Hardcastle's Quandary

by Graham Ison

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Why don’t we circulate details of Rupert Holroyd in the Police Gazette, sir?’

  ‘We don’t know what he looks like,’ said Hardcastle dismissively.

  ‘The newsagent Cox has seen the man. We could get a description from him.’

  ‘Waste of time!’ Hardcastle was clearly unimpressed by that suggestion. ‘What good d’you think that would be? Cox couldn’t find his own backside in broad daylight.’

  But Marriott’s abortive suggestion – at least the DDI thought it was – was cut short when DC Vickers knocked on the DDI’s door and entered.

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’

  ‘What d’you want, Vickers?’

  ‘There’s a telephone call for Sergeant Marriott, sir.’

  ‘Tell ’em to call again unless it’s Mr Wensley’s clerk. We’re busy trying to solve a murder. Who is it, anyway?’

  ‘It’s from someone called Samuel Cox, sir.’ Vickers glanced down at the note he had made. ‘He said a man called Talbot had been into his shop this morning.’

  ‘That’s different. Find out as much as you can, Marriott.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott tried not to appear irritated but could not help wondering if Hardcastle remembered how much first-class detective sergeants knew when he had held the rank.

  When Marriott returned to the DDI’s office, he did not look too happy. ‘Cox said that Oliver Talbot went into the shop this morning and enquired if there were any letters for him. In accordance with your instructions, Cox told Talbot there weren’t any, although one had arrived by the morning post.’

  ‘Did Talbot say anything else to Cox?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott paused. ‘He said, in that case, he wasn’t expecting any more and that he wouldn’t be in again.’

  ‘Damn the man!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘I think we might have been a bit too clever, Marriott. I wouldn’t be surprised if Cox tipped him off that we were looking for him. If that’s the case, it’s a rare example of honour among thieves. On the other hand, of course, it might be that we gave that estate agent chap the idea that the garage and the ground it was on might not belong to Holroyd any more, and that the insurance company could be the owners.’

  ‘But that wouldn’t be the case, sir. There is no way in which the insurance company would acquire that land as they’d refused to pay out.’

  ‘I know that, and you know that, Marriott, but does that idiot estate agent know that?’

  ‘There’s another reason, sir. Holroyd might’ve got wind of the digging that went on at the site.’

  Hardcastle nodded wearily. ‘That’s a possibility, I suppose. Did you get any sort of description from Cox?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but it would fit a hundred men.’

  ‘Thought as much. Well, put it in the Police Gazette all the same, Marriott. Tell them to say that Rupert Holroyd, also known as Oliver Talbot, is wanted for questioning in connection with a fraud, rather than murder.’ Hardcastle paused. ‘I’m sure that Holroyd and Oliver are one and the same. Even if Talbot is not Holroyd, he might lead us to him. In the meantime, Marriott, send someone up to Paddington to take possession of that letter addressed to Oliver Talbot.’

  An hour later, DC Vickers handed Marriott the letter that he had collected from the Paddington newsagent.

  Marriott scanned it briefly and took to Hardcastle.

  ‘It’s from Wilfred Chapman, the manager of Coates, the estate agency in Kingston, sir.’

  ‘So I see,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Well, that’s no help at all.’ The letter merely stated that Coates was no longer prepared to act for Talbot in the sale of Ditton Garage. ‘He’s taken fright, Marriott. He obviously got wind of the digging, and maybe even the recovery of body parts, and decided that he didn’t want anything to do with it. Mind you, I should think it’d be bloody difficult to sell a site where a couple of bodies had been buried after being cut up.’

  ‘It was in today’s evening paper, sir.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘A report about the excavations at Ditton. It was in the early edition of the Star this afternoon, sir.’

  ‘It wasn’t in the Daily Mail.’ Hardcastle made it sound as though that omission was Marriott’s fault. ‘Did they mention that we’d found anything?’

  ‘No, sir. It merely said that police were taking an interest in the site, and there were suggestions that it was in connection with the arson.’

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ said Hardcastle, ‘so long as they keep on thinking that. In fact, we might just encourage the press to think that’s what we’re up to. At least, until we lay our hands on Holroyd.’

  In fact, Hardcastle did not have to wait very long before Rupert Holroyd was in police custody.

  It was pouring with rain the following Saturday afternoon, but, undaunted by the weather, crowds of racegoers made their way to Kempton Park. Most had arrived at the nearby railway station and were getting soaked; others had come by specially chartered charabancs. They were a cheerful lot and, despite the weather, were looking forward to the race meeting, optimistic that they might leave a few shillings the richer.

  But they were to be disappointed. Two days previously, nearly five inches of rain had fallen and the course was waterlogged. There would be no racing that day.

  Mingling with the racegoers were teams of pickpockets, as well as elements of the criminal classes intent upon robbing bookmakers of their day’s takings. These cutpurses were formed into sophisticated gangs and resented any interlopers. In 1927, turf war was prevalent at most racecourses, and many of the pickpockets carried cut-throat razors or razor blades in pieces of wood, known as chivs, with which to ward off the opposition. This anticipated criminal activity led to the presence of a third group – members of the Flying Squad were there in strength. Existing in one form or another for the past eight years, the Squad had only recently been confirmed as a permanent unit of the Metropolitan Police.

  The cancellation of the racing had inflamed tempers, more so because no one had learned of it until arriving at the course. Bookmakers, racegoers and the teams of pickpockets and assorted robbers saw themselves being deprived of rich winnings, legal or illegal.

  Several fights broke out but were dealt with swiftly and firmly by the uniformed police officers for whose presence the racecourse owners had paid.

  It was not long before one of the Flying Squad officers saw the flash of a blade as a habitual pickpocket threatened a well-dressed man who, presumably, he thought was rich enough to be worth robbing.

  The victim, realizing that the Queensberry Rules would not be observed by a man armed with a cut-throat razor, had been backing away from his attacker until he was up against a bookmaker’s stand and could go no further.

  At this point, one of the Flying Squad officers, who played rugby in what little spare time he had, sped towards the razor-wielding would-be robber. He threw himself forward and brought the pickpocket crashing to the ground with a classic flying tackle. At that point, he was joined by one of the Squad’s sergeants, and together they hoisted the pickpocket to his feet.

  ‘Well, well, well! If it’s not Tommy “The Weasel” Flynn. You’re privileged to have been nicked by the Flying Squad, Tommy … again,’ said the sergeant, a statement that did little to encourage Flynn to think he might be able to talk his way out of his latest bit of trouble. ‘Attempted armed robbery, carrying an offensive weapon, and anything else we can think of … like breathing.’

  ‘It’s a mistake, guv’nor. I was only going to ask this gent for the time.’

  ‘What, so you could pinch his watch? Don’t worry, Tommy, the judge will give you the time. About five years of it, I should think.’ The sergeant turned to the DC who had made the arrest. ‘Take him to Teddington nick, Charlie, and I’ll join you as soon as I’ve taken this gentleman’s particulars.’

  ‘Righto, Skipper,’ said the DC and, with the aid of a uniformed constable, put the prisoner into a police van.

  �
��I can’t begin to thank you enough, Officer,’ said the man, as the Flying Squad sergeant turned his attention to the victim.

  ‘All in a day’s work, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘Now, I need your name and address for my report.’

  ‘Of course, Officer. I’m Captain Rupert Holroyd, and at the moment I’m living at the Ritz in Piccadilly.’

  The sergeant was a conscientious officer and always read the Police Gazette on the day of its publication. Yesterday’s edition had contained details of a Captain Rupert Holroyd, believed also to be known as Oliver Talbot, who was wanted for questioning regarding fraud. The sergeant had quietly chuckled when he had read the name of the officer in the case.

  But Rupert Holroyd knew little of the way in which the police circulated information, and firmly believed that his cheque frauds in London could not possibly be known to a police officer at Kempton Park racecourse, and he had furnished his name and address without hesitation. Another thing that he did not know was that the Flying Squad had a roving commission and had been responsible for a prestigious record of arrests during its short history.

  ‘Rupert Holroyd, I’m arresting you on suspicion of committing fraud. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’

  Desperately, Holroyd looked around, seeking a way of escape, but with his back still against the bookmaker’s stand, he realized there was no way in which he could make a run for it. Apart from anything else, he had witnessed the somewhat violent arrest of his attacker and had no wish to tangle with one of that detective’s colleagues. Nevertheless, he felt that a denial would be in order.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re making a terrible mistake, Officer.’

  ‘They all say that,’ said the sergeant wearily.

  ‘We’ve just received a telegraph message from Teddington police station, sir.’ Marriott entered the DDI’s office clutching a piece of paper. ‘Holroyd has been arrested at Kempton Park racecourse by a Flying Squad officer.’

  ‘Has he, indeed? And who was this resourceful and observant officer, Marriott?’

  Marriott pretended to read the telegraph message again. ‘It was a Detective Sergeant Walter Hardcastle, sir,’ he said, looking up with an innocent expression on his face.

  ‘Send two officers to Teddington to bring Holroyd back here, Marriott.’ Hardcastle did not react to the news that his son had effected the arrest of a man the DDI wanted to speak to about the goings-on at Ditton Garage, and more particularly what had been found there.

  It was half past five on that same Saturday afternoon when Holroyd was brought to Cannon Row by Detective Constables Vickers and Proctor. Normally, Hardcastle would aim to go off-duty at about five o’clock on a Saturday, but he was not prepared to leave interviewing Holroyd any longer than necessary. And that meant that Marriott was also kept from going home.

  By the time Holroyd had been brought to London, he had recovered sufficient of his self-confidence to convince himself that he could talk his way out of any trouble. After all, the police would be no match for a former officer who had fought in the war. But then Hardcastle and Marriott had entered the room and sat down.

  ‘When exactly did you murder Guy Stoner, Holroyd? Was it before or after you drained his bank account of every penny?’ Without pausing, and without any preamble whatsoever, Hardcastle had made the accusation.

  ‘Are you telling me that Guy is dead?’ Holroyd appeared to be shocked at both the suggestion that Stoner had been murdered and that he stood accused of being his killer. Above all, he was shaken that this detective should talk about murder when Holroyd was expecting to be questioned about fraud.

  ‘I am Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle, Holroyd, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott. A word of caution – don’t take me for a fool.’ For once, and for good reason, Hardcastle did not mention that he was the DDI in charge of the CID for the A or Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police.

  His instruction to DCs Vickers and Proctor had been to make sure that Holroyd was removed from the police van outside the police station rather than in the station yard. In that way, he could not fail to see the forbidding edifice of New Scotland Yard opposite, constructed in 1890 from Dartmoor granite hewn, fittingly, by the inmates of Dartmoor Prison. Many members of the public entering Cannon Row police station firmly believed that it was a part of the Yard. Some criminals had also believed that it was the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, and the reputation of the Yard’s detectives was such as to plant in a suspect’s mind the belief that there must be more than enough evidence with which to convict him.

  ‘I didn’t know he was dead,’ said Holroyd. ‘I couldn’t possibly have killed him. He was my friend, and we’d been through the war together. How on earth can you think I’d have killed him?’ He needed desperately to convince this policeman that he was innocent; otherwise he could see himself facing the hangman at eight o’clock one morning.

  ‘Your friend, was he?’ Hardcastle posed the question in scathing tones. ‘So much of a friend that you didn’t hesitate to present fraudulent cheques and take every penny he had out of his account. Is that what you call friendship, Holroyd? Is that the sort of wartime camaraderie you were talking about?’

  ‘Now look here—’

  ‘Did you or did you not present several cheques upon which you had forged Guy Stoner’s signature, Captain Holroyd?’ asked Marriott mildly.

  Holroyd turned his gaze on Marriott. The quietly spoken way in which the sergeant had posed the question had more effect on him than Hardcastle’s hectoring approach. He decided that Detective Sergeant Marriott was a force to be reckoned with. The manner of the two detectives put him in mind of the difference between the attitude of his commanding officer and that of the battery sergeant major.

  ‘I admit that I did forge one or two cheques, Sergeant, but I was desperately short of money and, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t think Guy would notice. You see, the difference between Guy and me was that he came from a good family, a family with old money. I, on the other hand, had hardly any spare cash. With my background, I was damned lucky to be commissioned, and I really couldn’t afford the expense that went with it.’

  ‘Now that you’ve admitted to the forgery, Captain Holroyd,’ Marriott continued, ‘I probably won’t be able to ask you any more questions about it, but you will be charged with that offence contrary to the Forgery Act of 1913.’ He followed this announcement by cautioning Holroyd.

  ‘You told the officer who arrested you,’ began Hardcastle, ‘that you were living at the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly. Is that true?’

  ‘No.’ Holroyd spoke in almost a whisper.

  ‘Would you repeat that, Holroyd? I didn’t quite hear you.’

  ‘I said no, Inspector.’ This time Holroyd almost shouted his reply.

  ‘Why, then, did you lie to the officer?’

  ‘I was trying to avoid being arrested by making out I was a person of some substance.’

  ‘Didn’t work, did it?’ said Hardcastle, almost dismissively. ‘Now then, the police have found a body at the garage in Ditton of which, as I understand it, you are, or were, a part owner. We believe that to be the body of Captain Guy Stoner.’

  ‘We were trying to sell the site.’

  ‘Who is Oliver Talbot, Captain Holroyd?’ asked Marriott quietly, but so suddenly that it caught Holroyd off guard.

  ‘I, er, well, it was a name that I used.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s difficult to explain.’ Holroyd was beginning to perspire.

  ‘Let me explain it for you, then,’ said Hardcastle helpfully. ‘You murdered Guy Stoner, dismembered his body and then attempted to sell the site of the garage as if it was all yours. Your attempt to hide the evidence by setting fire to the office and the workshop failed, because we still found both bodies.’

  ‘Both bodies? What on earth are you talking about, Inspector? I don’t know anything about any of this.’ B
ut Holroyd had good reason to worry about just how much the police did know.

  ‘The second body was that of a woman.’ Hardcastle continued to press the ex-army officer. ‘Who was she?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I know nothing about a woman.’ Holroyd paused, frowning. ‘Just a moment, though. Guy was running about with a girl. He’d hooked up with her a couple of months previously.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. Guy didn’t introduce us, and I only saw her a couple of times when she picked him up from the garage.’

  ‘Are you saying that she had her own car?’

  ‘I suppose it was hers,’ said Holroyd thoughtfully. ‘On the other hand, it could have been her brother’s or something like that. It looked brand new – come to think of it, it was a model that only came out this year. It was a Triumph Super Seven. A dinky little two-seater in black with white mudguards and wheels. Wish I could afford something like that.’

  ‘Have you any idea where she lived or where she came from?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘No, no idea. Sorry.’ But Holroyd was lying and had been lying for most of the interview in a desperate attempt to avoid the inevitable charge of murder.

  ‘I don’t suppose you took a note of the registration number of the car.’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  Hardcastle took out his watch and gazed at it thoughtfully.

  ‘You’ll be detained here until you appear in court on Monday morning. At that appearance, I shall seek a remand in police custody while further enquiries are made in connection with the double murder that you deny having committed. Take him down, Marriott.’

  ‘D’you think he did commit those murders, sir?’ asked Marriott, when he had finished arranging for the station officer to put Holroyd into a cell.

  ‘I’m bloody convinced of it, Marriott. He’s too smooth by half. All the old ex-officer la-di-da. On his beam ends? No, he fancied a bit of the high living. Which reminds me. Send Catto up to the Ritz to find out if Holroyd was staying there. He might have denied it because he had left incriminating evidence in his room there.’