Hardcastle's Frustration (12 page)

‘Well, if you did it, Pa, I'm sure I can,' said Walter, jubilantly turning his father's argument against him. ‘Of course, I could join the City of London Police,' he added, knowing how that would annoy Hardcastle.

‘Over my dead body!' exclaimed Hardcastle, as Walter disappeared into the kitchen in search of something to eat.

But it was Alice Hardcastle who had the last word. ‘You know what Wally's like, Ernie. If he's made up his mind nothing will stop him.' She paused. ‘Bit like his father really.'

Hardcastle finally gave up on the newspaper with the arrival of Kitty.

‘Hello, Pa,' she said, taking off her uniform hat and coat.

‘What's this I hear from your mother about you wanting to join the Women Police Patrols?'

‘Make a change from the buses, Pa,' said Kitty. ‘I thought it'd be a bit of a lark.'

‘A lark?' exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘Police work's not a lark, my girl.'

‘Well, you seem to enjoy it, and at least I wouldn't have to help wounded soldiers on and off my bus,' rejoined Kitty, and flounced out to the kitchen.

S
unday saw Hardcastle in an irascible mood. Unable to get on with the enquiry into Ronald Parker's murder, and deliberately overlooking the list of jobs that Alice wanted done in the house, he walked down to Horace Boxall's shop at the corner of Kennington Road.

‘Morning, Mr Hardcastle,' said Boxall. ‘I see from the papers that you're dealing with another murder.'

‘Never rains but it pours, Horace,' said Hardcastle gloomily.

‘Your usual, is it, Mr Hardcastle?' enquired Boxall, turning to a shelf. ‘That's eightpence altogether.' He placed a copy of the
News of the
World
and an ounce of St Bruno tobacco on the counter. ‘Terrible business, that bomb at Maida Vale last Thursday,' he said, pointing at the newspaper's photograph of the wrecked houses. ‘Twelve killed and God knows how many injured, and all for what?'

‘Yes, I heard about it,' said Hardcastle, putting down a shilling and collecting his fourpence change. ‘Apparently there was a woman and two children killed, and her with a husband at the Front. It won't be much of a homecoming for him. Women half expect their husbands to be killed, not the other way round.'

Detective Sergeant Wood had decided that he would take Detective Constable Catto with him for the first day of the observation, and leave Lipton in reserve. He had been told by Hardcastle that Mavis Parker normally started work at the Sopwith Aviation Company at eight in the morning. Consequently Wood and Catto took up their observation in Canbury Park Road at just after seven o'clock on the Monday morning.

It was a difficult observation to maintain; both sides of the road were lined with dwelling houses and there was nowhere to hide. There was not even a bus stop at which the pair could loiter without attracting undue attention. Consequently, the two detectives were obliged to stroll up and down the street, ostensibly deep in conversation and trying desperately to appear nonchalant.

At twenty minutes to eight, Mavis Parker left her house and took the short walk to the factory, entering the gates on the corner of Elm Road ten minutes later.

‘What do we do now, Skip?' asked Catto. ‘The guv'nor said that she normally finishes at six. Do we hang about here all day?'

‘No, we don't,' said Wood. ‘We now spend the day ambling round Kingston seeing the sights, and grabbing a pint and a bite to eat. Then we'll get back here in time to follow her home from work.'

‘But mightn't she go out at lunchtime, Skip?' Catto was worried that they might miss something important.

‘I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Henry,' said Wood.

But what Wood and Catto had thought would be a prolonged observation, stretching perhaps for a week or more, looked as though it was going to be a remarkably short one.

At ten to six that evening, the two detectives stationed themselves near a greengrocer's shop on the corner of Queen Elizabeth Road whence they had sight of the factory gates.

Twenty minutes later, the day workers started to drift out of the factory, and Wood and Catto were forced to move closer for fear of missing Mavis Parker in the crowd.

But then they saw her, neatly dressed and arm in arm with another woman. Together the two women walked down Canbury Park Road, under the railway bridge in Richmond Road into Wood Street, and thence to Ceres Road where, finally, they entered the roller skating rink.

‘That's where Gordon Lipton and I saw Gilbert Stroud last Thursday, Skip,' said Catto.

‘Well, we're not interested in him any more,' said Wood tersely. ‘And now, I suppose we hang about for another hour.' Although he was good at keeping observation, he disliked the task intensely, but was well aware of its value.

An hour later, Catto spotted the lone figure of Mavis Parker emerging from the rink. ‘Here she comes, Skip,' he said, nodding towards the woman.

The waiting detectives had anticipated that their quarry would return home, but instead she turned the opposite way, towards Clarence Street. Reaching the corner, she paused and looked around, casting furtive glances in all directions. But she failed to take note of the following detectives who were apparently engrossed in a display of pianos in the shop window on the opposite side of the road.

Five minutes later, Mavis Parker was joined by a man who came from the direction of the skating rink. He too glanced around before kissing Mavis lightly on the cheek and taking her arm. Together, they made for a tea shop a few yards along Clarence Street where they sat at a table and the man placed an order with a waitress.

‘I wonder who the hell he is,' said Catto.

‘No doubt we'll find out in due course, Henry,' said Wood, as they settled down to wait.

For half an hour, Mavis Parker and her companion engrossed themselves in deep conversation, drinking tea and consuming the little cakes that were on a stand between them. Then the man paid the bill and they got up to leave. Outside the tea shop, he again pecked Mavis lightly on the cheek before making off in the direction of London Road. Retracing her steps, Mavis Parker began walking towards the skating rink.

Wood and Catto started to follow the man, but Wood ordered Catto to overtake their prey and walk in front of him for a while.

‘But how can I follow him from there, Skip?'

‘Just do it, Henry,' said Wood, who knew much more about surveillance work than did Catto, and crossed to the opposite side of the road.

It was as well that Wood was experienced at shadowing suspects; as he had anticipated, the man suddenly stopped, turned and peered down the road in the direction from which he had come.

Aha!
thought Wood,
he's making sure he's not being tailed. He must have something to hide.

Apparently satisfied, the mystery man continued to walk towards London Road, but then paused at a tram stop near the police station. A few minutes later, a number 73 tram arrived. The man clambered aboard and mounted the stairs to the upper deck.

Wood and Catto also boarded the tram, Catto just managing to catch up with his sergeant in time, and they took seats where they had a good view of the exits at both the front and rear of the vehicle.

The tram wound its way up Kingston Hill, and at the stop near Queen's Road, the man descended the stairs and alighted. Walking swiftly away, he stopped several times and peered behind him, continuing to give the impression that he was fearful of being followed. Observed from a discreet distance by Wood and Catto, the man crossed the road and turned into Wolverton Avenue. From there he made his way into the staff entrance of Kingston Infirmary.

‘Well, it looks like he's Mavis's fancy man and nothing more,' said Catto.

‘I wouldn't be too certain, Henry,' said Wood, ‘but there's one sure way of finding out.' Without further ado, and followed by Catto, he too entered the staff doorway of the infirmary.

‘Can I help you?' The doorkeeper wore a blue uniform with a peaked cap, and his tunic bore a number of medal ribbons.

Wood had not been in the armed forces, although he recognized the doorman's ribbons as those awarded for service in the South African wars. He was, therefore, careful to avoid any reference to the army in case the doorman asked a question that he could not answer.

‘I hope so, pal. The chap who just came in . . .'

‘What about him?' asked the doorkeeper, fingering his heavy, drooping moustache.

‘I could swear I was in the navy with him.'

‘Who, Wilfred Rudd, the porter? I never knew he was in the Andrew. Was he one of your shipmates, then, chum?'

‘Wilfred Rudd, you say?' said Wood, running a hand round his chin. ‘Well I'm damned, that's not him, but I could've sworn it was. Oh well, sorry to have bothered you, mate.'

‘That's was pretty smart, Skip,' said Catto, when he and Wood returned to the street.

Wood laughed. ‘You pick up a few wrinkles when you've been at this game as long as I have, Henry,' he said.

‘Reckon that's us done, then, Skip,' said Catto.

Wood emitted a grim, cynical laugh. ‘That, I suspect, Henry, is only the beginning,' he said.

Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood was waiting outside Hardcastle's office door when the DDI arrived at eight o'clock the next morning.

‘Come in and tell me why you aren't following Mrs Parker, Wood,' snapped Hardcastle, entering his office without pausing.

‘Lipton and Catto are keeping observation on her at this very moment, sir, but I've a report to make.'

‘Go ahead and report, then. I haven't got all day.'

Wood gave the DDI the details of what he and Catto had witnessed the previous evening.

‘How old is this Wilfred Rudd?' Hardcastle filled his pipe and patted his pockets in search of matches.

‘In his late thirties, sir,' said Wood promptly. He was not too certain of Rudd's age, but knew that Hardcastle disliked an inconclusive answer. ‘Do you want me to make further enquiries at Kingston Infirmary, sir?'

‘Not now you've shown out to the doorkeeper there,' said Hardcastle, and paused to light his pipe. ‘Sergeant Marriott and I will look into the matter of Rudd. In the meantime, break off the observation on Mavis Parker. If she's up to what I think she's up to, we might just bugger it up. Get hold of Lipton and Catto and call 'em off.'

‘Might be a bit difficult, sir.'

‘It's not difficult at all, Wood. Use that telephone machine to speak to Kingston nick and tell 'em to send a plain-clothes officer up there to warn 'em off.'

‘Very good, sir.'

‘Did Mrs Parker go anywhere during her lunch break?' the DDI asked suddenly.

‘No, sir.' Wood did not hesitate for a moment, knowing that Hardcastle would fly into a rage if he told the DDI that he had not bothered to find out.

‘Very well. Ask Sergeant Marriott to come in.'

‘Looks as though Bert Wood did a good job in tracking down this chap yesterday, sir,' said Marriott, as he entered the DDI's office.

‘We'll have to pay a visit to this fellow's place of work, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, declining to comment on Wood's efficiency, ‘and see what they can tell us about this Wilfred Rudd. Might be nothing more than some fancy man our Mrs Parker's picked up with.'

‘According to Wood, sir, Rudd kept turning round as if he thought that he was being followed.'

‘I know. Wood told me that. It could be that he's a married man, and was taking precautions in case he was being followed by an enquiry agent, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, never one to take things at face value. ‘He might be a bit of a philanderer whose wife is on to him. We'll pay a visit to this here Kingston Infirmary this afternoon.'

‘Who's the best person to see, sir?' asked Marriott, when he and the DDI arrived at the main entrance to the infirmary. ‘The Lady Almoner?'

‘Certainly not, Marriott. In my experience lady almoners are a bunch of aristocratic do-gooders,' said Hardcastle dismissively. ‘They don't know A from a bull's foot when it comes to it. No, it's the matron we need to see. Matrons always know what's going on.'

Striding into the reception area, the DDI eventually found a nurse who directed them to the matron's office.

‘What's her name, young lady?' asked the DDI, pausing as he turned away.

‘Miss Morag McGregor,' said the nurse in hushed tones, as if in awe of the great woman.

‘Have you ever noticed how often matrons are Scottish, Marriott?' said Hardcastle, tapping lightly on the matron's door.

‘Come!' said a commanding voice from within.

Hardcastle pushed open the door, doffing his bowler hat at the same time.

‘Yes?' snapped the matron, peering at Hardcastle over a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. She was immaculately uniformed, with a pristine white apron and a cap that was set squarely on her head. Altogether she represented the picture of an austere and unforgiving disciplinarian.

‘We're police officers, madam. I'm Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.'

‘Well, come in, man.' The matron's forbidding countenance softened into a smile as she swept off her pince-nez. ‘And tell me what I can do for you.' She skirted her desk and offered a hand. ‘I'm Morag McGregor.'

Hardcastle shook hands. ‘I'm conducting a murder enquiry, Matron, and I was hoping . . .'

‘Sit down, Inspector, and you too, Sergeant.' The matron indicated a pair of hard-backed chairs in front of her desk. She lifted the fob watch that was attached to her apron by a black ribbon and peered at it. ‘Five o'clock. I dare say you gentlemen would not be averse to a wee dram, eh? We Scots swear by it . . . for medicinal purposes only, of course,' she said, with a smile. And without waiting for a reply, she crossed to a cabinet and took out three tumblers and a bottle of Buchanan's Black and White whisky. Hardcastle was surprised; as a Scotch drinker himself, he knew that it retailed for nigh-on six shillings.