Hardcastle's Secret Agent

by Graham Ison

  ‘Sir,’ replied the guard commander.

  ‘If this becomes a topic of conversation in the Sarnts’ Mess or, worse still, in the NAAFI canteen, I shall come looking. Understood?’ he added, casting a glance at the stickman.

  ‘Sir,’ said the guard commander again.

  The Conductor of Ordnance was nowhere near as smartly turned out as Purdy. The impression was more like a manager of a large department store who somehow had finished up wearing army uniform, but was not greatly concerned about how it looked. The one thing that would cause anyone to pause before commenting on his turnout was the insignia of the Royal Arms encircled by a laurel wreath, marking him out as one of the most senior warrant officers in the army.

  ‘I’m RSM Purdy of the Military Police.’

  The conductor stood up, at the same time eyeing the two police officers suspiciously. ‘Trevor Evans, Mr Purdy.’

  ‘These two officers are from the civil police, Mr Evans. Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle and Detective Sergeant Bradley.’

  ‘How d’you do, gentlemen. You’re not from the Fraud Squad by any chance, are you?’

  ‘No, Mr Evans, we’re from the V Division of the Metropolitan Police. Are you expecting the Fraud Squad, then?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ The conductor sounded relieved. ‘How can I be of assistance?’

  ‘We’ve been told that Sergeant Ronald Butler is a member of this unit, Mr Evans.’

  ‘Ron Butler? Yes, he is,’ said Evans. ‘What’s he been up to, then?’

  ‘His wife has been murdered,’ said Bradley, ‘and we have to speak to him.’

  ‘Blimey! When did this happen?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon, Mr Evans. Her body was found at five o'clock.’

  ‘I’ll send for him,’ said Evans. ‘That’ll be a blow for him. He’s not long been married.’

  ‘Before you do,’ said Purdy, ‘these officers would like a room in which to interview him.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll get the chief clerk to sort something out.’ Evans picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Staff, it’s the conductor. Find a spare room where two police officers can carry out an interview, and then get hold of Sergeant Butler and bring him over here. But don’t tell Butler that the police want to talk to him.’

  There was a concerned look on Sergeant Butler’s face when the chief clerk escorted him into the conductor’s office. Butler confirmed that he was twenty-six years of age, and according to his army records had been a soldier only since the outbreak of war. His swift promotion was, according to Conductor Evans, down to his ability to grasp all there was to know about ammunition in order to do the job of an ammunition examiner.

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir.’ Butler was a slender figure and smartly turned out. His blond hair was cut very short and he had boyish features that doubtless would last well into middle age.

  ‘These two gentlemen are from the police, Sarn’t Butler,’ said Evans, ‘and the warrant officer is RSM Purdy of the Military Police.’

  This statement caused Butler to appear even more nervous than he had when he entered the office.

  ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Evans,’ said Purdy. ‘We’ll take it from here.’

  ‘Show these gentlemen to the room you’ve allocated to them, Staff,’ said Evans to the chief clerk, ‘and then you can get back to your duties. Oh, and forget all about seeing the police here.’

  The room that the chief clerk had found was airy and spacious. RSM Purdy set about arranging a table and three chairs in a suitable layout to conduct an interview. He placed his own chair a short distance away so that he could hear Hardcastle if there was anything the inspector required. But he knew not to interfere in the interview; that was police business – civil police business.

  Hardcastle and Bradley settled themselves opposite Butler. Bradley offered Butler a cigarette and he almost snatched it. His hand was shaking so much that he could hardly keep it still enough to accept a light from Bradley’s lighter. RSM Purdy waved a hand of refusal as though the smoking of cigarettes was beneath the dignity of a senior warrant officer.

  ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Sergeant Butler,’ began Hardcastle. Aware that there was no easy way to break devastating news, he went straight to the point. ‘Your wife, Joyce, was found murdered in your flat at Ravenscroft at about five o’clock yesterday afternoon.’ But the answer that Hardcastle got was not one that he was expecting.

  ‘I’m not surprised, Inspector. In fact, I’m surprised it didn’t happen before.’

  ‘Would you care to explain that comment, Sergeant Butler?’

  ‘We got married a year ago, just before the war started. I suppose we got carried away by what was going to happen. I mean, no one seemed to have any idea. Apart from all that, Joyce told me she was pregnant. Well, that was the first lie. She wasn’t up the duff at all. All right, we’d had a bit of a tumble from time to time, and I thought maybe it was possible, so I did the decent thing. It was a cheap wedding all round. It was at a register office, and there was no one to give her away. She said something about her father having cleared off years ago, and the last she heard of her mother, she was hawking her mutton in Shepherd Market. As for the wedding breakfast, that was a meal at Lyons Corner House in the Strand. There weren’t any guests; just Joyce and me.’

  ‘When you say the first lie, Sergeant Butler, does that mean there were more?’

  ‘Oh yeah. A few weeks ago, I got a thirty-six-hour pass a bit unexpected like and went home of a Saturday night. She was bloody well in bed with some oik from the Gunners, name of …’ Butler paused. ‘Yeah, got it. Chris Farr. Bombardier Chris Farr. He’s stationed at a gunsite in Kensington Gardens. Anyhow, we had a bit of a set-to and I gave him his marching orders.’

  ‘D’you mean you had a fight?’ asked Bradley.

  ‘Not likely. That’s court-martial stuff for a sergeant to thump a bombardier, and I didn’t fancy losing these,’ said Butler, tapping the three stripes on his arm, ‘just because I’d got a flighty missus.’

  ‘Did your wife say where she’d met this man Farr?’

  ‘After some persuasion, she said she’d met him at a dance at the Surbiton Assembly Rooms in Maple Road, Sergeant Bradley.’

  ‘When you say you used some persuasion, what does that mean exactly?’

  Butler paused, but then decided to tell the truth. ‘I slapped her around a bit. Nothing serious, mind. Put her over my knee and gave her a bit of a spanking.’

  ‘Were there other men in your wife’s life that you knew of then, Sergeant Butler?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘If we’re to find who killed her, we need to know.’

  Butler scoffed. ‘None that I could identify. But there were odd things that gave the game away. Sexy black underwear I’d not seen before and that she never wore when I was with her. And one time I found a fag end with a cork tip in an ashtray. Well, the missus didn’t smoke and I’ve never smoked cork tips.’ He paused thoughtfully for several seconds. ‘Come to think of it, I think she was on the game, just like her mother.’ Butler paused again.

  ‘This cork-tipped cigarette butt,’ persisted Bradley. ‘Could it have been left by a woman friend of your wife?’

  Butler scoffed. ‘I doubt it. She never had any women friends. She was too busy going after something in trousers or, better still, out of ’em.’

  ‘Were you going to divorce her?’ Hardcastle asked.

  ‘That was the idea, but there’s talk this unit’s being moved abroad and, anyway, divorce costs money. I was just going to let her get on with it. She goes her way and I go mine.’

  ‘Does that mean that you’ve got a girlfriend, Sergeant Butler?’

  ‘Yes, I have, Inspector. Well, d’you blame me?’ Butler asked with a boyish grin.

  ‘We’ll need her name and address,’ said Bradley.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘It’s routine,’ said Bradley, employing a completely pointless reason that the police always asked and the p
ublic never queried.

  ‘Her name’s Kate Langley.’

  ‘And her address? Here, put it in there.’ Bradley pushed his pocketbook across the table and waited while Butler wrote down the details.

  Hardcastle stood up. ‘That’ll be all for the time being, Sergeant Butler. I’ll probably have to see you again, but if you think of anything that might be useful to us, give me a ring at Putney police station. Just ask for me or Detective Sergeant Bradley. It’s particularly important if you recall a name.’

  Butler just nodded as he walked out of the room. Hardcastle couldn’t decide whether he was upset about his wife’s death or whether he really was as indifferent as he’d sounded during the interview. Or was he distancing himself from a murder he had actually committed? If he had been telling the truth about his wife’s conduct, it sounded like a motive.

  ‘Mr Purdy, there are a few things you could perhaps find out for me. But it mustn’t get back to any of them that we’ve made these enquiries. Firstly, was Butler in barracks last night? And, secondly, does he own a car? And perhaps you’d find out if this Bombardier Farr is actually stationed in Kensington Gardens – again without his knowing.’

  ‘Discretion’s my middle name, Mr Hardcastle. Leave it to me. I’ll give you a ring as soon as I’ve got the answers.’

  Hardcastle and Bradley got back to Putney at half past five.

  ‘There was a call for you from an RSM Purdy of the Military Police, sir. About ten minutes ago.’ Detective Sergeant Hanley, the office manager, handed Hardcastle a message form.

  ‘Jack, come into my office and sit yourself down.’ Hardcastle took a bottle of whisky from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured a substantial measure into each of two tumblers. ‘Good health,’ he said and raised his glass. He picked up the message form that Hanley had given him. ‘Ah! According to RSM Purdy, it seems that sergeants are allowed to come and go as they please, provided they’re not on duty. He says that as far as is known, Sergeant Butler was in his quarter at Dorking all night. But as the senior ranks have separate rooms, Purdy can’t be certain.’ Hardcastle looked up, a wry grin on his face. ‘Just for good measure, he adds that Butler owns a motorcycle that he keeps at the ammunition depot. As for Bombardier Farr, enquiries are continuing. I don’t know about you, Jack, but I’ve had enough for one day. We’ll pack it in and start again tomorrow morning when we’ve had some sleep.’

  ‘Amen to that, guv’nor,’ said Bradley. ‘What in particular?’

  ‘This address for Farr that was on the driving licence found at the scene. I think we’ll make some enquiries there to see if we can learn something about this Bombardier Farr. You never know, we might be lucky enough to find that he’s the killer.’

  ‘That’d be a first, guv.’ Bradley laughed cynically. ‘Like me winning the football pools.’

  FIFTEEN

  It was a plain, almost ugly, semi-detached house in one of the roads off Sydenham Road to the south-east of Guildford town centre. It was probably big enough to be shared by two families, but it was evident that none of the occupants enjoyed tending the garden. Weeds thrust their way up between its paving stones and an old bicycle with flat tyres was propped against a side wall.

  The woman who answered the door was about fifty, maybe older. It was difficult to tell as she had iron-grey hair dragged back in an unattractive style and wore a shapeless grey frock, the shortness of its sleeves displaying leg-of-mutton arms. She wiped her hands on her apron and, taking the stub of a cigarette out of her mouth, flicked it into next door’s front garden. She stared at the two men on the doorstep.

  ‘Yes? What is it? If it’s about the rent, you’ll have to come back next week.’

  ‘We’re police officers, Mrs …?’ Hardcastle raised his trilby hat.

  ‘Oh Gawd! Has he been killed?’

  ‘I’m sorry, madam,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Has who been killed?’

  ‘That layabout husband what my daughter Janet got herself wed to.’

  ‘Who are you, then?’ asked Bradley.

  ‘Mrs Spurr. Winifred Spurr.’

  ‘Spurr was your daughter’s maiden name, then, was it?’ persisted Bradley, tiring of the woman’s reluctance to part with any information in a straightforward way.

  ‘No, it was Carver. My old man got hisself killed at the end of the last war. He weren’t no hero, though. Got hisself run over by an army lorry one night in Cologne, stupid sod. Probably pissed. Anyways, I got married again, after Janet was born.’

  ‘D’you mind if we come in, Mrs Spurr?’ suggested Bradley. ‘I think your neighbour’s taking an interest in our conversation.’

  ‘Huh! Got elephant’s ears, that one. Nothing better to do but listen to other people’s woes, that’s her trouble.’ Winifred Spurr led the way into what she called the parlour. It had a colourful carpet with a vaguely Indian design, and a three-piece suite that was probably from a shop that offered hire-purchase terms and made its deliveries in a plain van.

  ‘Can we start again, Mrs Spurr?’ said Hardcastle. ‘I presume your daughter is Janet Farr, née Carver, and she is married to Christopher Farr, currently serving in His Majesty’s Forces.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Spurr, as though that conclusion was obvious.

  ‘Is she at home?’

  ‘If you means is she here, the answer’s no.’

  ‘Has she moved, then?’

  ‘No, she’s gone down the town to get the rations. Not that there’s much in the shops these days. I had to queue for half an hour the other day, just to get a couple of lamb chops.’

  ‘You described Christopher Farr as Janet’s layabout husband,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Well, he is.’

  ‘What makes you think that, Mrs Spurr?’

  ‘I don’t think it, I knows it. Always running about after a bit of skirt while his poor wife’s sitting at home looking after her two kids.’

  ‘You say you know it. What proof d’you have?’

  ‘I don’t have none, but Janet does. Chris is stationed at a gunsite up London somewhere, see, and one night she rings up the unit on account of her not having heard from him for nigh-on a fortnight. But the bloke who answered the phone told our Janet that Bombardier Farr had taken his wife out dancing up the Astoria. Some place up London, so he said. I think it was the Astoria, not that I go up the Smoke if I can avoid it.’

  It suddenly occurred to Winifred Spurr to query why the police were here and asking all these questions.

  ‘We’re from New Scotland Yard, Mrs Spurr,’ began Hardcastle, seeking to impress the woman.

  ‘Oh, my Gawd! She’s been done in. My poor Janet’s been murdered. And she only went out to get the rations, an’ all.’

  ‘Your daughter’s alive and well to the best of our knowledge,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’re merely following up a few leads in a case of ration-book forgery. We have a whole list of names of people who might have been involved, quite innocently, and who have to be checked out.’ He decided that it would be unwise to tell Mrs Spurr the real reason for their enquiries. If Christopher Farr turned out to be Joyce Butler’s killer, he did not want him forewarned. ‘Has your daughter worked in a food shop recently, Mrs Spurr?’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’ Winifred Spurr’s haughty response sounded like a rebuke, as if Hardcastle had just insulted her. And her daughter. ‘My Janet’s a hairdresser,’ she said.

  ‘In that case, we’ll not need to trouble you again, Mrs Spurr. Obviously, the Janet Farr we’re interested in is not your daughter.’

  ‘I don’t wonder there’s a crime wave if this is how you waste your time,’ said Winfred Spurr, as she showed the two police officers to the door.

  Jack Bradley laughed as he and Hardcastle got into their car. ‘What a battleaxe. No wonder Farr doesn’t go home often. Fancy having her for a mother-in-law.’

  ‘There are a lot of them about,’ commented Hardcastle. ‘Fortunately, I get on extremely well with my mother-in-law.’

  �
�What’s next, guv’nor?’

  ‘Back to the office, Jack. I’m hoping we’ll get some scientific and fingerprint evidence from Joyce Butler’s apartment. Then, I think we’ll get up to Kensington Gardens. I’m fed up waiting for RSM Purdy to come up with some answers. The longer we wait, the longer that Farr will have time to think up some excuses or even an alibi.’

  ‘Or do a runner, guv’nor.’

  The gun emplacement was just inside Queen’s Gate of Kensington Gardens, and covered quite a large area. Apart from the Vickers QF 3.7-inch heavy anti-aircraft gun and a direction-finder, there was also a Nissen hut covered completely with sandbags and camouflage netting. There was an eight-foot-high L-shaped pile of sandbags protecting the door to the hut. The whole area was surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by an armed sentry.

  As they approached the entrance to the gunsite, Hardcastle and Bradley were stopped by a park keeper who was the epitome of officialdom usually found only in a man dressed in a little brief authority.

  ‘This is a War Department area and is closed to the public,’ he announced importantly, as though Hardcastle and Bradley were a couple of tourists bent on having a look around. He held out a hand. ‘Identity cards.’

  ‘What about them?’ asked Bradley mildly.

  ‘I need to see them.’ The park keeper pushed out his chest as though that would add to his authority.

  ‘Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of Scotland Yard.’ Hardcastle produced his warrant card, as did Bradley.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, gents,’ said the park keeper, suddenly deflating in the face of an authority much greater than his own. ‘You can’t be too careful.’