Hardcastle's Frustration (25 page)

He called for Marriott. ‘Send a couple of men down to Powers' house to do a proper search. Better make it Wood and Wilmot. When you've done that, come back here.'

‘Yes, sir.' It was clear to Marriott that his chief was not in the best of moods this morning.

‘And find out what's known about this bloody South African warrant.'

‘It would seem, sir,' said Marriott, when he returned thirty minutes later, ‘that the Foreign Office hasn't received an arrest warrant for de Ritzen from the South African government. That means, of course, that a warrant won't have been issued by the Bow Street magistrates for his arrest, which they would've done if the South African warrant had been lodged.' It was his job to concern himself with such matters and advise his chief accordingly, and he had not needed the DDI to tell him.

‘That don't matter a jot, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, dismissing with a wave of his hand what he considered to be a minor point of legal bureaucracy, ‘because I've already charged Powers with the murder of Ronald Parker. The Chief Metropolitan Magistrate won't worry about the South African warrant yet. He'll remand him in custody for eight days anyway for the murder of Parker. That'll give the Boers plenty of time to sort out a fugitive offender's warrant. All we need then is for the Foreign Office to get off their backsides.'

‘But if the police in South Africa get him back, sir, surely that'll mean that we won't be able to proceed against him for Parker's murder?'

‘Ah, but the South Africans ain't got him in their custody, Marriott, we have,' said Hardcastle, gently tapping the top of his desk with the closed fist of his hand for emphasis. ‘Possession is nine points of the law and I ain't letting Powers go without a fight. Mind you, the South Africans will hang him anyway, so it don't make much difference in the long run.' He glanced at his watch, briefly wound it and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘Time we was getting ourselves up to Bow Street.'

I
t was nigh on eleven o'clock before Sir Robert Dummett, the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate, had finished dealing with the usual parade of prostitutes and drunks that, by long-standing custom, always appeared first in the register.

‘Vincent Powers, Your Worship. Charge of murder,' cried the policeman-gaoler, as the South African was escorted into the dock. There was a feverish flurry of excitement in the press box as journalists began to make notes. It was a rare occurrence for a prisoner accused of murder to appear in the court.

‘Is your name Vincent Powers and do you reside at The Beeches, Kingston Hill in the County of Surrey?' asked the clerk of the court.

‘It is and I do,' replied Powers loftily, and swept the court with his gaze, as though appraising a first-night theatre audience. ‘And I am completely innocent of this ridiculous charge.'

‘Now is not the time to enter a plea,' said the magistrate mildly.

‘You may sit down,' said the clerk.

Ignoring the prisoner, Dummett turned to Hardcastle as he stepped into the witness box. ‘Good morning, Inspector.'

‘Good morning, Your Worship.'

‘Are you in a position to proceed, Mr Hardcastle?'

‘Not at this stage, Your Worship.'

‘In that case, I'll delay taking a plea. Do you wish to make an application?'

‘I respectfully ask for a remand in custody, sir, on the grounds that Powers might interfere with witnesses, and that he might attempt to flee the country,' said Hardcastle blandly, not that he thought the former to be the case, but as he was not testifying on oath it did not matter too much. ‘There is some evidence that the prisoner was responsible for the murder of one Ronald Parker on or about the fourth of March this year, but further enquiries need to be pursued before depositions can be taken. I also have it on good authority that a warrant, in the name of Jan de Ritzen, exists in South Africa for Powers' arrest on a charge of murdering a Captain Angus Sinclair of the Black Watch at Kimberley on an unknown date. Having examined the prisoner's passport, I am satisfied that Vincent Powers and Jan de Ritzen are one and the same, sir.'

‘There is no such warrant before the court,' observed Dummett mildly, confirming what Hardcastle already knew. ‘Is there?' he asked, leaning forward to address the clerk of the court.

‘No, sir,' said the clerk.

‘That is correct, Your Worship,' said Hardcastle. ‘An urgent communication has been sent to the Foreign Office requesting that they expedite the matter.' He glossed over the fact that Marriott had merely made enquiries earlier that day, and spoke as if the requisite legal process was already well in hand. But he knew that nothing would happen before Monday morning anyway.

‘Very well, Mr Hardcastle.' Dummett glanced at his ledger and then at the prisoner. ‘Vincent Powers, you are remanded in custody until Monday the first of April.'

‘I protest most strongly,' exclaimed Powers.

‘Your protest is noted,' said Dummett, making the necessary note in his ledger.

‘Begging your pardon, Your Worship,' interrupted Hardcastle, ‘but the first of April is Easter Monday.'

‘Ah, so it is, Mr Hardcastle, so it is. We'll make that the second of April, then.' Dummett scribbled a few more words in his ledger and looked up. ‘Don't want to spoil my chances of receiving white gloves for the sake of a remand, eh?' he added with a smile. Although the court always sat on Easter Mondays, there were rarely any cases brought before it on that day. Traditionally, in such an event, the magistrate was presented with a pair of white gloves.

‘Indeed not, sir,' said Hardcastle.

‘Next case,' said the magistrate.

‘And now we need to get a move on, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, when he and his sergeant were back at Cannon Row. ‘Get that revolver we seized from Powers across to Mr Franklin
tout de suite
. I want him to tell me that it was the weapon that killed Parker.' He rubbed his hands together. ‘We're beginning to get somewhere at last,' he added.

‘Very good, sir,' said Marriott.

‘And I wonder how Mr Drew got on with the fingerprints of Mrs Parker.'

‘No doubt he'll let us know as soon as he gets a result, sir.'

‘I hope the Foreign Office hurries up with getting in touch with the South Africans about the warrant. We've only got until Tuesday week before Powers comes up again at Bow Street.'

‘The Foreign Office isn't known for moving quickly, sir,' ventured Marriott, and immediately wished he had not.

‘You wouldn't think there was a war on,' grumbled Hardcastle. ‘I sometimes wonder how we ever managed to acquire an empire. If they carry on at this rate, we'll lose it all one day, you mark my words. Well, Marriott, there's nothing more we can do before Monday. Get that revolver across to Mr Franklin and then go home. My regards to Mrs Marriott.'

‘Thank you, sir, and mine to Mrs H.'

‘You don't seem too happy, Ernie,' said Alice, when Hardcastle arrived home. ‘Your murder not going well?'

‘The murder's all wrapped up,' said Hardcastle, ‘but that idle fool Ted Brady on Y Division was promoted in last night's
Police Orders
. He's been a DDI for less time than me, and he's never done anything important because nothing important ever happens at Highgate. And now he's been posted to the Yard in some quiet office job where, no doubt, he'll spend all day writing useless instructions for those of us who're really doing the hard work.'

‘Never mind, Ernie, you're chance will come.'

‘I doubt it,' said Hardcastle. ‘I don't say the right things to the right people.'

‘That's true, Ernie,' said Alice, with some feeling, ‘but you were never one to mince your words.'

On Sunday morning, and still in an irritable mood about Brady's promotion, Hardcastle paid his usual visit to Horace Boxall's shop on the corner of Kennington Road.

‘Morning, Mr Hardcastle.' Boxall laid a copy of the
News of the World
on the counter, knowing that Hardcastle always bought that particular paper.

‘Morning, Horace. And an ounce of St Bruno and a box of Swan Vestas as well, please.'

Boxall took a packet of Hardcastle's favourite tobacco from a shelf behind him and put it on top of the newspaper together with the matches. ‘I see the Huns shelled Paris yesterday,' he said, pointing to the newspaper headlines. ‘One of them Krupp Big Bertha guns gave it a real pasting by all accounts. Two hundred-odd Parisians killed, so it says.'

Hardcastle turned the newspaper and glanced briefly at the item. ‘Bloody cheek!' he exclaimed. ‘Did you see this, Horace?' he said, jabbing a finger at the item that had attracted his attention. ‘According to this report the Kaiser said that the battle's won and the English are utterly defeated.' He paid for the paper, tobacco and matches. ‘Well, Sir Douglas Haig and General Pershing will soon make him eat his words, and that's a fact.'

‘I hope you're right, Mr Hardcastle.'

‘You mark what I say, Horace. This time next year we'll be hanging the Kaiser.'

If Hardcastle had been depressed by news of the promotion of DDI Brady of Y Division, worse was to come on Monday morning.

The DDI had just settled in his office when Marriott knocked and entered.

‘You don't look too happy, Marriott,' said Hardcastle. ‘Someone been promoted over your head as well?'

Having yet to read
Police Orders
, Marriott knew nothing of DDI Brady's promotion, but sensed that Hardcastle was annoyed about something or someone. Unfortunately, the news he was about to impart would displease his chief even more.

‘I'm afraid it's about the revolver we seized from Powers' house, sir.'

‘What about it, Marriott?' Hardcastle looked up with a frown on his face.

‘It's not the weapon that killed Ronald Parker, sir. Mr Franklin is adamant on the point.'

Hardcastle stared open-mouthed at his sergeant in sheer frustration. He had convinced himself that Powers was the murderer. Everything pointed to it. He had changed his name from de Ritzen and fled to this country to avoid arrest for a murder in Kimberley that followed a dispute over a woman. And now another woman – Daisy Benson – had had an affair with the murder victim and with Powers. The pattern was the same, and surely, Hardcastle had thought, the murderer must be the same.

‘What about the search of Powers' house that Wood and Wilmot carried out over the weekend, Marriott?'

‘There were no other weapons, sir,' said Marriott, anticipating the DDI's next question. ‘The only find of any significance was a substantial quantity of uncut diamonds found secreted in another, smaller safe screwed to the joists in the loft above the kitchen. Initial estimates put the value of the stones at about five thousand pounds. Presumably he took a few of them out from time to time and sold them in Hatton Garden, and he was probably living on the proceeds.'

‘No wonder he could afford champagne and caviar,' muttered Hardcastle gloomily.

‘What are we going to do about Powers, sir? He's locked up in Brixton prison on a charge that won't stick.'

‘Let him stay there,' growled Hardcastle. ‘He's going back to South Africa to be hanged anyway. It's only a matter of the paperwork, Marriott, and I was never one to bother too much about that.'

‘No, sir.' Marriott knew that Hardcastle found writing reports a chore, although he was never slow to criticize the submissions of his subordinates.

But in the event, and to everyone's surprise, the South African government moved so swiftly that a fugitive offender's warrant for Jan de Ritzen was lodged while he was still on remand in Brixton prison. After a short hearing at Bow Street police court, he was returned to South Africa to stand trial.

‘By the way, sir, Mr Collins has just arrived with some information for you.'

‘More bad news, I suppose,' grumbled Hardcastle, frustrated at having to reopen a murder investigation that he thought had been brought to a satisfactory conclusion. ‘Ask him to come in, Marriott.'

‘Morning, Ernie.' Detective Inspector Collins sat down in one of Hardcastle's chairs. ‘I suppose you're still complaining about Brady of Y Division being promoted. He must be one of the Commissioner's blue-eyed boys.' Like every detective inspector in the Metropolitan Police, Collins knew where each of them stood in the seniority tables and when they were likely to be promoted, almost to the day.

‘Yes, I bloody well am, Charlie. It's a damned disgrace. That man is useless. And I suppose you're going to upset me even more.'

‘That's for you to decide, Ernie, but that young DI from Special Branch, Drew, handed me two sets of dabs that the Branch had taken. One set was Mavis Parker's and the other belongs to Lawrence Mortimer that they took when he was nicked for spying. They both correspond with prints on the letter that you found in Parker's piano.'

‘Well, I'll be buggered!' exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘That means that it was probably Mortimer who murdered Parker.'

‘Or Mrs Parker conspired with Mortimer to get rid of her husband,' observed Collins drily. ‘Perhaps it's the old eternal triangle after all, Ernie.'

After Collins had left Hardcastle with that suggestion hanging in the air, the DDI spent some time considering the implications of this latest twist in his investigation before sending for his sergeant.

‘What do we do now, sir?' asked Marriott, once Hardcastle had told him of DI Collins's findings.

‘We go back to Kingston and have a serious talk with Mrs Parker, Marriott, that's what we do.'

As on the previous occasion that they had interviewed Mavis Parker, Hardcastle and Marriott waited near the gates of the Sopwith Aviation Company for her to emerge. Once she was inside her own home, the two detectives marched up the pathway and Hardcastle knocked loudly on her door.