show you to his office.’ The secretary was dressed in a tweed suit with flat shoes and a white blouse. She wore a minimal amount of make-up and her hair was dragged back into a severe bun.
‘Thank you. This is my colleague Detective Sergeant Bradley.’
‘Pleased to meet you both,’ said the secretary. ‘Thank you, Baldwin,’ she said to the gatekeeper. Baldwin responded by raising a single finger to the peak of his cap, to the woman he had earlier described as a young lady.
After a journey up a carpeted flight of stairs near the centre of the building, the two detectives were shown into the managing director’s office. Sticky tape criss-crossed the windows as a protection against flying glass in the event of a bomb, and a stirrup pump stood in one corner alongside a fire bucket full of water and another containing sand. Against the wall alongside the window was a wooden frame covered in black cotton material, which would fit into the window aperture to comply with blackout regulations.
‘Howard Austin, gentlemen.’ A tall, dark-haired man, probably in his fifties, Austin sported a carnation in the buttonhole of his well-cut suit. A sober tie and a white shirt completed the picture of a well-dressed, confident executive. Noting Hardcastle’s apparent interest, he said, ‘Pick one of these up every morning from my greengrocer on my walk into work.’ As if to emphasize its freshness, he raised his lapel and sniffed at the bloom. Almost as an afterthought, he crossed the room and shook hands with the two police officers.
‘Very nice.’ In fact, Hardcastle was not much interested in flowers. ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle and this is Detective Sergeant Bradley, Mr Austin.’
‘Do take a seat, gentlemen, please.’ Austin took a hunter watch from his waistcoat pocket, glanced at it and returned it. ‘I daresay Miss Lovell will appear with some coffee shortly. In the meantime, perhaps you would begin by telling me how I can be of assistance to the police.’
Hardcastle explained about the burglaries that had taken place in the Kingston, Surbiton and Richmond areas, and the police belief that some senior members of Alan Moore and Company’s staff might have been the targets.
‘We believe it possible that German secret agents are seeking information about what goes on here, Mr Austin.’
‘This is a very serious matter, Inspector,’ said Austin. ‘Very serious indeed. However, I think it’s safe to say that it’s unlikely that any of my people would take sensitive material home with them, if that’s what you were suggesting. But, now that the war has actually begun, I think it would be a sensible precaution for me to remind all the staff about security.’
‘I’ve brought coffee, sir,’ said Miss Lovell, appearing in the MD’s office.
‘Thank you, Grace. If you’d like to put it on that table, I’ll deal with it.’
‘The main reason for our coming to see you this morning, Mr Austin,’ continued Hardcastle, ‘is to ask for the addresses of the senior people here who might be suspected by German agents of possessing useful information. In that way, I could arrange for police to keep special observation on their property.’
‘That’s very good of you, Inspector.’
‘There’s actually more to it than that, sir,’ said Jack Bradley. ‘It may give us the opportunity to lay hands on a German agent.’
Austin, a thoughtful expression on his face, handed coffee to the two CID officers. ‘You think it’s that serious, do you?’ he asked, as he sat down again.
‘To be perfectly candid, Mr Austin, I don’t really know,’ said Hardcastle. ‘All we can do is to act on the information passed to us by people who claim to know about such things.’
Austin smiled. ‘There are so many component parts in what we do that most of the people here don’t even know what the company is making. However, I’ll give you the addresses of those three people.’ He paused for a second or two. ‘And I suppose I’d better give you my address as well.’
‘That’s probably a good idea, sir,’ said Hardcastle.
Austin pressed a key on his intercom system and asked Miss Lovell to come in. ‘Would you get me the addresses of these three people, please, Grace?’ he asked, handing her a slip of paper.
The efficient Miss Lovell was back within a few minutes and handed the managing director a list.
‘Thank you, Grace. Incidentally, there’s no need for these people to know I’m giving their addresses to the police, should they ask.’
‘Of course not, sir.’ Grace Lovell managed to look slightly affronted that the thought should even have occurred to the managing director.
Austin took out a fountain pen and added his own Kingston address to the list before handing it to Hardcastle. ‘There we are, Inspector. I hope you catch this fellow.’
‘We’ll do our best, sir, but I probably won’t be able to let you know if we’ve succeeded, secrecy being what it is now that war’s been declared.’ Hardcastle paused. ‘As a matter of interest, I was wondering why this company is named Alan Moore.’
Austin chuckled. ‘There is no such person as Alan Moore, Inspector. He’s a figment of our imagination, a non-person. But we have an elderly clerk here who we can wheel out in the unlikely event that someone wants to see Alan Moore.’ He stood up and shook hands with the two officers. ‘Well, I’d better get on with what we’re doing here,’ he said. ‘If that old doomster Churchill’s to be believed, the Royal Navy is going to need these seagoing vessels, but he is First Lord of the Admiralty, so I imagine he knows what he’s talking about.’ He stopped suddenly. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. However, as you’re police offi
cers, it’s all right, I suppose. Having gone that far, it probably won’t hurt to tell you that among the things we’re developing here is a very small submarine. Hence our close proximity to the river.’
‘Your secret’s safe with us, sir,’ said Bradley.
‘Just proves I’ll have to be more careful. As I was about to say, Churchill’s the chap we need in Number Ten if we’re to get out of this mess in one piece.’
In fact, that is exactly what happened some eight months later when Winston Churchill became prime minister.
Bradley opened the crime book on Hardcastle’s desk and turned to the relevant pages.
‘Do any of Austin’s addresses tally with any of the burglaries that have been reported, Jack?’
Bradley looked up. ‘No, sir. But they might be the addresses of Moore’s employees nevertheless. Our burglar won’t have had the benefit of knowing which were the sensitive workers.’
‘Are you sure about that, Jack? He might have acquired details from somewhere.’
‘I suppose it’s possible that he got alongside someone who works there and tapped them for a few addresses. I mean, he might have seduced a female clerk from the personnel office, for example. Bit of pillow talk and Bob’s your uncle.’
‘You could be right, Jack.’ Hardcastle laughed. ‘But whether that’s the case or not, it won’t have been Miss Grace Lovell who spilled the beans. I don’t somehow see her as vulnerable to pillow talk.’
‘Do we arrange for extra patrols, sir, or do you want CID officers to do it?’
‘I’ve no intention of tying up detectives for that sort of job, Jack. Apart from anything else, it’s really down to Special Branch. If they’re that interested, perhaps they should get a few of their chaps out from behind their desks. However, what we will do for a start is to reinvestigate some of these burglaries and check whether the householders work for Moore’s.’
‘Why don’t I make a list of the break-ins so far, sir, and ask Austin if they work at the Kingston establishment?’
‘Good idea, Jack. I was just going to suggest that.’