by Graham Ison
Hardcastle turned to Purdy. ‘I’d be grateful if you detained Farr here until I send an escort to take him to London, Mr Purdy, probably later today or early tomorrow morning.’
Purdy waited until two regimental policemen arrived and took Farr back to his cell in the guardroom before speaking. ‘With all due respect, Mr Hardcastle, Farr is in military custody and I’m not sure that you can just take him away like that.’
‘If you care to look at the Manual of Military Law in conjunction with the Army Act, Mr Purdy, you will find that the civil authority overrides the military in cases of murder and other serious offences. Even if they are committed on military property and in time of war.’
It was half past four that afternoon when Hardcastle was told that Gunner Christopher Farr had arrived at Cannon Row police station.
The awesome edifice of New Scotland Yard, built fifty years previously from Dartmoor stone aptly quarried by convicts from the nearby prison, was a frightening spectacle for the innocent, let alone the guilty. Gunner Farr had been unnerved enough by his interview with the two detectives at Aldershot and the sight of the Metropolitan Police headquarters had been sufficient to reduce him to a state of nervous anxiety. His disposition was not helped as, in common with many others, he believed the police station to be a part of Scotland Yard.
‘We’ll go and have a chat with him right now, Jack.’
‘D’you think he did it, guv’nor?’ asked Bradley as the two of them arrived at Cannon Row police station, the headquarters of the A or Whitehall Division.
‘I don’t know, Jack, and I don’t like committing myself until I’ve got a few more answers.’
‘Get someone to bring up Farr and put him in the interview room, Sergeant, if you please,’ said Hardcastle to the station officer.
‘Very good, sir.’ The sergeant shouted for the station’s duty gaoler.
Farr had been ordered to change back into khaki battledress before leaving for London and, judging by his immaculate turnout, had been inspected by RSM Purdy before being allowed to depart from Aldershot.
‘Smoke if you want to, Mr Farr,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Bradley settled themselves opposite the soldier. He noticed that Farr smoked cork-tipped cigarettes, but said nothing about Sergeant Ronald Butler finding a cork-tipped cigarette butt in an ashtray when he arrived home unexpectedly one evening.
‘I didn’t have anything to do with Joyce’s death,’ said Farr suddenly.
‘I’d remind you that you’re still under caution, Mr Farr,’ said Bradley. ‘That means you don’t have to answer any questions we might ask, unless we wish to clear up an ambiguity.’
‘Yeah, I know, but like I said, I went to her place a few times and we had it off. She was a bloody good performer and we were getting on well. I wouldn’t have harmed a hair on her head. If anyone done for her, it’d have been her old man. A right nasty bastard was Ron Butler. Mind you, I s’pose that coming home and finding some bloke screwing his missus on the sofa is bound to upset him. But just because he had one more stripe than me, he was chucking his weight about something cruel. There again, I think it was more to scare his missus than me.’
‘I take it you were the “some bloke” he found on the sofa well at it,’ said Bradley.
‘Yeah.’ Farr gave a wry smile. ‘And it was worth the risk.’
‘Did you go back to see Mrs Butler after your set-to with her husband?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Nah! Didn’t want to chance it, see. But that was for her sake. I could have handled Butler if it’d come to fisticuffs.’
‘Are you saying you didn’t see Joyce Butler again after that incident with her husband, Mr Farr?’
‘Oh no. I kept on seeing her a few times. But not down her place. She had a mate – well three mates – and they looked out for each other. So, we used to meet up at Ruby’s flat. Her old man’s in the RAF in Malta, poor sod, so there was no chance of him walking in.’
‘Ruby who?’ asked Bradley, although he was certain he knew the answer.
‘Ruby Watson. She’s a hairdresser down New Malden way. Got a nice little flat over the shop that the owner of the hairdressers lets her have for next to nothing.’
Bradley thought he knew the reason the owner was so generous, but said nothing.
‘Tell me about the evening that Joyce Butler was found in your quarters at the gunsite,’ said Hardcastle.
‘There’s nothing to tell, really.’
‘Sergeant Cassidy said that it was you who brought her in.’
‘Well, I didn’t. But Cassidy’s got it in for me. Every chance he gets, he’d have me for something. Typical bloody regular soldier, he is. Resents us what’s been called up. As if we wanted to be in his bloody army.’
‘If it wasn’t you who brought her in, who was it?’ asked Bradley.
‘No idea,’ said Farr. ‘I’d just come off duty and when I went across to the billet, she was there. It could’ve been anyone who brought her in. She was very free with her favours,’ he admitted.
‘Have you ever had your fingerprints taken, Mr Farr?’ asked Bradley suddenly.
‘What d’you want to know that for?’ Farr sat up, appearing disconcerted by the question and the suddenness with which Bradley had posed it.
‘Just answer the question, Mr Farr,’ said Bradley.
‘You said I don’t have to answer a question if I don’t want to.’ Farr spoke churlishly.
‘This has nothing to do with the murder of Joyce Butler, so it’s not covered by the caution.’
‘I got in a bit of trouble where I was living at the time.’ Farr admitted defeat.
‘And where was that?’
‘Croydon.’
‘Look, Farr,’ said Bradley, ‘we can stay here all night if you want to play games.’
‘All right, so I done a bloke up.’
‘Explain.’
‘It was at a dance hall down Croydon and this bloke was coming on to the girl I was dancing with. I was on a dead cert an’ all. So, I told him to clear off, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer and grabbed my girl by the arm. So, I chinned him. Well, to cut a long story short, he fell and banged his head on the edge of the bar on his way down, like. Anyway, your lot was called an’ I was nicked. But when this bloke was found to have fractured his skull, I got done for GBH with intent. I was lucky in a way, I s’pose, because first off, they were talking about malicious wounding. Even attempted murder. Anyhow, I got a year inside, but a few months later, when the war started, they chucked a whole lot of us out and straight into the army.’ Farr gave a cynical laugh. ‘I hadn’t been in the Kate too long to work out that I’d have been better off staying in chokey.’
Hardcastle stood up and opened the interview room door. ‘You can take this prisoner back to his cell.’
‘Is that it, then?’ asked Farr, as the constable took hold of his arm.
‘Not by a long chalk,’ said Hardcastle.
‘What d’you think, guv’nor?’ asked Bradley, once Farr was out of the room.
‘Why did you question him about that previous conviction, Jack? We knew that already.’
‘I wanted to see how truthful he was.’
‘But he must’ve known we’d have a record.’
‘Maybe, but there again, he might not be that clever.’
‘You could be right, Jack. But get on to Fingerprint Branch and ask them to compare the prints of Farr that they have on record with the prints found in Joyce Butler’s flat. I know he’s admitted being there and I know they’re doing a comparison check on all the prints, but they might not have got to Farr’s yet and a shortcut might help.’
‘In hand,’ said Bradley. ‘I gave them a ring before we came in here to talk to Farr, but they’d already started.’
Included in the strict protocol of the Fingerprint Branch was the requirement that a fingerprint expert had to have at least seven years’ experience before he could give fingerprint evidence in court.
Consequently, it w
as not until the following morning that a Fingerprint Branch officer was able to give Hardcastle the result of his comparison of prints found in the dead woman’s flat and those taken from Farr on his conviction.
‘Detective Sergeant Furminger, C3 Department, sir.’ Furminger was a middle-aged man in a worn, ill-fitting suit. A pair of smeared spectacles were perched on the end of his nose, and one of the tools of his trade, a magnifying glass, was suspended on a cord around his neck. He looked more like an absent-minded professor than a fingerprint expert.
‘I hope you’ve come to tell me that Farr is our man, Skipper.’
‘I’m afraid there’s no way I can tell you that, guv’nor,’ said Furminger. ‘However, one or two of Farr’s prints were found around Mrs Butler’s flat.’
‘He’s already admitted having been there,’ said Bradley, ‘but did you find any on the wine bottle or wine glass?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Looks like we’re back to the beginning, Jack,’ said Hardcastle, once Detective Sergeant Furminger had departed.
‘I reckon it’s got to have been one of the squaddies on that gun battery, sir.’
‘If what has been said about her being free with her favours is true, it could have been half the male population of London.’
‘What about fingerprinting the whole of the gun crew, guv?’
‘I think that’s a bit draconian, Jack, and if it is one of them, it would put him on the alert. He could disappear into the wilderness of the Smoke and be lost for ages, if not forever,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Get on to that Military Police RSM and tell him that he can have Farr back, and ask him if he’d call in and see me.’
SEVENTEEN
‘Your Sergeant Bradley told me that you want to talk to me, Mr Hardcastle. I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner, but the paperwork is unbelievable. There are so many squaddies deserting that it takes forever to get it all documented. Anyhow, never mind my woes; what can I do to assist you?’
‘I’d be grateful if you could get the dates of birth of all the gun crew for me, Mr Purdy. Sergeant Bradley had suggested fingerprinting them all, but that would alert the murderer if, indeed, he was a member of the gun crew. But if we can have their dates of birth, we can run them through records. If any one of them has a conviction, we can then check with Fingerprint Branch.’
‘It wouldn’t include Mr Wainwright, of course.’
‘It most certainly will,’ said Bradley.
‘But he’s an officer,’ protested Purdy.
‘If you’re suggesting that officers don’t commit murder, Mr Purdy,’ said Hardcastle, ‘I can give you several examples of those who have.’
‘I’ll arrange to get them immediately,’ said Purdy, rather relishing passing on Hardcastle’s comment.
‘You won’t get them from the crew themselves, I hope.’
‘I was a policeman in Manchester City for quite a few years before I joined the army, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Purdy, as he donned his cap. ‘I do know how these things are done.’
On Monday morning, Regimental Sergeant Major Purdy appeared in Hardcastle’s office and handed him a list of the gun crew and their dates of birth.
‘Thank you, Mr Purdy, that was very quick.’
‘Unfortunately, I’ve not been so fast on my other enquiry, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Purdy. ‘I’ve failed to discover who was responsible for taking Mrs Butler into the gun crew’s quarters. Each of those leery bastards said they didn’t know who it was and further claimed that she was already there when they arrived. What’s more, they said they couldn’t remember who else was there when they turned up. When I asked about Mrs Butler’s state of undress, some of them said she’d been playing strip poker with a couple of the lads.’
‘None of which I believe,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Nor me, Mr Hardcastle, but I’ll get it out of ’em, you mark my words.’
‘I think it might be as well, Mr Purdy, if you left any further questioning to me. Thank you for your assistance so far, but I’ll be in touch if I need any more help.’
‘As you wish, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Purdy. ‘You know where my office is. Feel free to drop in any time. I happen to have a bottle of duty-free Scotch in my bottom drawer.’
‘In that case, I think I might be tempted to find an excuse for paying you a visit, Mr Purdy.’
‘I hope so. By the way, the name’s Dick.’
‘And mine’s Wally,’ said Hardcastle.
The list of the gun crew’s dates of birth had been taken straight to C4 Branch – the Criminal Records Office – at the Yard and the bureau head had authorized a priority search. But the result was disappointing. Apart from Gunner Christopher Farr, none of the crew had a criminal conviction. And their fingerprints would not, therefore, be in the national fingerprint collection, unless they were in the scenes-of-crime section, but Hardcastle thought that unlikely. In any event, they would already have been checked.
‘Dammit!’ said Hardcastle. ‘Now what?’
Hardcastle’s question was answered almost immediately by Detective Sergeant Gordon Hanley, in charge of the incident room, tapping on the open door of Hardcastle’s office.
‘What is it, Skip?’
‘A phone call from the station officer downstairs, sir. He’s got a caller who has information about the murder of Joyce Butler.’
‘Is the caller male or female?’
‘It’s a woman, sir.’
Hardcastle shouted for Jack Bradley and the two of them went downstairs to the front office.
‘She’s in the interview room, sir,’ said the station officer.
‘What’s her name, Sergeant?’
The station officer glanced down at the Occurrence Book on his desk. ‘Mavis Lavender, sir. She’s twenty-three, and her date of birth is the sixth of July 1917. Unmarried. She works at Gamages as a shop assistant, and lives in the company’s hostel behind the store.’
‘Miss Lavender?’ asked Hardcastle, as he and Bradley entered the interview room.
The young blonde woman was sitting sideways-on to the table, her legs crossed. She wore a belted red dress that Hardcastle’s mother would undoubtedly have condemned as a ‘catalogue dress’. Her lipstick and her fingernails were a bright red, and in place of stockings, she had applied leg make-up. Someone, probably a fellow shopworker, had used a Conté pencil to draw lines on the back of her legs that looked like seams. She wore low wedge-heeled shoes for practical reasons; since the beginning of the blitz, women had often found themselves trudging over rubble and debris from bombed buildings on their way to work, which would have been nigh-on impossible in high heels. Finally, a pillbox hat in a lighter red put the finishing touch to her outfit. Her leather handbag and the brown cardboard box containing her gas mask were on the table.
‘Yes, that’s me.’ Mavis glanced at Bradley and primped the back of her hair.
The two detectives sat down opposite the young woman.
‘D’you smoke?’ asked Bradley, producing a packet of Kensitas.
‘Oh, I don’t mind if I do,’ said Mavis Lavender in what was often described as a ‘telephone voice’, and leaned forward so that Bradley could light her cigarette. ‘Ta, ever so.’
‘I understand that you have something to tell us about Joyce Butler,’ began Hardcastle.
‘We were friends, the four of us. Me, Joyce, Doris Jackson and Ruby Watson. We used to go dancing together. Mind you, we weren’t always able to meet up on account of having different jobs. Joyce was an usherette down the Super Cinema and Doris is a clippie on the number six-oh-four trolleybus route.’
‘Where did you go dancing?’ asked Bradley, although he was sure he knew the answer.
‘The Surbiton Assembly Rooms down Kingston way. But we always looked out for each other. There was one time when Doris—’
‘What exactly is it you want to tell us that you think might help, Miss Lavender?’ Hardcastle knew from experience that this sort of meandering tale could go on for some time; it was not t
he first occasion he had encountered so-called informants who really had nothing to say when tested.
‘Oh, that, yes.’ Mavis leaned forward and stubbed out her cigarette in a tin lid that did service as an ashtray. ‘Well, there was just Joyce, Doris and me at the assembly rooms dance that night …’
‘When was this?’ asked Bradley, who had his pocketbook on the table and was making notes.
‘Last Tuesday.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. It was my day off from Gamages, see, on account of me having worked the Saturday before. Anyway, like I said, me and Joyce and Doris was there having a look at the available talent. Not that there was much of it. Anyway, some bloke came up and took Joyce off for the quickstep. Very good at the quickstep, was Joyce. But I s’pose she must’ve gone off some place with him because after Doris and me had danced with a couple of RAF types, we went to the bar where we always met up if we was separated.’ Mavis paused. ‘D’you think I could I have another ciggy?’
Bradley offered his packet and then lit the girl’s cigarette.
‘We waited at the bar, but Joyce never showed up. We guessed she must’ve struck lucky with this guy and had gone off to find a bed somewhere. Come to think of it, she lived in an expensive flat down Kingston way, so it wasn’t too far.’ Mavis paused as she considered what she had just said. ‘I don’t know why she moved down there unless she’d picked up some sugar daddy. And if the bloke who picked her up was any sort of gent, he’d have taken her home in a taxi. But that would have cost a fortune.’
‘What did this man look like, Miss Lavender?’ Bradley asked.
Mavis leaned back in her chair and drew on her cigarette, blowing smoke into the air as if this aided recollection. ‘Well built,’ she said eventually.
‘How tall was he?’ Bradley could see that extracting useful information from this young woman was going to be difficult.
‘Would you mind standing up?’ asked Mavis, nodding towards Bradley. ‘Yes, about your height,’ she said, when he had obliged.
‘Moustache, beard, anything like that?’
‘No.’ Mavis pondered the question a little further. ‘I don’t think so.’