by Graham Ison
‘Show the young lady the bathing dress, Burgess.’
The Worthing sergeant opened his briefcase and placed the garment on the counter.
‘This is the bathing dress in which the victim was found, Miss Kersh,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Did you sell it to a customer on Thursday?’ he asked.
Miss Kersh fingered the costume and examined the maker’s label. ‘Yes, Inspector, quite definitely,’ she said. ‘We’re the only establishment that sells that particular line. It’s an import from America.’ She crossed to a cabinet and took an identical costume from a drawer. ‘It’s very avant-garde and not to everyone’s taste,’ she said, holding it up. ‘A little too revealing, if you see what I mean, and likely to raise a few eyebrows if worn on the beach here.’ The costume would have left the wearer’s arms and shoulders bare, apart from supporting straps, and the frilled skirt would have reached no lower than the middle of the thighs.
‘How many did you sell on Thursday?’
‘Only the one. We bought six and in fact we’ve only sold that one.’ Rebecca Kersh pointed at the bathing suit the police had brought with them.
‘Show Miss Kersh the photograph, Burgess.’
‘Was this the young woman who made the purchase, miss?’ asked Burgess, handing the manageress a copy of the photograph.
‘It wasn’t me who sold it,’ said Rebecca Kersh. She glanced across the shop. ‘Miss Craig, are you free?’
‘Yes, Miss Kersh,’ said the assistant as she joined the little group.
‘I believe you sold this bathing dress on Thursday.’ The man-ageress indicated the costume spread out on the counter.
‘Yes, Miss Kersh, I did.’
‘Was this the lady to whom you sold it?’ Rebecca Kersh handed the assistant the photograph.
‘It wasn’t a lady,’ said Miss Craig. ‘It was a gentleman.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Hardcastle, thinking that such a flimsy garment would be easier for a man to put on a dead woman than one of the more fashionable and all-embracing bathing outfits usually seen on English beaches. If, indeed, that is what had occurred. ‘Can you describe this man, Miss Craig?’
‘He was tall, sir,’ said Miss Craig thoughtfully, ‘and his hair was wavy. But I particularly noticed his suit: very well cut and from Savile Row, I’d imagine.’
‘How old would you say he was, Miss Craig?’ asked Marriott.
‘Difficult to say, sir. I couldn’t be sure.’
‘Did he ask for this specific bathing dress?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘I think you’d better explain, Miss Craig,’ said the manageress. ‘These officers are investigating the murder of the young woman on Thursday. They told me that this is the bathing dress she was wearing.’
‘Oh, how awful!’ exclaimed Miss Craig. ‘And to think I sold it.’ But quickly recovering, she continued. ‘The gentleman said he was buying it for his fiancée as a surprise. I asked him what size the young lady was and he said that she was about my build.’
‘Would you mind turning around, Miss Craig?’ said Hardcastle, making a circling movement with his forefinger. ‘What d’you think, Marriott?’
‘This young lady is certainly similar to Hannah Clarke, sir,’ said Marriott, once Miss Craig was facing them again.
‘I suppose this man didn’t pay for the purchase with a cheque, did he?’ asked Hardcastle hopefully.
‘No, he paid cash,’ said Miss Craig promptly.
‘What time did you make this sale?’ asked Marriott.
‘At about a quarter to six,’ said Miss Craig. ‘I remember because we close at six o’clock and that was the time when the gentleman left. In fact he was our last customer.’
‘I suppose he didn’t happen to ask if you knew of a restaurant where he could take his fiancée for supper, did he?’ asked Marriott. He knew it was a vain hope, but a question like that often provided an answer that would save the detectives time.
‘No, he didn’t,’ said Miss Craig, frowning slightly at what she thought was an irrelevant query.
‘Thank you for your assistance, Miss Kersh, and you too, Miss Craig,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You’ve both been most helpful. Sergeant Burgess here will now take written statements from you. If you have the time, that is. If not, you could perhaps come to the police station at a time that is more convenient to you both.’
‘No, Inspector,’ said Rebecca Kersh, ‘we’ll make the time now. This is obviously a very important matter.’
‘All we have to do now is find the restaurant where this man took Miss Clarke,’ said Hardcastle, as the trio of police officers left the shop. ‘Where’s the first restaurant on your list, Burgess?’
‘It’s very close to the pier, sir. I thought that as the young lady was probably killed there, the murderer might’ve taken her for a meal somewhere close by.’
‘I don’t know why he wasted money buying the girl a meal if he intended murdering her,’ said Hardcastle.
‘They may have squabbled over dinner, sir, and that led to his murdering her for some reason. Or perhaps he was waiting until there weren’t too many people on the pier to witness the murder, sir,’ suggested Burgess.
Hardcastle stopped and looked closely at the Worthing sergeant. ‘Have you ever thought about transferring to the Metropolitan Police, Burgess? I think your talents are wasted down here.’
Marriott was astonished at the DDI’s comment. It was, in a sense, a compliment the like of which he had never heard Hardcastle paying one of his own officers.
‘Well, no, sir.’ Burgess was just as surprised as Marriott. None of his own senior officers had ever complimented him on the way in which he carried out his duties. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m getting married later this year, so things are a bit unsettled.’
‘Who’s the lucky lady, Ted?’ asked Marriott.
‘She’s called Nancy Forster, Charlie. She’s a nurse at Worthing Hospital and we’ve been walking out for a year now.’
‘Well, congratulations and good luck to you,’ said Marriott.
‘Hail a cab next time you see one, Burgess,’ said Hardcastle, cutting across the conversation about Burgess’s forthcoming nuptials, ‘and tell the driver which restaurant he’s to take us to.’
It was midday and the restaurant was beginning to fill up. A fussy little man bustled towards the three policemen.
‘A table for three, sir?’
‘We’re not here for lunch,’ said Hardcastle.
‘I’m afraid we don’t serve coffee at this hour, sir. All our tables are required for luncheon guests between twelve and two.’
Marriott took a deep breath; this was just the sort of pettiness that was guaranteed to rile the DDI. And that could be counter-productive.
‘We don’t want coffee,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘We’re police officers enquiring into the murder that took place on Thursday evening.’
‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir. A terrible thing, terrible.’ The flunkey immediately became nauseatingly subservient and half bowed. ‘I’m the manager, sir. How may I be of assistance to you?’
‘What’s your name?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Morrison, sir. George Morrison.’ The manager glanced at a passing waiter. ‘Luigi, take over for me.’
‘Yes, Mr Morrison,’ said Luigi.
Without waiting to be asked, Burgess produced the photograph of the murder victim. ‘Was this young woman in here on Thursday evening last, Mr Morrison?’
‘Yes, sir, most definitely. I remember her, such a beautiful young lady. And the gentleman was very generous.’
‘What did this man look like?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Very smart. A dark suit, very well tailored.’
‘But what did he look like, Mr Morrison?’ asked Marriott. ‘Apart from what he was wearing.’
‘Tall, sir. About your height I should think.’
‘How old d’you think he was?’
‘I couldn’t really say, sir,’ said Morrison. ‘The lightin
g in here is rather discreet at that time of the evening.’
‘What time would that have been?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘One moment, please, sir.’ Morrison crossed to the cash register and thumbed through a bundle of bills. ‘Table seven arrived at eight o’clock on Thursday. They enjoyed a three-course dinner and a bottle of the Nuits-Saint-Georges 1904; that’s eighteen shillings a bottle. We still have some left over from before the war,’ he explained. ‘And coffee and cognac to follow.’
‘And what time did they leave?’ asked Marriott.
‘I suppose at about half past nine or thereabouts.’
‘Thank you, Mr Morrison,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Sergeant Burgess here will take a statement from you setting out what you’ve just told us.’
‘We are very busy at the moment, sir.’ Morrison glanced around the restaurant. Most of the tables were now occupied.
‘This is an extremely serious and important matter, Mr Morrison,’ said Hardcastle sternly. ‘I’m sure that Luigi can take care of things for twenty minutes or so.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Very well. Perhaps if we were to go into my office, sir, that would be more convenient.’
The three police officers adjourned to a nearby pub and lunched on meat pies and several pints of bitter.
‘Well, Burgess, you certainly selected the right places for our enquiries,’ said Hardcastle.
‘D’you think it’ll be any help, sir?’ asked Burgess, delighted that Hardcastle was pleased.
‘The description of the man who was with Kitty Gordon, as she called herself down here, was too vague for us to do anything with,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But it’s no more than I expected. Witnesses usually come up with different descriptions of what they think people look like. The only thing about the descriptions given us by Miss Kersh and Morrison at the restaurant is that they didn’t differ. Even so, it’s not much help. The man they described could’ve been any one of a hundred men. Have a look round this pub, Burgess. At least four of the men in here would fit that description.’
‘What are you going to do next, then, sir?’
‘Go back to London,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Does that mean you’re finished down here, sir?’ asked Burgess. He was enjoying the sort of freedom that his present assignment was affording him and had hoped that it would last longer.
‘Not necessarily. We’ve enquiries to make at the Wandsworth address you found on the ration book and that may lead us back here again. However, I shall have a word with Superintendent Potts and remind him that you’re assigned to this here murder enquiry until I tell him otherwise. There may be things for you to do, in which event Marriott here will get in touch with you with the details.’
‘Is it any good circulating a description of the man seen with the victim, sir?’
Hardcastle scoffed. ‘Not unless you want to be swamped with false sightings, Burgess. Personally, I think our murderer’s long gone. He’ll be back in the Smoke by now, if I’m any judge. I think a man wearing a Savile Row suit, if that’s what he was wearing, is more likely to belong in London than down here.’
‘What about Miss Gordon’s property, sir?’ asked Burgess.
‘Ah yes, the property.’ Hardcastle thought about for a moment. ‘Have it removed to the property store at your police station, Burgess, and secured as evidence in a murder enquiry. And if anyone argues the toss, tell ’em to get in touch with me.’
Despite what he had told Sergeant Burgess, Hardcastle did not intend to return to Worthing unless it was absolutely essential.
Leaving Burgess outside the public house, Hardcastle hailed a cab and he and Marriott returned to the Sea View Hotel. There they settled their bill, collected their bags and told Mrs Croft that they may be returning at some time.
‘What about Miss Gordon’s luggage and clothing, Inspector?’ asked Mrs Croft.
‘All in hand, Mrs Croft,’ said Hardcastle airily. ‘I’ve instructed Sergeant Burgess to collect it.’
From the hotel the two detectives went straight to West Worthing railway station and caught the London train.
Charles Marriott had hoped that once back in London, Hardcastle would have decided that he had done enough for one day.
‘We’ll visit this Disraeli Road address in Wandsworth, Marriott. I’m sure we’ll find some answers there.’
‘When d’you propose to do that, sir?’
‘Now of course, Marriott.’ Hardcastle raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘But first we’ll pay a call on Mr Fitnam.’
‘Will he be there, sir?’
For a moment or two, Hardcastle studied his sergeant. ‘Of course he’ll be there, Marriott. He’s a CID officer.’
Hardcastle’s imminent departure was, however, interrupted by the arrival of Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood in the DDI’s office.
‘What is it, Wood?’
‘A message from Sergeant Glover at the APM’s office, sir. He said to tell you that contact has been made with Major Hardy of the Tank Corps. Major Hardy’s maid was called Kitty Gordon, sir.’ Wood expressed no surprise at receiving such a curious message, and knew better than to make comment on it.
‘Thought as much, Wood,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Well, well, Ernie, and what brings you out to a working division?’ Arthur Fitnam, the DDI of V Division, stepped across his office, shook hands with Hardcastle and nodded at Marriott.
‘Working division be damned,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ve got three murders on my books, two of which were handed me by the Elephant. How many have you got?’
‘It’s obvious that Mr Wensley thinks you’re a great detective, Ernie.’ Fitnam laughed. ‘You must be worn out. You’d better sit down, and you, Skipper,’ he said to Marriott, ‘and tell me how I can solve these jobs for you.’
‘That’s not all, Arthur. I’ve now got one down at Worthing, but there’s a connection with a house on your toby.’
‘Oh?’ Fitnam took a sudden interest.
‘Disraeli Road, Arthur. Marriott here’ll give you the exact address.
Fitnam took Marriott’s pocket book. ‘Don’t mean anything to me, Ernie, but hold on a minute.’ He crossed to his office door. ‘Grimes,’ he shouted.
‘Yes, sir?’ Detective Sergeant Daniel Grimes stepped into his DDI’s office.
‘Does this address mean anything to you, Grimes?’ said Fitnam, handing Marriott’s pocketbook to his sergeant.
Grimes cast an eye over the entry. ‘No, sir, nothing.’
‘Have a look on the voters’ list and tell me who lives there.’
Grimes returned a few minutes later. ‘There’s no one registered for that address, sir. Probably means that only women live there, if anyone.’
‘What are you going to do about it, Ernie?’ asked Fitnam, once Grimes had departed.
‘Go and knock on the door, I suppose, Arthur,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But tomorrow morning will do for that.’
FIFTEEN
It was nine o’clock on Tuesday morning when Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at the Disraeli Road address in Putney. The house outside which their cab stopped was a three-storey terraced property, but the small front garden was overgrown with weeds and long grass, and the doorstep had not been whitened in a very long time.
‘It looks a bit run down, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, stating the obvious. ‘I don’t reckon it’s occupied. Either that or the occupants don’t care what it looks like.’
It took the DDI a mere three strides to reach the front door, and he beat loudly on the tarnished lion’s head knocker. But there was no reply, at least not from that house. However, the adjacent front door opened and a grey-haired woman in a pinafore apron emerged and stood on her step with arms akimbo.
‘There ain’t no one there, love,’ said the woman. ‘Ain’t been for ages.’
‘We’re police officers, madam,’ said Hardcastle, as he raised his hat.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the woman, as though the arrival of the police came as no surprise.
‘Who are you, madam?’
‘Mrs Forbes. Bessie Forbes. And I’ll tell you this much: their front garden’s a bleedin’ disgrace. The back one’s the same an’ all. Time something was done about it.’
‘D’you know who lives here, Mrs Forbes?’
‘Dunno, mister. There was some flighty bit of a girl what used to come and go, but it must’ve been at least a month since I saw her last. That don’t mean she ain’t been, o’ course.’
‘What did this girl look like, madam?’ asked Marriott.
‘Ah, now you’re asking.’ Mrs Forbes adopted a thoughtful expression. ‘Tall slim girl she was, with long blonde hair,’ she said eventually. ‘Never spoke to no one. I passed the time of day with her once, but she ignored me. So I never bothered after that. Proper stuck-up madam she was,’ she added as a final condemnation.
‘Did you ever see a man calling here, Mrs Forbes?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘I did see a man once or twice, love.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘He was tall an’ all. ’Bout the same as my late husband Bert an’ he was close on six foot. Got hisself drowned off of Jutland two year back.’
‘What age was this man you saw?’
‘Ah, now you’re asking.’ Mrs Forbes sneezed, withdrew a colourful handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose noisily. ‘It’s the weather,’ she explained. ‘It always makes me nose run like a bleedin’ Derby winner.’
‘The man’s age?’ persisted Hardcastle.
‘Can’t say really. He could’ve been anything.’
‘Did the man and the woman arrive here together?’ asked Marriott.
‘Sometimes, but sometimes they come separate. The man usually come at night, though. On his tod an’ all.’
‘Thank you for your help, Mrs Forbes. If either the man or the woman should return, I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention that I’ve been looking for them.’
‘Aha! Been up to no good, I’ll be bound. Well, I can’t say as how I’m surprised. I always thought there was something a bit dodgy about the pair of ’em.’
Leaving Mrs Forbes impatient to disseminate this latest piece of neighbourhood gossip, Hardcastle and Marriott stopped at the gate of the house.