Hardcastle's Frustration (6 page)

‘It doesn't matter, Cyril. It's you I wanted a word with. We've got a murder running and one of the names to come up is that of a Daisy Benson who lives in Kingston. She's a bit of a flighty madam, probably on the game, and she told us that her husband's a staff sergeant in the Army Ordnance Corps somewhere in France. But we've got our doubts that he's actually there.'

‘D'you think he's up for this topping, then, Charlie?'

‘It's a possibility,' said Marriott cautiously.

‘And I suppose you want me to find out where he is, Charlie.'

‘That's the general idea, Cyril, and possibly if he's had any Blighty leave recently. What are the chances?'

Glover shook his head at the sheer enormity of the task that Marriott had set him. ‘Charlie, there are millions of men under arms across the water. It could take a few days at best, but I'll see what I can do.'

‘Well?' Hardcastle looked up as Marriott entered his office.

‘I spoke to Sergeant Glover, sir, but he said it could take a few days to find out about Staff Sergeant Benson.'

‘A few days? You wouldn't think there was a war on, would you?' Hardcastle put down his pipe. ‘If someone wanted to know where one of our policemen was stationed, I could find out in minutes, Marriott, not a few days.'

‘Yes, sir.' Marriott was ill-disposed to encourage one of the DDI's acerbic diatribes about the army's efficiency or lack of it. But he felt that he had to defend the military, particularly as his brother-in-law was a sergeant-major in the Middlesex Regiment serving in France. ‘There are nineteen thousand men in the Metropolitan Police, sir, all in London apart from those at Windsor Castle and the Dockyard Divisions. The army's got millions all over the place.'

‘They're not trying, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, loath to admit that his sergeant had a point. ‘I suppose we'll just have to wait and see.'

‘Excuse me, sir.' The station duty constable appeared in Hardcastle's doorway.

‘What is it, lad?'

‘There's a Mr Harold Parker downstairs, sir. He wants to report a missing person.'

‘Did he say who was missing?' asked Hardcastle, although he had guessed that it concerned his murder victim.

‘He said it was his brother, a Ronald Parker, sir.' The PC paused. ‘I thought you'd wish to know, because he was the bloke you pulled out of the river yesterday morning, wasn't he, sir?'

‘I don't go about pulling people out of the river, as you put it, lad,' snapped Hardcastle. ‘Not unless they're still alive. You know I don't stand for that sort of sloppy statement. You wouldn't give evidence in court like that, I hope. The body was found and recovered by Thames Division officers.'

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.'

‘Where is this here Harold Parker?'

‘In the interview room, sir.'

‘Come, Marriott. We'll see what this fellow has to say for himself.'

Dismissing the constable, Hardcastle and Marriott descended to the small interview room on the front of the police station.

‘Mr Harold Parker?'

‘That is I, sir.' Parker stood up and tucked a clay pipe into a pocket. He was a big, ruddy-faced man, dressed in a heavy Guernsey sweater, moleskin trousers, a reefer jacket, and a red kerchief. He had stout boots on his feet, and held a soft peaked-cap in his hand.

‘I'm Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle, Mr Parker. One of my constables told me that you wish to report a Ronald Parker missing.' He waved a hand to indicate that Harold Parker should sit down.

‘I hope I'm not wasting your time, sir, but the missus and me called on his wife Mavis down at Kingston last Sunday afternoon,' Parker began, ‘expecting to see Ron as well. But he wasn't there and Mavis said she hadn't seen him since Thursday. She did seem a bit worried though, but I somehow got the impression that it wasn't that that was vexing her. Then she said that Ron had talked about going to Holland.' He shook his head as though unable to comprehend the reason for such a venture. ‘Why on earth he should want to go to Holland is a mystery. Apart from which, I've no idea how he'd get there? There aren't any passenger services to the Hook. Anyway, I thought that I ought to have a word with you. I moored nearby half an hour ago and as you're the nearest police station, I came in here.'

‘It so happened that you came to the right police station, Mr Parker, but I'm afraid we have bad news for you, sir,' said Marriott. ‘Your brother's body was recovered from the Thames yesterday morning.'

‘Oh no! Was he drowned?'

‘We have yet to establish the exact cause of death,' lied Hardcastle. He did not intend to tell Harold Parker that his brother had been murdered, at least not yet.

‘Are you sure it was Ronald?'

‘As sure as we can be, Mr Parker,' said Marriott. ‘We recovered correspondence and a pay packet that leave us in little doubt.'

‘My God! What a tragedy.' Parker shook his head in disbelief. ‘He was the mildest man you could hope to meet. Poor Mavis. Ronald was a God-fearing good husband, you know.'

Hardcastle knew that to be untrue. ‘We're endeavouring to find out how he died, Mr Parker,' he said, even though he was well aware that his brother had been murdered. ‘Would you tell me again when you visited Mavis Parker? Just to make sure.'

Parker took a small diary from his trouser pocket and thumbed through the pages. ‘Last Sunday, the third of March, Inspector. It's not often that I get a Sunday off these days.'

‘Why is that? Are you engaged in some sort of war work?'

‘I suppose I am, in a way. I'm a bargemaster on the Thames, working out of the Pool of London.'

‘How far upriver d'you ply, Mr Parker?' asked Marriott, just as Hardcastle was about to pose the same question. Each of them was thinking the same thing: could Harold Parker have had anything to do with his brother's death?

‘I have been known to go as far up as Brentford, but not very often. Usually Chelsea Reach is my limit.'

‘Were you at Chelsea yesterday by any chance?' asked Hardcastle.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I was, sir. I took a load of timber up from Dagenham.'

‘What time would you have arrived at Chelsea Reach?'

‘At about three yesterday afternoon, or thereabouts.' Parker seemed puzzled by the DDI's question, but did not query why it had been asked.

‘I see.' Hardcastle stood up. ‘There is one thing I'm going to ask you to do, Mr Parker . . .'

‘What might that be, sir?'

‘I need you to identify your brother's body. I thought it unwise to ask Mrs Parker; the body is not in the best of condition.'

‘Certainly. I quite understand. When would you like me to do this?'

‘Now would be ideal. Your brother's body has been moved to the Horseferry Road mortuary pending the inquest. Sergeant Marriott here will take you in just a moment.' Hardcastle glanced at his sergeant. ‘Take a cab, Marriott.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Thank you for calling in, Mr Parker,' continued Hardcastle. ‘We'll keep you informed of any developments.'

‘Are you able to tell me when the funeral is likely to be, sir?'

‘That's a matter for the coroner, but as soon as he's released your brother's body for burial, I'll be sure to let you know. Perhaps you'd let my sergeant here have a note of your address.'

Parker took Marriott's proffered pocket book and scribbled the details. ‘Thank you, Inspector,' he said, and crossed the room, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. ‘I presume that Mavis has been told about Ronald.'

‘I spoke to her yesterday, Mr Parker.'

‘She must be beside herself with grief,' said Parker with a shake of his head. ‘The missus and me'll call and see her this evening.'

M
arriott escorted Harold Parker into the mortuary at Horseferry Road. The attendant showed them into the small room where Ronald Parker's body, covered with a rough sheet, was lying on a table.

With a skill borne of years of practice, the attendant flicked back the sheet sufficient to allow a view of the victim's face. He moved away, allowing Harold Parker to approach.

‘Is that your brother Ronald, Mr Parker?' asked Marriott.

Although he was in no doubt, Harold Parker spent several seconds gazing down at his dead brother before eventually turning away.

‘Yes, that's Ronald, Sergeant.'

‘If you'd be so good as to come into the office, Mr Parker,' said Marriott, ‘I'll ask you to make a brief formal statement confirming that you have identified your brother.'

‘Of course.' Harold Parker shook his head and followed Marriott out of the room. ‘Why on earth did it have to happen?' he said.

Marriott reported to Hardcastle the moment he returned to the police station.

‘Harold Parker identified the body as that of his brother straightaway, sir.'

‘Of course he did, Marriott. There was no doubt.'

‘D'you think he was involved, sir?' asked Marriott.

‘He could've had something to do with it, I suppose,' said Hardcastle, slowly filling his pipe. ‘He admitted to taking his barge under Westminster Bridge yesterday.'

‘But would he have told us that if he'd murdered his brother, sir? I'd've thought that he would've made up some story about being miles away if he was guilty. Anyway, according to him it would've been well after the time the body was found that he went under Westminster Bridge. He said he arrived at Chelsea Reach at three o'clock yesterday afternoon. And it's likely that the body had been in the river for quite some time before it was recovered.'

‘Quite possibly, Marriott, quite possibly. But Harold Parker might just be drawing us the long bow. Anyhow, we'll check. Send Wilmot up there to ask a few questions.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Marriott, and made a mental note to speak to DC Wilmot the moment the DDI had finished.

‘He didn't seem too cut up about his brother's death, neither, Marriott,' commented Hardcastle. ‘Where was it he said he lived?'

Marriott opened his pocket book. ‘Seven Jacob Street, sir. It's off Mill Street in Bermondsey.'

‘Yes, I know where Jacob Street is, Marriott. Handy for the Pool of London, that is.' Hardcastle sat down behind his desk. ‘This business of Ronald Parker going to Holland because he was afraid to be called up . . .'

‘D'you mean the tribunal might've passed him fit after all, sir?'

‘Yes, that's what I was thinking, even though Spilsbury ruled it out. But they're so short of men these days that they're likely to send anyone who's capable of standing up straight for five minutes. Who deals with this business of medical tribunals?'

‘The Ministry of National Service, sir,' said Marriott promptly.

‘Yes, I suppose they would,' said Hardcastle thoughtfully. ‘Where are their offices?'

‘In St James's Square, sir.' Marriott knew that the question would be asked at some stage, and had made a point of finding out.

‘Not in Whitehall?' Hardcastle took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at his sergeant.

‘No, sir.'

‘That's a damned funny place for a government office to be, Marriott. I thought they were all in Whitehall, but it seems that this war has turned the world upside down. I suppose we'd better have a walk round there and see what they've got to say about our Mr Parker. But first, I fancy a glass of ale.'

The two detectives walked out of the police station into Derby Gate and descended to the downstairs bar of the Red Lion public house.

‘If you're buying, Marriott, mine's a pint of best bitter.'

‘Yes, sir.' Marriott grinned; he knew that neither he nor the DDI ever paid for their beer in the Red Lion. It was one of the perks they enjoyed as members of the local CID.

The Ministry of National Service occupied a white three-storied building that had undoubtedly been a fashionable town house before being requisitioned by the government, and had probably been the residence of a well-to-do family. It was evident that some families still lived in the square: straw covered much of the road to deaden the sound of traffic. The Spanish influenza pandemic was taking its toll, but only the more affluent families with sick relatives could afford the luxury of purchasing straw.

A constable from C Division's Vine Street police station, posted there to guard the building, stood on the steps, surveying the passing scene with a bored expression on his face.

‘And what would you two gents be wanting with the Ministry of National Service?' asked the PC as Hardcastle and Marriott mounted the steps. ‘Look a bit too old to join up, I'd've thought.' He laughed at what he thought was a rather clever quip. ‘Anyway this ain't the place for enlisting.'

‘What I'm doing here is none of your damned business, lad,' snapped Hardcastle, thrusting his warrant card under the policeman's nose. ‘DDI Hardcastle of A.'

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir.' The PC hurriedly assumed a position of attention and saluted. ‘All correct, sir.'

‘Is it indeed?' demanded Hardcastle. ‘Well, I'll be having a word with your sub at Vine Street, lad. We'll see if he thinks it's all correct. The charge will be either incivility to a member of the public or insubordination to a senior officer. You can take your pick. Make a note of his divisional number, Sergeant.' And leaving that threat hanging in the air, he pushed open the door. ‘Bloody slackness, that's what it is, Marriott.'

‘Yes?' A sickly youth of about twenty, seated at a desk inside the door, looked up as the two detectives entered. He had the surly attitude of someone clothed with a modicum of authority.

‘I'm a police officer and I want to see whoever's in charge, lad,' said Hardcastle. ‘And, as a matter of interest, why aren't you in the army?'