by Graham Ison
ELEVEN
The time was eleven fifteen on the evening of Friday the seventh of June 1940. Police Constable 133V Gordon Tomlin, patrolling Kingston Hill not far from where the murdered Ropers had lived, stopped a man attired in evening dress. The late-evening burglar who, it was believed, was responsible for the Ropers’ murders, was still uppermost in policemen’s minds despite the lack of leads and their growing focus on other, more recent cases, and they were reminded of it daily by the inspector who paraded them for duty.
‘Excuse me, sir, but where are you going?’
‘Home, Officer.’
‘And where is your home?’
‘Why d’you want to know? I’m not doing anything wrong.’
‘I’ll ask you again, sir: where do you live?’
The man remained silent.
‘Show me your identity card,’ said Tomlin.
Again, the man remained silent and made no move to comply with the police officer’s demand.
‘Very well, I’m arresting you for failing to produce your identity card and for being a suspicious person loitering with intent to commit a felony.’ Conscious of the fact that the Ropers had been murdered with a firearm, Tomlin quickly searched the man, but found no weapon. Walking the arrested man the few yards down the road to the police box near the George and Dragon public house, Tomlin telephoned Kingston police station and asked for assistance. Minutes later, a police van arrived and conveyed Tomlin and his prisoner to the police station.
‘Well, what’ve you got, one-three-three?’ asked the station officer, as he entered the charge room with a bundle of books and papers which he set down on the charge desk.
Tomlin outlined the reasons for having arrested the man who now stood in front of the station officer. ‘When I searched him, I didn’t find any weapons or an identity card, Sergeant.’
The sergeant directed his gaze at the prisoner. ‘Are you going to give me your name and address?’
The prisoner remained silent.
‘Name and address refused. Put him down, one-three-three,’ said the frustrated sergeant. ‘Number two cell, and we’ll see if the gentleman’s more co-operative in the morning. Or perhaps he’s mute of malice,’ he added sarcastically.
Having done as the sergeant ordered, Tomlin returned. ‘He spoke, Sergeant.’
‘Oh, he did, did he? How very obliging of him. What did he say?’
‘He said that he’d talk to Inspector Hardcastle, but no one else.’
‘Well, if he thinks I’m calling the DDI out this late, he’s got another think coming. He can wait till the early turn comes on.’
‘He also asked to be allowed to phone his solicitor.’
‘Well, if he said he’ll only talk to Mr Hardcastle and no one else, he’s not talking to his solicitor until the DDI says so.’
Walter Hardcastle arrived at Kingston police station at just after eight o’clock in response to the early turn station officer’s telephone call.
‘Put this silent prisoner in the interview room, Skip, and I’ll talk to him there. And you’ve no idea of his identity?’
‘None at all, sir,’ said the station officer. ‘I even had a look inside his jacket to see if there was a name, but nothing.’
Hardcastle entered the interview room and closed the door.
‘Good morning, Mr Hardcastle.’
‘What are you doing here, Mr Shaw?’
‘Perhaps you should ask the officer who arrested me.’
‘What were you doing on Kingston Hill when you told the officer that you were going home? You live in Pine Walk in Berrylands. Or have you moved?’
‘It’s a bit complicated, Mr Hardcastle.’
‘We’re very good at sorting out complicated things,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Try me.’
Shaw paused before replying. ‘I was on my way home from a masonic meeting,’ he said haltingly.
Hardcastle shook his head. ‘There is no masonic lodge anywhere near Kingston Hill. Would you like to try again?’
Shaw hung his head. ‘I was seeing another woman,’ he said. ‘My wife thinks I go to a masonic meeting, but I’m not a freemason.’
‘How often d’you meet this woman?’
‘Once a week.’
‘Do you own a firearm, Mr Shaw?’
‘Good heavens, no.’
‘The one thing I don’t understand,’ said Hardcastle, taking out his pipe and slowly filling it with his favourite Player’s Navy Cut tobacco, ‘is why you didn’t explain all this to the police officer who stopped you last night.’
‘I thought he might check the story with my wife,’ answered Shaw lamely. A sudden thought occurred to him. ‘My employers won’t have to be told, will they, Mr Hardcastle?’
‘Yes, they will. For one thing, you are engaged on secret government work, and you didn’t turn up for work this morning. Doubtless, someone from Alan Moore’s will have telephoned your home to ask your wife where you were. She won’t have known and is now probably worried sick. Apart from anything else, you have wasted a great deal of police time as a result of your hare-brained decision not to answer the officer’s questions. I would have you charged, but you’ve wasted enough of our time. However, we will take your fingerprints and I’ll admit you to bail to report here again in one month’s time. If we do not require you to return to this station, we will let you know.’
‘By what right can you possibly …?’ Shaw began to protest, but then realized it was pointless.
‘There is just one other thing,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What is the name and address of this woman you’ve been seeing?’
‘Oh God! You’re not going to speak to her, are you?’
‘I most certainly am.’
‘But she’ll wonder what’s going on.’
‘Does she know you’re married, Mr Shaw?’
‘No, she doesn’t, but she is. Her husband is a naval officer stationed at Portsmouth.’
Hardcastle shook his head. ‘Once I have her details and your fingerprints have been taken, you’re free to go, Mr Shaw.’
‘Is there any chance of a lift?’ asked Shaw, unwisely.
‘No, there isn’t.’
Seconds after Shaw had left the interview room, Jack Bradley arrived. ‘Have I missed all the fun, guv’nor? I saw Keith Shaw leaving just as I arrived.’
Hardcastle explained briefly. ‘I think we’ll have a talk with Mrs Gillian Flint straight away.’
‘Who’s Gillian Flint, guv’nor?
‘I’ll explain on the way, Jack.’
Gillian Flint’s house was in Crescent Road, off Kingston Hill, a substantial property that lay beyond a lengthy front garden.
‘We’re police officers, Mrs Flint.’
‘Please come in.’ She was probably in her forties and, oddly, bore a striking similarity to Elizabeth Shaw. But it wasn’t the first time Hardcastle had come across this quirk of adulterous behaviour. It surprised him how often men leave one woman in order to start an affair with another who was similar to the woman he’d just left. ‘Is it the commander?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘Who is the commander, ma’am?’ asked Bradley.
‘My husband, Commander Rollo Flint. Is he all right? He’s stationed at Portsmouth, you see, and Portsmouth gets a real plastering from the Luftwaffe.’ The words tumbled out as if hurrying would make what she was convinced would be awful news easier to bear.
‘As far as we are aware,’ said Hardcastle, ‘he’s perfectly all right.’
‘Oh, I’m frighfully sorry, keeping you standing in the hall. Do come in.’ Gillian Flint led the way into a cosy sitting room.
Hardcastle introduced himself and Bradley, and advised Mrs Flint that she should never admit anyone to her house without seeing some evidence of identity.
‘Sorry!’ Gillian Flint contrived to look like a naughty schoolgirl who had been caught out. ‘Do sit down. If it’s not about Rollo, what is it about?’
‘Keith Shaw,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Who?’ she said, initially attempting complete denial.
‘He was arrested in this area last night for refusing to tell a constable where he had been or where he was going. This morning, I interviewed him at Kingston police station and he eventually admitted spending a few hours with you last evening.’
‘Quite right, he did, Mr Hardcastle.’ Gillian laughed. ‘Don’t tell me that adultery is against the Defence Regulations now. There are so many new laws being introduced since the war started that it’s difficult to keep up with it all. But why are you checking up on him?’
‘Mrs Flint, there is a war on, and when individuals are stopped late at night and refuse to tell the police what they’ve been up to, it naturally arouses suspicions. We are duty bound to verify his claim.’
‘Well, it’s me taking the risk. I’m the married one.’ Gillian paused thoughtfully. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t mind betting that my husband, Rollo, has a Wren in his bed from time to time down in Portsmouth.’
‘I’ve no doubt that Keith Shaw’s wife was worried sick last night when he didn’t go home. There had been an air raid that lasted for two hours.’
‘Wife!’ Gillian Flint almost spat the word. ‘Well, the double-dealing little—’ She broke off. ‘I’m sorry, but I was about to launch into some very nautical language. It’s what comes of being married to a sailor, I suppose.’
Hardcastle and Bradley left the commander’s wife gently fuming.
‘I imagine the next conversation between Gillian Flint and Keith Shaw will be quite colourful, guv’nor,’ said Bradley.
Outside, another air-raid warning began its wailing alert. It was not long before the familiar crumps were heard as bomb after bomb sought a target.
On the Monday morning following his visit to Gillian Flint, Hardcastle decided it was time to report to Detective Superintendent Aubrey Drew and bring him up to date. But before he could dial the Special Branch officer’s number, a sergeant from Special Branch telephoned and asked Hardcastle to see Mr Drew at the Yard. Twenty minutes later, the two V Division officers were in Drew’s office.
‘Walter, come in and take a seat. You too, Sergeant Bradley. What I want to talk to you about,’ Drew said, once all three officers were settled, ‘is the German who was floating in the Thames at Putney on the fourth of this month.’
‘Hauptmann Konrad Fischer of the Luftwaffe,’ said Bradley immediately.
‘Very good, Skip,’ said Drew. ‘Carry on like that and we might even kidnap you for duty in SB.’
‘You’ll have a fight on your hands, sir,’ muttered Hardcastle.
‘Working with MI5, we searched every inch of Fischer’s body and clothing,’ continued Drew, ‘and found nothing that would tell us who he was going to see. At least, not in plain English. There was a letter addressed to someone called Ernst Jäger, but we don’t know who he is. Presumably, this mysterious Jäger is an Abwehr agent working somewhere in the UK. Like the letter, the papers in his briefcase were in code and have been sent to the Government Cryptography Department, but these things take time and we have to accept that we might never know.’
‘Not much that I can do to assist, then, sir,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Unfortunately, no,’ said Drew. ‘But as it’s not impossible that there might be a connection between this Ernst Jäger and the burglaries and the Ropers’ deaths, I thought you should know. Speaking of which, how are you getting on with the Roper murders, Walter?’
‘Between you and me, sir, we’re not, but we’ll get there eventually. However, there is one thing that you can probably help with.’ Hardcastle told Drew about the strange encounter that PC Tomlin had had with Keith Shaw, and the subsequent conversation that Hardcastle had had with the man.
‘What’s your difficulty over that, Walter?’
‘Should his employers be told about this extramarital affair? And the fact that he wanted to keep it from the police for some reason.’
Drew pursed his lips as he spent a few seconds mulling over Hardcastle’s question. ‘I think we’ll leave that to MI5, Walter,’ he said eventually. ‘I suppose it might affect the security checks they do on people like Shaw, but that’s their problem.’
‘I wonder why we had to go all the way to the Yard, just to be told that,’ said Bradley, as they drove back to Putney. ‘Surely, Mr Drew could have telephoned you.’
‘Did you notice that green telephone on his desk, Jack?’
‘Yes, I did. What about it?’
‘It’s a scrambler and it encodes telephone calls, but the bloke at the other end has to have one, as well. And I don’t have one.’
‘I got the impression that Mr Drew was not too interested in Keith Shaw’s lame excuse for not telling PC Tomlin where he’d been, guv’nor.’
‘Well, I’m still interested, Jack, and I think we’ll set up an observation on the man for a few days and see what happens.’
‘Got anyone particular in mind for it?’ asked Bradley.
Hardcastle thought about the question for a few moments. ‘I’ll ask Mr Swain if I can borrow a couple of uniformed officers for a few days. Ideally, a man and a woman.’
‘What about Tomlin, guv’nor. He knows what Shaw looks like.’
‘Yes, Jack, and Shaw knows what Tomlin looks like.’
Superintendent Geoffrey Swain, the urbane sub-divisional commander, was quite amenable to Hardcastle’s request.
‘To be honest, Mr Hardcastle, I feel a certain responsibility. Prevention of crime is, after all, as much the job of the Uniform Branch as it is of the CID. And no superintendent cares to have two unsolved murders on his sub-division.’
‘Nor does a DDI, sir,’ said Hardcastle drily.
‘Quite so, quite so.’ Swain flicked a piece of fluff from his otherwise immaculate uniform.
Hardcastle began to tell Swain about the matter of Keith Shaw, but was interrupted.
‘Yes, I saw the entry in the Occurrence Book, Mr Hardcastle. Strange business. Is Special Branch aware?’
‘They give the impression they’re not interested, sir, but you can never tell with that lot.’
Swain did not comment on that, but gave Hardcastle a wry smile. ‘So, what are you suggesting we should do about it? I believe that this fellow Shaw is in what they call sensitive employment.’
‘Yes, sir. He’s engaged in the procurement of materiel.’
‘That makes his actions seem even more suspicious, in my view,’ said Swain. ‘You spoke to this paramour of Shaw’s, did you?’
‘Yes, sir. A Mrs Gillian Flint, wife of a naval commander serving at Portsmouth. I have a feeling, however, that that particular liaison has just come to an abrupt end. Mrs Flint was under the misapprehension that Shaw was unmarried.’
‘Until you advised her to the contrary, I take it.’
‘Exactly so, sir.’
‘You need to be careful, Mr Hardcastle. The commissioner doesn’t like police officers having to give evidence in civil proceedings, especially those involving divorce.’
‘Of course, sir. However, I came to see you to ask for your assistance. I think it might be a good idea to keep Keith Shaw under observation. Now that his relationship with Mrs Flint is almost certainly at an end, it’ll be interesting to see whether he still goes out and, if so, why. You see, I was thinking that, although he undoubtedly visited her, he used it as an alibi in case he was stopped by police. It may be that he went elsewhere for some less romantic reason.’
Swain nodded. ‘But when it came to it, he refused to say anything. Anyway, Mr Hardcastle, we can theorize forever. How can I help?’
‘A PC and a WPC in plain clothes, sir – preferably from Kingston sub-division – to follow him wherever he goes in the evening. If he goes anywhere.’
‘You have no one who could undertake this?’
‘I don’t have any women detectives, sir, and I thought it might look better if the surveillance was carried out by an officer of each sex. They would look more like a couple.’
‘Q
uite so. Very well, I’ll select two officers and send them to you to be briefed.’
TWELVE
PC James Davis and WPC June Taylor, the two officers selected by Superintendent Swain and briefed by Hardcastle, started duty that same evening. Davis was twenty-eight and had nine years’ service. June Taylor was twenty-two and had been a policewoman for just eighteen months. She was forever being bawled out by her unforgiving woman sergeant for having her hair touching the collar of her uniform. It was, therefore, something of a relief to be on duty in plain clothes so that she could wear her hair the way she liked it.
Thanks to the introduction of double summer time in February of that year, it was light until about eleven o’clock. In Pine Walk, Surbiton, where the Shaws lived, there was nowhere to hide and it made it a very difficult place to keep observation in broad daylight without being spotted. Foreseeing difficulties, Hardcastle drove to the area that afternoon and saw for himself that there was nowhere from which a discreet observation could be mounted. However, there was a telephone kiosk on the corner that gave a view down both Pine Walk and Chiltern Drive. And that gave Hardcastle an idea, but he would have to move swiftly.
Driving back into the centre of Kingston, he parked the car and made his way to the office of Henry Marsh, the area manager responsible for telephones.
‘Yes, Inspector, I can see your problem.’ Marsh was probably nearing sixty years of age, was overweight and grey-haired. He put the tips of his fingers together and touched his lips with his two index fingers. ‘We’re always willing to assist the police, especially now there’s a war on.’ He lowered his hands, linked them together on his desk and leaned forward, an earnest expression on his face. ‘I’ll tell you what I can do: I’ll show that kiosk to be out of order and I’ll have one of our canvas shelters erected in front of it. Your chaps could remain inside the shelter until they needed to move. How would that be?’
‘That would be extremely helpful, Mr Marsh, thank you.’
‘I’ll have to put one of my chaps on site as well, because he’ll need to drive the van that takes the shelter equipment up there. He’s all right, though; he’s one of your special constables.’