Hardcastle's Frustration (28 page)

‘So do I, Marriott, so do I.' The DDI faced Watkins again. ‘In that case, I'll tell you what I'm going to do, Watkins. I'm going to close this shop, throw out all your customers, and bring in the seven or eight policemen I've got waiting outside to tear this place apart. The floorboards will get taken up, the mattresses ripped open, and the Lord knows what else. It'll make the Sidney Street siege look like a picnic in the park.'

‘But you don't understand, sir,' exclaimed Watkins.

‘Show me where the revolver is, Watkins, and show it to me now.'

It would not have needed Hardcastle's fictional team of policemen to have found it. Watkins crossed to a worn sofa and lifted one of the cushions to reveal a revolver. But as he was about to pick it up, Marriott seized him from behind and thrust him against the wall, pushing his arm up his back in a disabling hammerlock and bar.

‘Oh no you don't my lad.'

‘All right, all right,' yelled Watkins, ‘I was only going to give it to you.'

Hardcastle crossed to the sofa, picked up the revolver and checked that it was unloaded. There were five loose rounds alongside where the revolver had rested.

‘And what are you doing with this in your possession, Watkins?' asked Hardcastle, once Marriott had released the barber from his crippling hold.

‘I've been told not to say anything.' Suddenly Watkins adopted an entirely different stance. Gone was the obsequious hairdresser, to be replaced by a man with a confident expression on his face.

‘We'll see about that,' said Hardcastle. ‘I'm arresting you for the unlawful possession of a firearm, and I'm taking you to Cannon Row police station for further questioning. And that's only going to be the start.'

Ordering Marriott to go first, Hardcastle hustled his prisoner down the stairs and through the shop. ‘You're going to be one barber short for the foreseeable future, Jack,' he said to the barber still shaving the man in Watkins's chair. Out in the street, he bundled Watkins into a taxi. ‘Scotland Yard, cabbie.' He turned to his prisoner. ‘Tell 'em Cannon Row, Watkins, and half the time you'll finish up at Cannon Street in the City,' he said jovially.

Sitting opposite the DDI, Marriott sighed inaudibly and raised his eyes to the roof of the cab.

‘We'll let him stew for a while, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, once Watkins had been placed in a cell at Cannon Row police station, ‘and get that revolver over to Mr Franklin
tout de suite
. Ask him if he can give me an answer as soon as possible. Then I'll meet you in the downstairs bar of the Red Lion. I reckon we've earned ourselves a wet after all that hard work.'

‘You're looking very pleased with yourself this fine morning, Mr Hardcastle,' said the landlord of the Red Lion, as he placed a pint of best bitter on the bar.

‘Make that two if you would, Albert. My skipper will be down shortly. Ah, here he is now,' he said, as Marriott appeared in the doorway at the foot of the staircase. ‘Yes, I've had what you might call a satisfactory morning's work.'

‘Morning, Mr Marriott,' said Albert as he put a second pint on the bar.

‘Morning, Albert.' Marriott turned to Hardcastle. ‘Mr Franklin said he should be able to give you a result by two o'clock, sir.'

‘Excellent,' said Hardcastle, as he drained his pint. ‘In that case, we've time for another round.'

But Percy Franklin was quicker than he had forecast, and he knew where he would find Hardcastle at around lunchtime.

‘I'll have a pint, Albert,' said Franklin as he joined the two A Division detectives. He glanced sideways at Hardcastle. ‘It's a match, Ernie,' he said.

‘Got 'im!' exclaimed Hardcastle triumphantly. ‘You're absolutely sure, Percy?'

‘I'll happily go up to the Old Bailey and swear it on a stack of Bibles, Ernie,' said Franklin.

‘Oh, you'll be doing that all right, Percy,' said Hardcastle.

Hardcastle and Marriott sat down on one side of the table in the interview room, opposite the hairdresser.

‘Why did you murder Ronald Parker, Watkins?' asked the DDI. He made the accusation secure in the knowledge that he had adequate proof to support his allegation.

‘I didn't murder anyone,' said Watkins, but he was soon to discover that that lame response was pointless.

Hardcastle smote the top of the table with the flat of his hand, causing not only Watkins to jump, but Marriott also.

‘Don't fence with me, Watkins. We took possession of a revolver at your premises and a ballistics expert will testify that it was the weapon used to kill Parker.'

‘I never had a choice,' said Watkins.

‘You'd didn't have a choice?' repeated Hardcastle in disbelief. ‘I think you'd better explain that.'

‘This man came to the shop—'

‘What was his name?' asked Marriott.

‘Lawrence Mortimer.'

‘But you told me that you'd never heard of Lawrence Mortimer.' Hardcastle was not surprised at the man's original denial; it was what he had always come to expect when first he confronted a suspect. ‘When was this?'

Watkins gave the question some thought. ‘It must've been about the beginning of March, I suppose. I know it was a Sunday evening, quite a while after I'd shut up shop. Anyway, Mortimer said that he'd been sent by a mutual friend.'

‘Did he tell you the name of this so-called mutual friend?' asked Hardcastle.

‘No, he never said. Anyhow, he went on to say that this friend had told him that I could help him out of any trouble he was in. Well, that didn't sound like one of my friends. I mean, they'd've told me if they'd known Mortimer.'

‘And did you believe Mortimer?'

‘Well, I had to, because I suddenly remembered that some weeks ago, before Christmas it was, a man came to the shop and gave me a hundred pounds. He said it was an advance payment to help out a Mr Mortimer if he ever needed it.'

‘Did this man give a name?'

‘No, he didn't.'

‘What did he look like?'

Watkins gave a vague description that could have fitted a hundred men.

‘Had you ever seen him before?'

‘No, never set eyes on him.'

‘Didn't you enquire why this strange man should have taken it into his head to give you a hundred pounds?' Hardcastle was having trouble believing this fanciful tale of unknown men appearing out of the blue.

‘Yes, I did. I asked him what sort of trouble he was talking about and he said that it was a matter of national security. He went on to say that he worked for the government and that I wasn't to tell anyone about our arrangement, not even the police. Well, it seemed an easy sort of job, and a hundred quid is a hundred quid.'

‘So tell me what happened when you say that Mortimer turned up at your shop on this Sunday evening at the beginning of March.'

‘He said he'd got a bloke in his car and I was to give him a hand to get him upstairs to my rooms.'

‘I presume you did help him, Watkins,' said Marriott.

‘Yes, but I got a surprise because the man in the car was only half conscious.' Watkins switched his gaze to Marriott. ‘I think he'd been drugged. Anyway, we got him upstairs – it was all quiet in the street, fortunately – but then Mortimer said I was to dispose of him.'

‘Did he say how? Or, for that matter why he wanted him disposed of?' Hardcastle dismissed the story of the half-drugged man. Dr Spilsbury had not found any trace of noxious substances in Parker's system. It was more likely that he had been knocked unconscious.

‘He said that the man was a German spy and that the government wanted him got rid of. He said that the authorities couldn't arrest him because it would alert other spies to the fact that they'd been rumbled, and that he just had to disappear. And he said that I wasn't to breathe a word to anyone about it because it was secret government business.'

‘What did you understand by “getting rid of him”, Watkins?'

‘I didn't know, so I asked him. He told me I was to kill the man and dump his body in the river.'

‘What did you say to that?'

‘Well, I was terrified, and then I refused, of course. But then Mortimer said that if I didn't do what I was told, I would be arrested myself for . . .' Watkins paused. ‘Yes, he said that I'd be arrested for conspiring with a German spy and that I'd be hanged. Those were his exact words.'

And Mortimer was absolutely right
, thought Hardcastle.

‘What happened then?'

‘Mortimer gave me a revolver, the one you've got there,' said Watkins, pointing to the weapon on the table, ‘and an old sack. He told me I was to shoot the man, tie him up in the sack and dump him.' Watkins was sweating now probably because he realized that, in the cold light of day, the story was too incredible.

‘I don't believe a word of this.' Hardcastle leaned back in his chair, took out his pipe and began to fill it.

‘It's the truth, I swear it,' said Watkins desperately. ‘What was I to do, Inspector? It was a case of kill this man or be hanged.'

‘Well, my friend, you've scored a double, because you'll be hanged anyway, one early morning at Wormwood Scrubs prison, most likely.'

‘But what was I to do?' demanded the anguished Watkins again. He was white-faced now and sweating profusely, and his hands, clasped together on the table, were clenched tight.

‘You could've called a policeman
before
you killed this man and told him the story,' said Marriott mildly. ‘He might just have believed it, but whether he did or not, he'd certainly have looked into it. And if it was as secret as Mortimer said it was, the police would've known how to deal with it.'

‘But Mortimer said I wasn't to breathe a word to anyone including the police,' said Watkins, ‘otherwise the government's plan would be ruined and they'd never catch the spies.'

‘So, on the basis of this flimsy story, you killed Ronald Parker anyway,' commented Hardcastle brutally. ‘Despite it being an outrageous request.'

‘Was that his name?' asked Watkins innocently, despite Hardcastle having mentioned Parker's name before. ‘Mortimer never told me who he was, other than to say he was a spy. But yes, I did for him. I shot him in the back of the head.'

‘And how did you get his body to the river?'

‘I borrowed a box-tricycle from the grocer down the road. I told him I'd got some stuff to shift round to my sister's place. I done the body up in the sack Mortimer had given me, dragged it down the stairs and out through the back door into the yard. Then I got it into the tricycle and made for the river. No one saw me, on account of all the street lights being out because of the blackout. When I got to the river, I tipped him in the drink just by the bridge. I took the tricycle back to the grocer the next morning.'

‘Bloody amazing, Marriott,' exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘Our Mr Watkins, a Battersea barber, murders Parker, sticks him in a box tricycle and calmly pedals his way down to the river in the dead of night and chucks him in.' Turning to his prisoner again, he said, ‘Henry Watkins, I am charging you with the murder of Ronald Parker on or about the third of March this year.' He glanced at Marriott. ‘Take him out to the charge room and tell the station officer I'll be there directly to prefer the charge.'

‘But it was government work,' protested Watkins, as Marriott steered him towards the door. ‘That's what Mortimer told me.'

‘You're dead right about that, Watkins, it most certainly was government work,' said Hardcastle. ‘Unfortunately for you, it was the German government you were doing this for, not ours. Lawrence Mortimer was a German spy and has since been tried and convicted. His real name is Gerhard von Kleiber and he'll shortly be executed at the Tower of London.'

‘Oh my God, it can't be true.' Watkins paled significantly, and for a moment it looked as though he would collapse, but for the supporting arm of Marriott.

‘Well, Marriott, what d'you make of that?' asked Hardcastle, when he and his sergeant were back in the DDI's office.

‘Like you said, sir, it's bloody amazing,' said Marriott. ‘But do you believe him?'

‘Well, he certainly admitted killing Parker, and Mr Franklin confirmed that the revolver we've got was the one that Watkins used to commit the murder. But if his story's to be believed, he could've genuinely thought he was working for the government, our government. I don't think he had the slightest idea that Mortimer was a spy and that he, Watkins, was therefore indirectly working for the Germans. But murder's murder.'

‘I think you're probably right, sir. I don't doubt that Mortimer scared the living daylights out of him with his threat of execution. And I'm not sure our people would've believed him even if he
had
called in at Battersea nick.'

Hardcastle laughed. ‘No, perhaps not, Marriott, but they might've prevented the murder. It makes no difference though, he'll swing anyway.' He stood up. ‘Bow Street court Monday morning, then. In the meantime, Marriott, take the weekend off, and my regards to Mrs Marriott.'

‘Thank you, sir.' Marriott glanced at the clock on Hardcastle's wall; it was five past six. ‘And mine to Mrs H.'

‘Henry Watkins, charge of murder, Your Worship,' cried the gaoler in Number One Court at Bow Street, as the prisoner entered the dock.

‘You seem to making a habit of charging people with murder, Inspector.' Sir Robert Dummett, the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate, cast a benevolent smile in Hardcastle's direction.

‘Indeed, Your Worship.'

‘Are you ready to proceed?'

‘Not at this stage, Your Worship. I respectfully ask for a remand in custody.'

‘Very well.' Dummett looked at the prisoner. ‘You will be remanded until Tuesday the sixteenth of April,' he said, scribbling a note in his ledger. ‘Next.'