by Graham Ison
Walking out to Parliament Street, the DDI waved his umbrella imperiously at a cab.
‘The Old Bailey, driver.’
The cab driver yanked down the flag on his taximeter. ‘You in trouble, then, are you, guv’nor?’ he asked jocularly.
‘What’s that building behind me?’ asked Hardcastle, pointing with his umbrella.
‘That’s the bladder o’lard, guv’nor,’ said the cabbie, but a little nervously now.
‘Yes, Scotland Yard. We have dungeons underneath it, and if you don’t keep your trap shut, you’ll finish up in one of them. And you mind you take the most direct route, because I know all about the Cab and Stage Carriage Act of 1907. In fact, you might say that I’m an expert on the subject,’ Hardcastle added, as he clambered into the cab.
The two detectives hurried into the Central Criminal Court and pushed their way through the throng of people either surrendering to bail, waiting to give evidence or reporting for jury service.
Hardcastle made straight for the court inspector’s office. ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle, Metropolitan A,’ he announced.
‘And what can I do for you?’ asked the inspector.
‘You can tell me who’s sitting today,’ said Hardcastle curtly. For no good reason, he disliked the City of London Police, regarding them as toy policemen who had only a square mile of territory to worry about. In return, the City Police, who had no officers under six feet tall, referred to the shorter Metropolitan officers as ‘Metro-gnomes’.
‘See for yourself.’ The court inspector turned a sheet of paper on his desk. He did not like Metropolitan officers, regarding them as overbearing know-alls. There was a phrase familiar to City officers, and it came to the court inspector’s mind now. You can always tell a Metropolitan Police officer, but you can’t tell him much.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘Mr Justice Cawthorne is sitting in Court Three this morning, Marriott.’ Addressing the court inspector, he said, ‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to ask if His Lordship would be prepared to see me in chambers before he sits, Inspector.’
The court inspector returned a few minutes later. ‘Mr Justice Cawthorne can see you now, Mr Hardcastle,’ he said. ‘His chambers are—’
‘I know where his chambers are, thank you, Inspector,’ said Hardcastle, and swept from the office with Marriott hurrying behind him.
Hardcastle knocked on the judge’s door and was bidden to enter.
‘Well, well, Mr Hardcastle, I haven’t seen you in a while. What can I do for you?’ Mr Justice Cawthorne had a jovial countenance and a reputation for telling amusing anecdotes at bar mess dinners. However, his joviality was readily abandoned when he was sentencing a criminal who had used violence to commit his crime. He abhorred robbery with violence, and those found guilty in his court knew that they would face a substantial sentence of penal servitude, which carried with it hard labour.
‘I’d be grateful if you would grant me a warrant under the Bankers’ Books Evidence Act 1879, my lord,’ said Hardcastle, and outlined the reasons for requiring it. ‘I’d also be grateful, my lord, in view of the circumstances, if you could see your way clear to appending a direction for immediate execution rather than waiting for the normal three days.’
‘Sounds reasonable,’ said the judge. ‘I presume you’ve brought the necessary paperwork with you, Mr Hardcastle.’
‘Indeed, my lord.’ Hardcastle signalled to Marriott, who immediately produced a number of sheets of paper from his briefcase.
The branch of the bank that held Guy Stoner’s account was in the Strand.
Hardcastle asked to see the manager and thwarted the efforts of the clerk who wanted to know why, merely saying that it was police business.
‘Rodney Smales, gentlemen,’ announced the bank manager, once Hardcastle had introduced himself and Marriott. Smales, tall, slender and suave, was immaculate in morning dress. His greying hair was pomaded and, Hardcastle suspected, his moustache was waxed. ‘How may I be of service?’ It was a statement of courtesy. He was a bank servant who knew that he was within his rights not to give the police any information about his clients. As he had confided to colleagues on more than one occasion, ‘Wild horses would not drag one iota of information from me.’ Rodney Smales, however, had not taken account of DDI Hardcastle’s possession of a Bankers’ Books Evidence Act warrant.
Hardcastle outlined the police’s interest in the affairs of Guy Stoner and explained that he would like sight of anything held by the bank that was in his handwriting.
‘My dear Inspector,’ began Smales smoothly, ‘I’m sure that you are aware—’ But that was as far as he got.
‘I have here,’ began Hardcastle, flicking his fingers in Marriott’s direction, ‘a warrant issued this morning by Mr Justice Cawthorne under the provisions of the Bankers’ Books Evidence Act 1879.’ Taking the document from Marriott, he handed it to Smales.
‘You appreciate, Inspector,’ said the discomfited Smales, as he cast a cursory glance over the warrant, ‘that I am allowed three days before being required to produce the necessary documents.’
‘Normally,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but on this occasion Mr Justice Cawthorne has waived that requirement, as you will see from the endorsement.’
Smales read the document in greater detail. ‘Most unusual,’ he murmured.
‘It is, Mr Smales, but I’m investigating a case of suspected murder. Captain Stoner’s murder, to be precise.’
‘Good gracious me! You think Captain Stoner’s been murdered?’
‘That’s what I’m attempting to find out.’ Hardcastle took out his watch and made a point of staring at it, as if to emphasize the urgency. Winding it briefly, he dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket.
‘What exactly is it you want to see, Inspector?’ Smales became a little more accommodating.
‘I have here two letters and one of the cheques the bank returned, as is the practice. The cheque and one of the letters are written in Captain Stoner’s hand, but the other letter is entirely different, the excuse being that Captain Stoner had injured his hand in a fire and dictated this letter that was sent to his uncle in Norfolk. I’d like to compare the signatures on cheques that Stoner wrote to see if they are the same.’
‘D’you have a reason to think that some fraud may have been perpetrated on the bank, Inspector?’
‘No reason at all,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But it’s always a possibility, I suppose.’
Smales did not like Hardcastle’s response very much, interpreting it as a slur. Nevertheless, he sent for his secretary and instructed her to find any cheques that had not been returned to Captain Stoner.
Minutes later, the woman returned and placed three cheques on the manager’s desk together with a letter.
After spending a few moments perusing the documents, Smales handed the letter to Hardcastle.
‘That letter, purporting to come from Captain Stoner,’ said Smales, ‘but claiming that he dictated it due to an injury, asks the bank not to forward any correspondence or cheques until advised of his new address. It goes on to say that due to an unfortunate fire at the place where they lived, he and his business partner are in temporary accommodation. He further undertakes to advise the bank when they have permanent accommodation.’
‘A likely story,’ muttered Hardcastle, and handed the letter to Marriott.
‘I’m afraid you can’t keep that, Inspector,’ said Smales. ‘A certified copy is accepted by the courts.’
‘You can have it back,’ snapped Hardcastle, who was well aware of the law on the subject. ‘That’s why my sergeant will make a copy.’
While Marriott began the weary task of making a handwritten copy of the letter, Smales examined the three cheques and compared them with the cheque that Hardcastle had produced. ‘Oh, my God!’
‘Is something wrong?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Have a look, and see what you think, Inspector.’ The manager handed both cheques to Hardcastle.
The DDI handed them to Marriott. ‘Your eyesight’s better than mine, Marriott. Have a look and tell me what you think.’
Marriott spent a few minutes examining the cheques. ‘I would say that a clumsy attempt has been made to forge Captain Stoner’s signature, sir, and I’m sure that a handwriting expert would agree.’
‘These three cheques, Mr Smales, are for a total of forty-five pounds.’
‘Yes, Inspector, and I’ve just been looking at Captain Stoner’s account. It would appear that those three cheques have used up the last of his available funds.’
‘Were they were cashed at this branch, Mr Smales?’ asked Marriott.
‘No, at our branch in Chelsea.’
‘I suppose that the staff there had no reason to doubt their validity.’
‘Obviously not; otherwise they wouldn’t have been cashed.’ Smales sounded relieved that the onus for cashing three forged cheques, if that was the case, would now fall on the manager of the Chelsea branch.
‘It’s looking as though there will be a court case, Mr Smales,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and I would strongly advise you to keep hold of those cheques. If, in fact, your client has been murdered, they will be evidence.’
‘You may rest assured, Inspector, that they and all records pertaining to Captain Stoner will be kept in my safe from now on.’
‘Well, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, as he walked out to the Strand and hailed a cab, ‘it didn’t take long to knock Master Smales off his high horse.’ The DDI climbed into the cab. ‘New Scotland Yard, cabbie.’ He turned to Marriott. ‘Tell ’em Cannon Row, and half the time you’ll finish up at Cannon Street in the City.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott wearily, who had received this advice on almost every occasion that he and Hardcastle had shared a cab back to the police station.
When the cab set them down, Hardcastle made straight for the Red Lion in Derby Gate. ‘I think, Marriott,’ he began, once he had a pint in front of him, ‘that I’ll get you to apply to the Bow Street beak for a search warrant for Ditton Garage this afternoon.’
‘Do we need one, sir?’
‘Are you suggesting that we get the owners’ consent, Marriott?’ Hardcastle emitted a derisive chuckle. ‘Because if you are, I suggest you find the owners.’
‘That’s not what I meant, sir. A further search would be quite legal, even without a warrant, in pursuit of evidence of arson.’
‘You might be right,’ said Hardcastle, pausing with his glass halfway to his mouth, ‘but I’m not much interested in the arson. On the other hand, though, we’d be on safer ground with a warrant in case some clever brief started picking holes in the evidence when we get to court.’
‘Court, sir? What are you hoping to find, then?’
‘We won’t know until we look, Marriott,’ rejoined the DDI enigmatically. He glanced along the bar until he spotted the landlord. ‘Another two pints, please, Albert.’ Hardcastle was not being generous towards his sergeant: Albert never charged Hardcastle for his beer, imagining that it would accord him some sort of preferential treatment if ever he fell foul of the law. He had, however, seriously underestimated A Division’s DDI in that regard.
Marriott made his way to Bow Street as soon as he and Hardcastle left the Red Lion.
‘I’ve got the search warrant, sir,’ said Marriott, when he arrived back at the police station.
‘I should hope so, Marriott.’ Hardcastle took out his hunter and glanced at it. Briefly winding it, he dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘We’ll go to Ditton and start searching tomorrow morning bright and early, then.’
‘Who d’you want to take with you, sir?’
‘Who’s in the office?’
‘Ritchie, Proctor and Vickers, sir. Oh, and the new sergeant’s arrived, posted in from Vine Street.’
‘Vine Street, eh? He should be all right, then. I served at Vine Street as a sergeant, you know, Marriott.’
‘So I understand, sir,’ said Marriott diplomatically. Hardcastle had said as much every time mention was made of the C Division police station.
‘Who is this new sergeant?’
Metaphorically taking a deep breath, Marriott said, ‘Detective Sergeant Henry Catto, sir.’
‘What?’ Slowly, Hardcastle replaced his pipe in the ashtray. ‘It’s bloody Posh Bill working one off on me.’ Suddenly realizing that he was obliquely criticizing another senior officer, he quickly added, ‘Forget I said that, Marriott.’
There had always been a suppressed animosity between Hardcastle and DDI William Sullivan of C Division. In short, Hardcastle detested him, mainly because he regarded Sullivan as a poseur who dressed like a dandy and wore a monocle. He would never be seen outside Vine Street police station without his curly-brimmed bowler hat and a rattan cane, an outfit that caused villains to refer to him as ‘Posh Bill with the Piccadilly window’. As if that was not enough, a rumour was circulating that Posh Bill had a mirror glued inside his bowler hat so that he could check the tidiness of his hair whenever he entered a building. But no one had ever seen it and the tale was put down to malice.
Hardcastle had always doubted Catto’s abilities as a detective, despite Marriott frequently telling the DDI that Catto was a good thief-taker. Nevertheless, at some stage, Hardcastle had suggested to Catto that he studied for promotion. There was, however, an ulterior motive: Hardcastle wanted shot of him. But Catto had persevered with his studies and achieved promotion to third-class sergeant. Now he had been promoted to second-class sergeant and posted back to A Division. Hardcastle was in no doubt, unreasonably, that somehow or other William Sullivan had engineered the transfer as an act of spite. The fact of the matter, however, was that Chief Constable Wensley had oversight of promotions and transfers in the CID and thought that he was doing A Division’s DDI a favour.
‘Fetch him in, then,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Good morning, sir.’ Detective Sergeant Catto beamed at the DDI. Although in the past he had turned to jelly every time the DDI had spoken to him, several years on the C or St James’s Division had made him more self-confident.
‘I hope you’ve improved, Catto.’
‘Of course, sir. I’ve been at Vine Street for a few years,’ said Catto craftily, knowing that the DDI would not argue with that.
‘You haven’t taken to wearing a curly-brimmed bowler hat, I suppose?’ enquired Hardcastle jocularly.
‘No, sir.’ A dark-haired, slender man, with brown eyes that seemed to dart everywhere in their search for wrongdoers, Catto was smartly dressed in a dark suit with a double-breasted jacket, which he was slim enough to be able to wear.
‘Oh! I thought all the CID officers did on C Division’s manor these days. Now then, Catto, tomorrow we’re going down to Ditton to search what remains of a garage. You’ll be in charge of the search team under Sergeant Marriott’s direction and he’ll tell you what to look for. Don’t make a pig’s ear of it.’
Marriott treated that remark with some misgiving. He had not the faintest idea what they were supposed to be looking for.
‘Of course not, sir.’ Catto beamed again. ‘How do we get to Ditton, sir?’
‘You’re a sergeant, Catto; use your initiative.’
‘He seems different,’ said Hardcastle grudgingly, once Catto had left the office.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott, and followed Catto into the detectives’ room, not wishing to become involved in a discussion about Catto’s qualities or lack of them.
‘How many of us are going to Ditton altogether, Skip?’ asked Catto.
‘There’s Ritchie, Proctor and Vickers. And you, of course, Henry.’
‘Does this nick have a van?’ asked Catto.
‘Of course it does.’
‘That’ll be best way to get to Ditton, then, Skip. And it’ll be useful if there’s any evidence for us to bring back.’ Catto paused. ‘Does Mr Hardcastle want to come with us?
‘I think that most unlikely, Henry. Nevertheless, I’ll ask him.’
FOUR
Hardcastle’s answer had been predictable. He had no intention of travelling in a police van with Catto and the constables. Despite Marriott’s previous advice, the DDI decided to take a taxi for the journey to Ditton and directed Marriott to travel with him.
When they arrived at the garage, or what was left of it, Hardcastle found that Catto had already organized his search team and they had begun to comb the area.
Looking around, Hardcastle wondered, more even than when he had visited the site of the garage the previous Friday, how it was that Stoner and Holroyd had thought they were going to make a living. There was a single petrol pump, but presumably it had not contained any petrol or it would have exploded. On reflection, he thought that perhaps it had been emptied in order that the petrol could be used as an accelerant. The office and the workshop – a converted barn – were hardly likely to inspire confidence in anyone bringing their precious motor car for repairs to be carried out on it. He also spotted a large heap of rubbish on the far side of the area, not far from the workshop. All in all, it was a sorry attempt to generate a business.
Hardcastle’s reflective gazing was interrupted by Detective Sergeant Catto.
‘What is it, Catto?’
‘I’ve found what appear to be bloodstains, sir.’
‘Where?’
‘On the floor of the office, sir.’
‘That’s that building there, isn’t it?’ Hardcastle, using his umbrella as a pointer, indicated the brick structure.
‘Yes, sir. There also appear to be the remains of two camp beds, so I imagine that Stoner and Holroyd were living here.’
‘Better take a look, then.’ Hardcastle followed Catto across the uneven ground to the gutted office.
‘Just there, sir.’ Catto pointed to a dull patch, almost black, that was in front of the ashes that had once been a desk.
‘Where did the other fire start, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘In that large barn there, sir, or what remains of it. It was in use, according to DC Mitchell, as a workshop.’ Marriott pointed at a building that stood in front of three smaller barns. The only difference was that an attempt had been made to destroy the larger barn, and most of its wooden sides were now just charred debris.