by Graham Ison
‘That was the divisional surgeon’s view, guv,’ agreed Black, ‘but his job was only to certify death.’
‘I do know the limitations of divisional surgeons, Ken. I also know that some of them fancy themselves as forensic pathologists.’
‘I’ve met one or two, guv. However, I’ve called Sir Bernard Spilsbury and he’s on his way.’ Spilsbury’s expertise stretched back a long way. Twenty-five years ago, he had given evidence in what became known as the Brides in the Bath case, and in which his unchallengeable evidence had proved that the death of George Joseph Smith’s wives was a result of vagal inhibition and not drowning, an opinion that resulted in Smith going to the gallows.
Hardcastle returned to the bedroom and pushed open a door. Beyond was a luxurious, tiled room that contained a shower and a washbasin. Above the washbasin was a small mirror-fronted cabinet containing a number of cosmetics.
‘That’s an expensive scent, guv’nor,’ said Bradley, pointing to a small bottle of perfume. The label showed the name of a well-known perfumer. ‘I bought it for Blanche last Christmas and it cost me an arm and a leg.’
‘Probably a present from an admirer, Jack, for services rendered. Might be lucky enough to find a usable fingerprint on it.’
Hardcastle opened the wardrobe in which there were a few garments of a garish nature, but all of them expensive, judging by the labels. ‘We’ll have a word with this Mrs Kane while we’re waiting for Sir Bernard.’
‘I told her you’d want to speak to her,’ said DI Black, and turned to the constable at the door. ‘When Sir Bernard Spilsbury arrives, let Mr Hardcastle know,’ he said, before the two detectives walked the short distance along the balcony to Mrs Kane’s flat.
‘Oh, do come along in.’ Audrey Kane was a grey-haired, stout woman with a bright, welcoming smile. She wore a navy-blue cardigan over her frock. The immediate impression was of a woman of tireless energy who constantly bustled about. ‘I’ve just made a pot of tea, my dears. I thought you’d be coming along, sooner or later. Do have a seat while I pour you a cup.’ Clearly, she was not one to brook a refusal. In contrast to her neighbour’s flat, Mrs Kane’s was not as expensively furnished, but was sparklingly clean. Much of the furniture would have been described by Hardcastle’s mother, Alice, as ‘cheap and cheerful’, but it had been well-cared-for.
‘I’m sorry if we’ve kept you from doing something else, Mrs Kane,’ began Hardcastle, having introduced himself and Bradley, ‘but it was necessary for us to speak to you as soon as possible. I hope you weren’t too upset by the sight of the body.’
Audrey Kane laughed, a warm and jovial laugh. ‘Good heavens, no, Mr Hardcastle. When you’ve laid out as many as I have, you aren’t put off by the sight of a stiff, I can tell you that, my dear.’ She primped her hair and then handed round the tea. ‘And as for the number of post-mortems, well …’
‘It seems you have some nursing experience, Mrs Kane,’ suggested Bradley unwisely.
‘I’m a state-registered nurse.’ Mrs Kane lifted her head slightly and spoke in a tone of voice that implied having ‘some nursing experience’ was tantamount to an insult to a woman who was entitled to put the letters ‘SRN’ after her name. ‘I’m a sister at Kingston Hospital. I gave up work at St Mary’s in Praed Street, Paddington a few years ago to look after my husband. He had the consumption, you know, but when he passed away, I went back to nursing. There’s plenty to do now there’s a war on.’
‘Do you happen to know what time your neighbour’s visitor arrived, Mrs Kane?’
‘No, that was before I came in, but I saw that her front door was ajar and went in to see if she was all right. But she wasn’t.’
‘Excuse me, sir.’ The uniformed constable tapped lightly on the door and came into the flat. ‘Sir Bernard Spilsbury’s arrived, sir.’
‘If you’ll excuse us, Mrs Kane …’ But before Hardcastle could move, he was interrupted by the appearance of the great forensic pathologist himself, who had followed the PC into Mrs Kane’s flat.
‘I thought I recognized the name. It’s Sister Kane, unless I’m much mistaken.’ Spilsbury doffed his hat and then stepped across to shake hands with Mrs Kane. He handed his hat to the constable as though he were a butler.
‘Good afternoon, sir. I’m sure you’d like a cup of tea, sir.’
‘That would be most welcome, Sister.’ Spilsbury turned to Hardcastle. ‘Sister Kane was the mortuary nurse at St Mary’s for a while, Hardcastle. Got to know some of my cadavers as well as I did.’
‘Would you care for a seat, sir?’ asked Audrey Kane as she handed him the cup of tea.
‘No, I must get on, but before I go, tell me, Sister, what did you make of it?’
‘Oh, I’d say she was hit on the head with the wine bottle, without a doubt, sir.’
‘That’s very helpful.’ Spilsbury drank his tea, then gave his cup and saucer to the constable in exchange for his hat. ‘It would be very handy if we had a trained nurse on the scene of every murder, Hardcastle.’ Spilsbury chuckled at his little jest.
‘I’ll see if I can arrange it, Sir Bernard,’ said Hardcastle, maintaining a deadpan expression.
The four police officers and Spilsbury moved next door to Joyce Butler’s flat. The pathologist took off his jacket and leaned over the dead woman’s body. Confining himself to looking rather than touching, he made a few notes on the back of an envelope and stood up.
‘Sister Kane was right, of course, which is hardly surprising, Hardcastle. I’ll let you have a report as soon as I’ve completed the post-mortem examination.’ Spilsbury paused. ‘But, of course, you’ll be there. Tomorrow morning, say ten o’clock?’
‘I’ll be there, Sir Bernard. Where would you like the cadaver, sir? Usual place?’
‘Yes, the usual place, Hardcastle. St Mary’s, Paddington.’
After Spilsbury’s departure, Hardcastle brought in the waiting scientists from the forensic science laboratory at Hendon, the photographers and the fingerprint examiner.
The scientific examination of the flat took several hours. There was an abundance of fingerprints and it would take days, weeks even, before a conclusive identification was achieved, but only if those prints matched any filed in the national fingerprint collection held at New Scotland Yard.
One piece of immediately available evidence was a driving licence.
‘I found this driver’s licence down the back of the settee, sir,’ said a detective constable named Barber who was assisting in the search. ‘It belongs to a Christopher Farr with an address in Guildford, Surrey and was issued by the Surrey County Council at the beginning of last year.’
Hardcastle took the document and examined it. ‘We must trace this Christopher Farr as soon as possible,’ he said, ‘although if he’s in London and ends up in this girl’s flat, the chances are that he’s now been called up for one of the services and could be anywhere.’
‘If he’s in the Navy, sir, he could be on the other side of the world by now,’ suggested DC John Barber.
‘Thank you very much for that helpful observation, Barber. As a reward for your burgeoning detective skills, you can find him. Shouldn’t be too difficult; the address is on the driving licence.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Barber wished that he’d kept his mouth shut.
‘There’s an army uniform in a cupboard in the bedroom, sir.’ Bradley walked into the room holding a battledress blouse. ‘If it belongs to the victim’s husband, he’s a sergeant in the Royal Army Ordnance Corps. His army number’s stamped inside.’ He turned the collar so that eight large numerals were displayed.
‘Should be easy enough to find him, Jack. Get one of the lads on to it.’
At half past eight, Hardcastle decided that there was no more that could be done at the scene for the time being. The cadaver had been removed to St Mary’s and the crime scene was sealed and guarded by a uniformed constable.
As they reached the ground floor, the group of detectives met a member of the London Fire B
rigade putting a key into the door of a flat.
‘What’s going on here, then?’ asked the fireman, pausing. ‘There are coppers all over the place.’
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of V Division. And you are?’
‘Leading Fireman Eric Simpson. Who’s been murdered? I bet it’s that tart at Number Twelve. Joyce Butler.’
‘What makes you think that, Mr Simpson?’
‘I reckon she’s at it. Almost every time I get home, I see some bloke knocking on her door or just leaving. And it’s a different bloke each time. It’s her hubby I feel sorry for. Poor bastard’s in the army while she’s having it off with any man willing to oblige. And from what I’ve seen there’s no shortage.’
‘You’re quite right; Mrs Butler has been murdered, Mr Simpson. Have you any idea where her husband’s stationed?’
‘My missus was talking to her one time and she said her old man was in the Ordnance Corps down near Dorking somewhere.’
‘Have you ever met him?’
‘No, otherwise I’d have tipped him off. Mind you, he might know and maybe doesn’t give a damn what she gets up to.’
‘D’you know if Joyce Butler was in employment?’ asked Bradley.
‘Yeah, she was an usherette at the Super Cinema in Fife Road.’
‘I won’t keep you any longer, Mr Simpson,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but I may need to see you again. This is your flat, is it?’ he asked, gesturing at Simpson’s front door.
‘Yes, that’s me. Well, I don’t own it, I’m renting it. I’ve just come off duty. But if I’m on duty – and that seems to be most of the time these days – you’ll find me at Kingston fire station.’
FOURTEEN
It was half past eleven the following day by the time that Hardcastle and Bradley entered the Super Cinema in Fife Road.
‘We ain’t open yet, love.’ A woman was vaccuming the carpet in the foyer, but switched off the vacuum cleaner to make this announcement.
‘Is the manager here?’ asked Hardcastle, displaying his warrant card.
‘Yeah. Up the stairs, love, and it’s the door on the left.’
The two detectives mounted the broad staircase and tapped lightly on the door marked ‘Manager’.
‘Come!’ said an imperious voice.
‘Pompous bastard,’ muttered Bradley, as he pushed open the door, allowing Hardcastle to enter first.
‘Good morning,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’m—’
‘Whatever it is you’re selling, I don’t want it.’ The manager had all the appearances of a fussy little man to whom the trivia of life was important. Probably in his mid-forties and overweight, his top lip was adorned with a pencil-thin moustache. He was already attired in a dinner jacket, ready for the day’s performance.
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolian Police, V Division, Mr …?’
The manager scoffed. ‘Oh, are you really? I suppose you’re selling some sort of burglar alarm, are you? Or some sophisticated security system?’
‘And I’m Detective Sergeant Bradley.’ Stepping forward, Bradley put his open warrant card within an inch of the manager’s face.
The manager leapt to his feet. ‘Oh, I’m most terribly sorry, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘My name’s Donald Burton. Please take a seat and tell me what I can do for you. I must apologize for the misunderstanding, but we get so many commercial travellers calling and they’ll tell all manner of lies to get past the commissionaire.’
‘There was no commissionaire,’ said Bradley, further adding to Burton’s discomfort. ‘We spoke to a lady operating a Hoover.’
‘However,’ said Hardcastle, ‘we’ve come to talk to you about Joyce Butler.’
‘Oh, what’s she done now?’ asked Burton in a tired voice, as though he was expecting news of yet another transgression.
‘You don’t sound surprised that we’re here to talk to you about her.’
‘To be perfectly honest, Inspector, I had to get rid of her. I’d had a number of complaints, mainly from the other members of staff. It seemed that she had a tendency to disappear out of one of the emergency exits before the end of her shift, leaving the other girls to do the clearing up.’ Burton paused. ‘But why have you come here? What’s she done to attract the attention of the police?’ He didn’t sound surprised.
‘She was found dead in her flat yesterday afternoon, Mr Burton. She’d been murdered.’
‘Oh, good God!’ The colour drained from Burton’s face. ‘How terrible.’ He began to mop at his brow with a large handkerchief.
‘Anything you can tell me about her could be useful in tracking down her murderer.’ Hardcastle wondered whether Burton’s reaction to the news of Joyce Butler’s untimely end indicated some closer relationship with the usherette than that of employer and employee.
‘It’s only just come to my notice,’ said Burton, recovering his composure, ‘but the girls said that she was man-mad. She was not above talking to patrons and had apparently gone out with a number of them. Her favourite haunt, so I heard, was the Surbiton Assembly Rooms dance hall in Maple Road.’
‘Have you ever visited the assembly rooms yourself, Mr Burton?’ asked Bradley who, like Hardcastle, was beginning to wonder whether Burton was involved in the death of Joyce Butler.
‘Good heavens no!’ Burton’s response was so adamant as to be almost suspicious.
‘Did you have an affair with her, given that she was free with her favours, Mr Burton?’ asked Bradley, more out of devilment than genuine suspicion.
‘Certainly not!’ Burton almost managed to puff himself up with rage.
‘I think that’s all for the moment, Mr Burton,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but we’ll most likely need to see you later on.’
‘Of course. Incidentally, any time you want to come in to see a film, I’ll leave a free pass at the box office.’
‘Thank you, but I doubt we’ll have the time.’ Hardcastle had a particular loathing of men like Burton who attempted to curry favour with the police with a subtle sort of bribery.
‘Bloody sauce,’ muttered Bradley, as the pair of detectives left the theatre. ‘Did you notice, guv’nor, that he was wearing a ready-made bow tie?’
‘It must be something to do with the war,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What d’you think, Jack? D’you think he could have had anything to do with the woman’s murder?’
‘No, he’s not got the guts to murder anyone. And if he gets called up, he’ll swear he’s a conscientious objector.’
In any event, Burton’s attempt to curry favour was to no avail; a week later the Super Cinema burned down. How it happened was never resolved, but the tragedy was not attributed to enemy action.
Hardcastle and Bradley eventually arrived back at their Putney headquarters. Grabbing a quick lunch of a meat pie, potatoes and peas in the canteen, they set about catching up on anything that might have happened during their absence.
‘DC Bleach has traced Joyce Butler’s husband, sir,’ said Detective Sergeant Gordon Hanley, the officer in charge of the incident room that had been set up to deal with the murder of Joyce Butler. ‘He’s Sergeant Ron Butler of the Royal Army Ordnance Corps, aged twenty-six, and he’s stationed at an ammunition depot just outside Dorking in Surrey.’ Hanley slid a piece of paper across Hardcastle’s desk. ‘All the details are on there, sir.’
‘Thanks, Skip.’ Hardcastle yawned as he turned to Bradley. ‘I suppose we’ll get a chance to put our feet up sometime, Jack.’ He and Bradley had now been working for two days, with little sleep, and there was still no end in sight. ‘Better go and see him.’
‘I’ll get a car, guv.’ Bradley knew that there was no point in suggesting that the Surrey Constabulary should interview the dead woman’s husband on behalf of the Metropolitan Police. This was, after all, a murder enquiry and it’s never surprising to find, in cases like this one, that the husband very often turns out to be the murderer.
‘Get DC Bleach to drive because I don’t
want you falling asleep at the wheel. In the meantime, I’ll ring the military police at Great Scotland Yard and see if I can interest them in this affair. We might just need their help.’
There was an armed sentry at the gates to the Dorking ammunition depot. Having closely examined the warrant cards of Hardcastle and Bradley, he directed them to the guardroom.
A tall man in army battledress was standing at the window, hands behind his back, and turned as the two detectives entered. He was about forty with short black hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. His peaked cap had a scarlet cover and the immaculate creases in his trousers and in the sleeves of his tunic were so sharp that it appeared they might be harmful to the touch. The webbing belt he wore was blancoed white. The bottoms of his trousers hung neatly over his white anklets and his boots were like black glass. Most people would think more than twice before picking a fight with him.
‘Mr Hardcastle?’ As the soldier turned, the Royal Arms on each of his lower sleeves became visible, as did the MP brassard on his right arm.
‘That’s me.’
‘Regimental Sarn’t Major Dick Purdy, Corps of Military Police.’ He gripped Hardcastle’s hand firmly and then shook hands with Jack Bradley. ‘I understand there’s a lairy sergeant you’re interested in?’
‘Yes, and I’d like a room where I can interview him. Is that possible, Mr Purdy?’
‘In the army, Mr Hardcastle, everything’s possible until it’s been proved impossible. And then, we set about proving that the impossible is possible after all. We’ll get the whole thing organized by having a word with the conductor.’
‘The conductor?’ queried Bradley. ‘How on earth does a conductor get involved in all this?’
‘A conductor, Sarn’t Bradley,’ said Purdy gravely, as though the detective had just impugned the army that Purdy so admired, ‘is a senior warrant officer peculiar to the Royal Army Ordnance Corps. And I do mean peculiar. What he don’t know about guns and ammunition and all sorts of other bits and pieces ain’t worth knowing.’ He glanced at the guard commander, who appeared to be taking an inordinate interest in the arrival of the police and their conversation with the military police RSM. ‘And you have heard nothing, Sergeant. You’ll be like the three wise monkeys who see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil all rolled into one. Because I suspect that evil is what we’re dealing with here. Got that, have you?’