by Graham Ison
‘I’m going to pick one with a large circulation – come the day following publication, the others will have picked it up.’ Catto gave the matter a few moments’ thought. ‘I think I’ll have a word with the Daily Mail. I read the other day that they’ve got a circulation of about one and a half million.’
‘Doesn’t the guv’nor read the Mail?’ asked Ritchie. ‘Could be trouble if it’s the first thing he sees on his way to work.’
Catto shook his head wearily. ‘Ritchie, you might’ve been a very good officer in the war, but you’ve still got a lot to learn about coppering.’ He reached for the telephone and asked to be connected to the Daily Mail office in Carmelite Street in the City. After a brief conversation with someone he obviously knew, he took his bowler hat and coat from the stand in the corner of the office and made for the door. Ritchie was about to hurry after him, but Catto stopped him. ‘That’s something else, Ritchie – when you speak to a reporter and impart certain confidential information in exchange for assistance, you don’t take a witness with you.’
‘But supposing this chap has got someone with him?’
‘He won’t have, but if he has, the conversation won’t even start. And he knows that.’
The pub that Frank Harvey, the Daily Mail reporter, had selected for their meeting at twelve noon was some distance from Carmelite House, and one that he knew was not generally frequented by other members of the fourth estate.
‘What are you having, Henry?’
‘A pint of Boddington’s, please, Frank.’
‘I thought you were a Guinness drinker?’
‘Not at midday; it’s too heavy. And I’ve got work to do this afternoon.’
Harvey bought the drinks, and ushered Catto to the other end of the bar where there was no chance of them being overheard. ‘Well, Henry, old son, what breathtaking snippet have you got that’s going to make my name for me?’
‘I need some help,’ admitted Catto, taking the head off his beer. He went on to explain about the unidentified female body that the police had found at Ditton Garage. ‘The male body was identified as Guy Stoner by Rupert Holroyd, Stoner’s partner in the enterprise.’
‘So, that’s what the excavations were all about. We got a whisper that your chaps were doing some poking about at the site of a garage in Ditton, but we thought it was something to do with arson as there’d been a fire there. Looks like you’ve got a puzzle on your hands, Henry.’ Harvey drank the last of his whisky. ‘How come you’re investigating a murder at Ditton? You’re on C Division, aren’t you?’
‘I was, but now I’m back at Cannon Row on A Division.’
Harvey laughed. ‘Back with Ernie Hardcastle, eh? Well, good luck, Henry. But what’s A Division doing investigating business that’s on V Division?’ As the crime reporter of the Daily Mail, Harvey knew his way around the labyrinthine organization of the Metropolitan Police.
‘Arthur Fitnam is off sick, so the Elephant put Ernie Hardcastle on the job.’
‘So, he’s in charge of the investigation, I suppose, but you’re doing all the legwork. Is that it? Plus ça change!’
‘You obviously know my guv’nor as well as I do, Frank.’ Catto signalled to the barman for another round of drinks. ‘D’you think you can help?’
Harvey appeared to give Catto’s request some consideration, but he knew a good story when he heard one. ‘I suppose you don’t want this story attributed, do you, Henry?’
‘Not bloody likely,’ said Catto vehemently. ‘If Ernie Hardcastle thinks I’ve been talking to the press, he’d hang me out to dry.’
‘What do I get out of it, Henry?’
‘Confirmation of the name when we’ve formally identified her, and details of any arrest. All right?’
‘You’d better give me the details of this French girl you think it is, then. No point in running this story if we get the bloody name wrong.’ Harvey produced a small notebook and began to record details of what Catto had just told him. ‘It’ll be in Monday morning’s edition, Henry. Did you say that Hardcastle reads our prestigious journal?’
‘Yes, he does.’
‘In that case, old boy, I’d take the day off, if I were you.’
‘He won’t know it’s me that gave it to you, Frank, but I’m surprised our press department didn’t put it out,’ said Catto reflectively. ‘Someone from Fleet Street must’ve asked.’
Harvey laughed. ‘In Fleet Street it’s known as the suppress department, Henry.’
On Monday morning, Hardcastle arrived in a foul mood and immediately shouted for Marriott.
‘Sir?’ Marriott appeared in the doorway of the DDI’s office.
‘Have you seen this?’ Hardcastle gestured at his somewhat crumpled edition of the Daily Mail, the open broadsheet pages of which almost covered his desk.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘The Daily Mail has somehow got hold of the story about that damned woman whose body was found at Ditton. How the hell did they get hold of that?’
‘May I see, sir?’ Marriott always read the Daily Chronicle and, naturally enough, there was nothing in that paper about the case, as it was the Daily Mail’s scoop. He scanned the article and returned the paper. ‘I think they’ve followed up on that newspaper report about police activity over the arson at Ditton, sir.’ He did not know that the information had been provided by Catto, and Ritchie had been promised a brand-new helmet and a far-flung beat to go with it if he told anyone of Catto’s meeting with the Daily Mail man. There were, after all, careers at stake. ‘I reckon you can blame one of the nightclubs that our people visited, sir. If you tell them why you want to know about any missing showgirls, they’ll start putting two and two together, and before you know it, they’ll be blabbing to one of their newspaper friends. These people have all got contacts with Fleet Street.’
‘Why should they have contacts with the press, Marriott? You’re not making a lot of sense.’
Hardcastle’s naivety amazed Marriott, but only momentarily. ‘It’s always worth a few quid to let the press know if someone of note has been out on the town in a nightclub, sir,’ he explained. ‘For instance, any news of the Prince of Wales’s appearances at one of these places is probably worth a fiver. And if he’s got someone else’s wife with him, it’s probably deserving of a tenner.’ Marriott was beginning to believe that Hardcastle really was getting past it. The nightclub scene that Marriott was describing was common knowledge among the younger detectives but was alien territory to Hardcastle.
‘Yes, that’s as maybe, but how the hell did they know it was me investigating it? It would make more sense if they’d said Arthur Fitnam was. He’s the DDI on V Division, after all.’ Hardcastle’s perplexity continued unabated.
‘It might actually turn out to be helpful, sir,’ said Marriott, making an attempt at placating the DDI. It was obvious that the article had put him in a bad mood, made worse by appearing on a Monday morning and thus boding ill for the rest of the week. ‘By the way, sir, we received a reply from the Rutland Constabulary late on Saturday evening.’
‘What did they want?’
‘We asked them to confirm that Holroyd stayed with his sister and her husband over the weekend from the eleventh to the fourteenth of March, sir, and they did confirm it.’
‘Very convenient,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But I think we’ll do some checking of our own when we have the time.’
In the event, Marriott was right that the newspaper article might help, although even then it was not without another outburst from Hardcastle.
A man giving the name of Gerald Walker called at New Scotland Yard on Tuesday morning, after he had read the report about the missing showgirl in that day’s Morning Post, his newspaper of choice.
Unfortunately for Mr Walker – and the constable on duty at the Back Hall of New Scotland Yard when Hardcastle learned of it – he was directed to Ditton police station, some twenty miles away. There, he was told that the matter was being dealt with by DDI Hardcastle whose o
ffice was to be found at Cannon Row police station immediately opposite New Scotland Yard.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ The station constable hovered in the doorway of Hardcastle’s office.
‘What is it, lad?’
‘There’s a Mr Gerald Walker downstairs asking to see you, sir. He said it’s something to do with his missing wife.’ The PC glanced at a slip of paper. ‘A Mrs Selina or Celine or Cecile Walker, I think he said, sir. Anyway, it was some sort of foreign name.’
‘I expect police officers to be efficient in what they do, lad,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘So, any time in the future you come up here with a message, make bloody sure it’s not some half-baked story. Show this Mr Walker up, a bit jildi, and on your way down, ask Sergeant Marriott to step in.’
Moments later, Marriott came through the door, fastening the last button of his waistcoat as he did so.
‘I think we might be getting somewhere, Marriott. Where’s Catto?’
‘In the detectives’ room, sir.’
‘Better bring him in. He seems to know more about this job than I do,’ said Hardcastle in a rare admission of his own fallibility. ‘But don’t tell him I said so.’
‘Mr Walker, sir.’ The station constable ushered Hardcastle’s caller into the DDI’s office, followed by Henry Catto.
‘Come in, Mr Walker, and take a seat.’
‘Thank you very much, sir.’ Walker’s slightly wavy, neatly trimmed hair was parted in the centre, and he was wearing a three-piece suit that was clearly not a recent acquisition. A sober tie and polished black shoes completed the picture of someone who could be an impecunious clerk. There was a neatly folded raincoat over his left arm, and he held a greying bowler hat in his right hand. ‘I’m sorry to bother a busy man like yourself, sir, but I am worried about my wife, you see.’
Hardcastle was somewhat mollified by the man’s deference. ‘It’s what the police are here for, Mr Walker.’
‘I had a bit of a setback to start with, sir.’ Walker sat down but held on to his raincoat and his hat.
‘Take the gentleman’s hat and coat, Catto, and hang them up.’ Hardcastle waited until that was done before continuing. ‘Now tell me about this setback, Mr Walker.’
‘Well, sir, I thought that Scotland Yard would be the proper place to go in order to lodge my concern. As a result, I obtained the day off work, but once I’d told the officer at Scotland Yard this morning that I was enquiring about a missing dancer called Celine who the police were interested in, he told me to go to Ditton police station. But when I got there, the officer sent me back here. So, here I am, sir.’
‘I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced, Mr Walker,’ said Hardcastle, only containing his rising bad temper with difficulty. He turned to Marriott. ‘I want to see the Back Hall PC and the Back Hall inspector who were on duty this morning, sooner rather than later, Marriott.’
‘I’ll arrange it, sir.’
Walker looked somewhat concerned at this turn of events. ‘I have no wish to make trouble for anyone, sir,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I imagine it was a genuine mistake.’
‘You leave that to me,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Now then, let’s start at the beginning. I understand from what you were saying that your wife is Celine Walker.’
‘That is so, sir.’
‘What was her maiden name?’
‘Fontenau,’ said Walker. ‘She’s French, you see.’
Hardcastle glanced across to ensure that Marriott was taking notes. ‘As a matter of interest, Mr Walker, what is your profession?’
Walker gave a weak smile. ‘I’d hardly call it a profession, sir. I’m a clerk.’
‘And where do you work as a clerk?’
‘At Hudson and Peartree Limited, sir, in Vauxhall. Installers of bakers’ ovens. Twenty years I’ve been there.’
‘And do you live locally, Mr Walker?’
‘I have a bachelor flat in Chapter Street, Westminster, paid for by my employers. That is to say, it was a bachelor flat until I married Celine and she came to live with me.’
‘How did you meet your wife?’ asked Marriott.
Walker turned in his chair. ‘At the Twilight Cabaret Club, sir.’ For the first time since his arrival, Walker appeared embarrassed by this admission. ‘My colleagues treated me to a night out there to celebrate my fortieth birthday.’
For a moment or two, Hardcastle pondered the incongruity of Gerald Walker being at the Twilight Cabaret Club. He also wondered, given the state of the man’s suit, where he would have acquired a dinner jacket – obligatory in most nightclubs – because Hardcastle doubted that the clerk seated in front of him owned one. But Walker himself answered that unasked question.
‘My friends paid for the whole evening, but I had to hire a dinner suit from Moss Brothers in Covent Garden. Cost me two shillings and sixpence, sir – a sizeable part of a clerk’s weekly wage, I can tell you.’
‘But how did you meet your wife?’ persisted Marriott.
‘At the Twilight Cabaret Club, sir.’
‘I think Sergeant Marriott means how exactly did you make contact with Miss Fontenau, given that you were a guest, so to speak, and she, presumably, was on the stage.’ It was the first time that Catto had spoken, and Walker had to turn in the opposite direction from where Marriott was sitting.
‘Oh, I see, sir. I’m sorry, I didn’t quite understand the question. Well, my friends are very generous and bought several bottles of champagne. I have to admit that I got a little bit tipsy, but it’s not every day you have a fortieth birthday, is it?’
‘That’s true,’ said Catto, whose own fortieth was still some years away.
‘Anyway, to answer your question, sir,’ Walker continued, ‘one of my friends said that Celine, who was in the centre of the chorus line, kept looking at me and smiling, and he dared me to send her a note asking her out for a meal. I must admit I was tempted as she was such an attractive girl. Then my other friends started daring me, and before I knew what was happening, I’d given a note to one of the waiters, and another of my friends gave him a Bradbury to slip my note discreetly to Celine.’
‘Your friends seem to have plenty of money, Mr Walker,’ said Catto. From his visit to the Twilight Cabaret Club, he knew that champagne there did not come cheap.
‘I think they’d been saving up, sir. As I said, they’re very good friends, and one of them seems to have good luck on the horses. Anyhow, to my surprise, I received a letter from Celine by Monday morning’s post. In the letter, she said that she’d be delighted to go for a meal with me and asked me to suggest a date, bearing in mind that she worked all week, but had Monday evenings off.’
‘And you and she met, I suppose.’
‘That we did, sir, the very next Monday. I tell you, sir, I couldn’t believe my luck. This beautiful young lady wanting to go out with an old duffer like me, but I suppose being French she didn’t worry so much about the age difference.’
‘Where did Miss Fontenau live, Mr Walker?’ asked Hardcastle.
Walker swung back to face the DDI. ‘D’you know, I’ve no idea, sir. I suppose she had accommodation at the club, but as soon as we were married, she moved in with me.’ He said nothing further for a few seconds, and then added, ‘Actually, she moved in with me before we were married.’ He sighed. ‘Well, it is the nineteen twenties, isn’t it? Things have changed.’
‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Walker,’ said Hardcastle, standing up. ‘I’ll contact you the moment I have any information. Just give your full address to my sergeant, will you.’
‘It might be easier for you if you were to telephone me at work, sir. The number comes through to my desk because I deal with orders and appointments and the like. I wouldn’t like my employers to know that I was having to deal with the police. I didn’t tell them that I’d got married, and they might think I was up to something.’
‘Your firm sounds very old fashioned,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Oh, it is, sir. It hasn’t changed one little bit since I s
tarted there in 1907.’ As Walker stood up, Catto fetched the man’s hat and raincoat and handed it to him. ‘I hope I’ve not taken up too much of your time, sir.’
‘Not at all, Mr Walker,’ said Hardcastle. ‘As I said when you came in, that’s what the police are here for.’
NINE
‘The question I have to decide now,’ said Hardcastle, once Walker had left the office, ‘is whether to ask him to identify the remains of the woman we think is Celine Walker née Fontenau.’
‘It might be a bit harrowing for him, sir,’ suggested Catto.
‘I think we’d have to ask Walker if he was willing, sir,’ said Marriott, ‘although there’s always the possibility that the woman we found at Ditton is not Walker’s wife.’
‘We could get Parker, the butler at Balls Pond Road, to view the remains, sir,’ said Catto, ‘although he might be too drunk. On the other hand, a much more reliable person would be Marjorie Hibberd, the choreographer at the Twilight Cabaret Club. If she remembers her. According to Major Craddock, Mrs Hibberd was off sick at the time of Celine’s disappearance. But I don’t suppose that she would be too distressed by the sight of a dead body.’
‘If she was off sick at the time the girl was at the club, I very much doubt she’d remember her,’ said Hardcastle. ‘No, we’ll start with Walker. Get on that telephone machine first thing in the morning, Catto, and see what he says.’
‘Won’t he wonder why we didn’t ask him when he was here, sir? I mean, what do I tell him?’
‘Good God, Catto, use your initiative.’
At eight thirty on Wednesday morning, Catto rang the number Walker had given him. It was Walker who answered the phone, as he had said he would.
‘It’s Detective Sergeant Catto from Cannon Row police station, Mr Walker.’
‘Do you have some news, sir?’ asked Walker hopefully.
‘It’s not so much news as the need for us to make certain arrangements, Mr Walker. Would it be possible for you to get some time off to come to the police station?’
‘Yes. I sometimes have to go out to meet clients and suggest the best sort of oven they might need. It often takes quite a while because I have to look at where they want them installed. Consequently, I’m often out of the office for long periods of time, especially if I have to travel a distance. I had to go to Scotland once. It’s quite a responsibility, you know, but I combine being a clerk with an estimator and general sort of salesman.’ Walker paused. ‘I just wish they’d pay me a little more than I’m getting.’