by Graham Ison
‘You could also try keeping a civil tongue in your head,’ said Bradley, as he and Hardcastle passed through the gap in the perimeter. The armed sentry smirked.
As they made their way towards the gun, they were approached by a youthful second lieutenant. He looked, and probably was, about nineteen and had likely been a school prefect a year ago. ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’
Hardcastle introduced himself and Bradley, and again they produced their warrant cards.
‘Follow me, gentlemen.’ The officer, whose name, he told them, was John Wainwright, led the way to the Nissen hut. The red-backed Bath star on each of his epaulettes appeared to be very new, and he had a habit of frequently striking his right leg with his swagger cane as he walked. ‘I’ve got a bit of this structure partitioned off as an office-cum-bedroom,’ he added with a laugh. He shouted for a gunner called Wilkins and told him to find some chairs. Eventually, Gunner Wilkins, who looked old enough to be Wainwright’s father, struggled into the office with a couple of fold-up chairs. ‘Sorry about all this austerity,’ said Wainwright, waving his hand around his cramped quarters as Hardcastle and Bradley sat down. ‘We’re living rough out here. Wouldn’t think it was the centre of London, would you?’
‘We’re from V Division of the Metropolitan Police,’ said Hardcastle, determined to cut short the young officer’s monologue about living conditions. ‘And we’re investigating a murder.’
‘Sounds serious,’ said Wainwright airily, but there was an element of nervousness behind his strained confidence.
‘Murder usually is,’ observed Bradley.
‘In connection with our enquiries, we would like to speak to Bombardier Christopher Farr, Mr Wainwright.’
‘So would I,’ said the subaltern, becoming serious for the first time. ‘The bugger’s gone AWOL’
‘When did he go absent?’ asked Bradley.
‘Two days ago.’ Wainwright glanced at a desk calendar. ‘That would have been the thirty-first. When the battery sergeant went to rouse the men – we’d received an alert, you see – he found that Farr was adrift. But might I ask why you’re interested in him?’
‘I don’t want you to communicate this to Farr if he returns, Mr Wainwright, but a woman with whom we believe Farr had an affair was found dead last Wednesday afternoon. At five o’clock, in fact. She’d been murdered.’
‘Oh God! And you suspect Farr of having killed this woman?’
‘Not at all.’ Even so, to Hardcastle, it looked very much as though Farr was connected with Joyce Butler’s death, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Wainwright. ‘But we’d rather he didn’t know about it until we’ve had a chance to interview him. In view of what you’ve told us, though, it’s most likely that he’ll be in the custody of the Military Police by the time we get to see him.’
‘Have you any idea why he should have run?’ asked Bradley.
‘No idea at all. Occasionally, I would grant him a few hours’ leave so that he could visit his wife in Guildford, but he never complained about anything. Neither should he. After all, he might have been in the Middle East with the Eighth Army. This Kensington Gardens posting is what the troops call a cushy number, but to be frank, I think we stand a better chance of being killed here with nightly bombings, than in one or two of the overseas stations.’
‘What does Farr look like?’ asked Bradley.
For a moment or two, Wainwright furrowed his forehead in thought. ‘About five-nine, I suppose. Auburn hair and a moustache. He’s quite well built and was scheduled to take part in the inter-battery boxing competition a few weeks ago, but it was cancelled becaue of the raids every night.’
‘One last thing, Mr Wainwright. If Farr turns up of his own volition – and it has happened before – perhaps you’d let me know. I’ll give you my telephone number at Putney.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Before we go, we’d like to have a word with the battery sergeant,’ said Bradley.
‘Oh, is that really necessary, Sergeant?’ asked Wainwright sharply, making the mistake of assuming a detective sergeant equated with an army sergeant.
‘This is a murder enquiry and we’ll talk to anyone we think might assist us,’ said Bradley. ‘The penalty for obstructing us in the execution of our duty can mean imprisonment.’
‘Oh, er, yes. Of course. Sergeant Cassidy is supervising maintenance at the moment. I’ll walk over with you.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Wainwright,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’m sure we can find him.’
As Hardcastle and Bradley neared the anti-aircraft gun, Sergeant Cassidy stopped what he was doing and walked across to meet them.
‘Mick Cassidy, gents. I’m the battery sergeant, and you’re from the police.’
‘How did you know that?’ asked Bradley, an amused expression on his face. He realized, of course, that Cassidy would have spotted their arrival and promptly interrogated the sentry.
‘Because I’m the battery sergeant, I have to know everything. What can I do for you?’
Cassidy was a stocky individual and looked to be about forty-five. The medal ribbons that adorned his tunic testified to service in the Great War, and his pressed uniform would have passed muster for an important parade. Hardcastle guessed that he was probably a regular soldier who had served in the army continuously since 1914.
Hardcastle introduced himself and Bradley. ‘We’re looking for Bombardier Farr, but we understand from Mr Wainwright that he’s adrift.’
‘What’s that leery little bastard been up to now, apart from having gone over the wall? But something tells me you’re not concerned about him going absent.’
As briefly as possible, Hardcastle explained their interest in the missing soldier and his connection with Joyce Butler.
‘That’s very interesting.’ Cassidy pointed to a row of houses on the other side of Kensington Road. ‘See the house with the red front door? The basement is ours. It was commandeered when the war started and that’s where the lads are billeted.’
‘D’you have a quarter over there, too?’ asked Bradley.
‘No, I’ve got the other end of the Nissen hut, but I pay a visit from time to time, mainly to see that they’re keeping the place in order. However, I paid ’em a surprise visit one night and found that they’d invited a woman in there, and she wasn’t wearing too much in the way of clothes.’
‘What was that all about, then?’
‘I don’t think it was a Bible class.’ Cassidy laughed. ‘Anyway, I threw her out and gave the men a roasting they’re unlikely to forget.’
‘Did you report it to Mr Wainwright, Sergeant Cassidy?’ asked Bradley.
‘No, mate.’ Cassidy smiled. ‘He’d have been talking about court-martials and God knows what else. One of the things you learn in the army is that if you treat the men fairly, and if they’re out of order, you give ’em a bloody good bollocking. Start talking about court-martials and you lose their loyalty and that’s a bloody dangerous thing to do in wartime. Wainwright’s a nice enough kid, but he’s still wet behind the ears. He’ll learn how to handle men in time, but meanwhile I have to steer him in the right direction.’
‘One other thing, Sergeant Cassidy,’ Hardcastle asked. ‘Did you identify this woman?’
‘Oh yes. She was on War Department property and I was entitled to see her identity card. She was called Joyce Butler and her old man’s a sergeant in the Ordnance Corps. I was tempted to ring him up and tell him, but then I decided to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘D’you know who brought her in?’
‘Yeah, it was Farr. And because he was a bombardier, I took him outside and tore him off a strip, rather than do it in front of the men. After all, he’s supposed to be in charge of that lot, and that includes discipline. Anyway, this time, he’ll get busted down to the rank of gunner for going adrift. That’s for sure.’
Having told Cassidy that they might want to see him again, the two detectives walked out to where their car was par
ked.
‘What d’you reckon, guv’nor?’ asked Bradley. ‘D’you think that Farr topped our Joyce and then decided to run?’
‘Maybe,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’ve deliberately not given the press anything, though, and unless Farr was the murderer, he might not know anything about it. No, his running has probably got something to do with another woman who he’s probably put in the family way.’
‘Where do we go from here, then?’
‘The Surbiton Assembly Rooms, Jack. But not immediately. We’ll have a run up there this evening. See how the other half live.’
‘They’re lucky to have the bloody time,’ muttered Bradley.
SIXTEEN
The Surbiton Assembly Rooms had opened in 1890 and by 1910 was showing films until it closed during the Great War. But by the beginning of the Second World War it had become a popular venue for dancing.
‘We’ll pay to go in, Jack, rather than show out as the law. We can wave our warrant cards about later if we need to.’ After a pause, Hardcastle added, ‘And don’t let me hear you call me “guv’nor”.’
Bradley laughed. ‘No, guv’nor.’
As it was the first Friday of the month, the day following pay day, most people had money to spend. As a result, the ballroom was comparatively crowded. Among the dancers quite a few of the men, and even some of the women, were in uniform from the military bases in the area. Not only were there British armed forces, and some Empire troops, but a few Free French, Poles and others from mainland Europe who had managed to escape before the unstoppable German army jackbooted its way into their country.
It was not long before a brassy young woman approached Bradley. ‘Fancy giving us a whirl, then, good looking?’ she asked in a coarse London accent. She was probably in her late twenties and her bleached hair was cut short in a style becoming increasingly popular. Perhaps though, Bradley thought, she works in a factory where long hair was not allowed. Her daringly low-cut top was clearly designed to be the centre of attention, and she wore an excess of make-up.
‘Yeah, why not, darling?’ Bradley, no mean dancer, seized the girl around the waist and steered her to the centre of the gyrating dancers whose interpretation of the foxtrot would not have met with Victor Silvester’s approval.
Following the second dance, Bradley parted company with the girl who was called Ruby Watson, and returned to Hardcastle who was drinking a pint of bitter at the bar.
‘Enjoy that, Jack?’
‘Not much, no,’ said Bradley, attempting unsuccessfully to brush face powder from the lapel of his jacket, ‘but I did get some interesting information, although I doubt it’ll be of much use. Ruby said she and three of her friends used to meet up here as often as they could with the sole object of getting picked up and spending the night with a man.’
‘How come you didn’t get propositioned, then, Jack?’ Hardcastle ordered a pint of beer for his sergeant and another for himself.
‘I did, but I told her it was my night for fire-watching, otherwise I’d have been happy to spend a few hours in the sack with her. So, she gave me her address and said she was looking forward to seeing me again. No chance!’
‘But why is any of this interesting, Jack?’
‘Because one of this little group was Joyce Butler.’
Hardcastle emitted a short whistle. ‘Blimey! You were bloody lucky to have picked her up, Jack.’
‘Have you forgotten that it was her who picked me up?’
‘So it was,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but when you look at how many women there are here, why did she pick on you?’
‘It’s because I’m so devilishly handsome,’ said Bradley. ‘But what do we do about it, guv?’ he asked, as the two of them left the assembly rooms. ‘Do we follow it up?’
‘Yes, we do, but we must be careful not to put all our eggs in one basket, Jack. As I said earlier, just because Farr has done a runner doesn’t necessarily mean that he killed Joyce Butler. The information that Sergeant Cassidy gave us about finding a half-naked Joyce Butler in a room full of the gun crew widens the field. On the other hand, Joyce Butler’s killer might not have anything to do with the crew of this gunsite.’
‘Would you telephone RSM Purdy of the Military Police, sir?’ said DS Hanley, the incident room manager, once they were back at Putney HQ.
Hardcastle and Bradley went into the DDI’s office, and Hardcastle made the call. Replacing the receiver, he turned to his sergeant with a grin on his face.
‘Farr’s been picked up, Jack.’
‘Where, guv’nor?’
‘In Aldershot, would you believe?’
‘Is this bloke mad? Why go to Aldershot? It’s the home of the British Army. I’d have thought the obvious thing was to get as far away from there as possible.’
‘According to Purdy, a squaddy on the run will often pick somewhere that’s full of soldiers, the argument being that he’s less likely to be spotted among so many. Unfortunately for Farr, he had a tunic pocket undone and his hands in his pockets.’
Bradley frowned. ‘What difference does that make?’
‘Apparently, it’s a serious offence in the army, and a couple of eagle-eyed young military coppers spotted him and started to report him for being improperly dressed. He was then foolish enough to try to make a run for it and that was that. The two MPs were younger and fitter than Farr.’
‘When can we interview him, guv?’ Bradley glanced at his wristwatch as if to emphasize that it was getting late.
‘Tomorrow morning will be fine, Jack. He’s in custody at Aldershot in somewhere called East Cavalry Barracks. Go home and see your girlfriend.’
‘Not much chance of that,’ muttered Bradley.
‘In that case, Jack, there’s always Ruby Watson, your dance hall tart.’
Regimental Sergeant Major Dick Purdy was waiting for them in the guardroom of East Cavalry Barracks when Hardcastle and Bradley arrived at midday.
‘I’m not here to interfere, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Purdy, ‘but to offer any assistance I can. Some of these soldiers get very obstructive under the guise of security. D’you want to interview this toerag in his cell or would you prefer to speak to him in an office somewhere?’
‘I think an office would be preferable,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Cells are not really the best places to get the truth out of someone.’
‘By the way, Farr appeared before his commanding officer this morning and was reduced to the rank of gunner.’
‘That was quick,’ said Bradley.
‘The army doesn’t waste time on them as-run, Sarn’t Bradley.’
Gunner Christopher Farr leaped to his feet the moment RSM Purdy appeared in the doorway, and stood stiffly to attention, his arms forced down his sides and looking straight ahead. He was nothing like the description that Second Lieutenant Wainwright had given them. He was certainly taller than five foot nine, but was of slender build which, in Hardcastle’s view, made him an unlikely type to take part in boxing competitions. He had black hair and no moustache. Bradley later described Farr as a dance hall Romeo and Hardcastle concluded that Wainwright had mistaken Farr for some other soldier. Although that was not particularly helpful, Hardcastle ruled out deliberate prevarication.
‘Sit down, Gunner,’ snapped Purdy. ‘I’m nothing to do with this interview. This is Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police and his assistant Detective Sergeant Bradley.’ Purdy moved to the back of the room and sat down some distance from the table behind which Farr was seated.
‘Where’s your driving licence, Mr Farr?’ asked Hardcastle. It was a question that took Farr completely by surprise.
‘Er, my driving licence?’
Hardcastle said nothing, just waited.
‘I, er, I don’t know offhand.’ Farr struggled to come up with an answer. He wasn’t sure why the question had been asked and why a civil police officer should be asking it.
‘I think it must be with my kit.’
The moment the question had been aske
d, Purdy had scribbled a note and handed it to Bradley.
‘It wasn’t with your kit, Mr Farr,’ Bradley said. ‘When you went absent, your kit was itemized and put into the quartermaster’s stores. Would you like to try again?’
‘I lost it,’ Farr finally admitted.
‘Where?’
‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t say it was lost, would I?’ replied Farr, finally showing a bit of spirit. ‘Anyway, why have two busies from the Old Bill come all the way down here to ask me about a bloody driving licence?’
‘How well d’you know Joyce Butler, Mr Farr?’ Hardcastle spoke in a mild tone of voice. He was an expert interrogator, secure in the knowledge that if he used bullying tactics, he would get only the answers the suspect thought he wanted him to hear.
‘I don’t know any Joyce Butler.’
‘A night or so before you went absent, Mr Farr, you were responsible for bringing Joyce Butler into the gun crew’s quarters where Sergeant Cassidy discovered her in a state of near-nakedness.’
‘But I—’
‘On one occasion, you escorted her to her flat in Ravenscroft, Kingston Hill, where officers found your driving licence, tucked down the back of a settee.’
‘So what? I met her at some dance hall in Surbiton and escorted her home and we had it off on the sofa.’
‘On the sofa or in bed?’ asked Bradley. ‘Where you were discovered by Mrs Butler’s husband.’
‘So what?’ asked Farr for the second time.
‘When did this incident occur?’
‘I don’t know. Must’ve been about two or three weeks ago, I suppose.’
‘Her dead body was found at her flat three days ago, Mr Farr,’ said Hardcastle. ‘She had been murdered. I am, therefore, arresting you on suspicion of murdering Joyce Butler on or about Wednesday the thirty-first of July 1940. I must caution you now that you’re not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’
‘I never had nothing to do with that.’ Farr’s face was ashen and he gripped the sides of the table until his knuckles showed white.