Hardcastle's Frustration (27 page)

The court retired for a mere forty minutes to consider their inevitable verdict, and Lord Cheylesmore pronounced sentence.

‘Gerhard von Kleiber, you have been found guilty of espionage against Our Sovereign Lord the King for which there is but one penalty. You will be confined here at the Tower of London where at a time to be fixed by one of His Majesty's Secretaries of State you will be executed by firing squad. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.'

Von Kleiber remained at attention and impassive during the sentence, but when Lord Cheylesmore ordered that he be taken to the condemned cell, he clicked his heels, bowed and turned smartly. His only utterance throughout his trial had been to plead Not Guilty.

‘Well, that's that, Mr Hardcastle,' said Superintendent Quinn, when he encountered the DDI in the street outside the Tower.

‘So it would seem, sir,' said Hardcastle, as he and Quinn doffed their hats at a passing military cortège.

‘Yes, well now you can get on with your ordinary duties of catching criminals. Good day to you, Mr Hardcastle.' Ignoring Marriott completely, Quinn hailed a cab by raising his umbrella. ‘Scotland Yard, cabbie,' he said.

‘He might've offered us a lift,' muttered Hardcastle, peering up and down the road in search of another taxi, ‘but, there again, I've never known Special Branch to give anything away.' The fact that he had obliquely criticized a senior officer to a junior one – something he would not normally do – was an indication of his annoyance with the entire debacle of the Ronald Parker investigation.

‘I'll start on drafting the final report as soon as we get back, sir.'

‘Don't be in too much of a hurry, Marriott,' said Hardcastle. ‘Despite what Mr Quinn said, I'm far from satisfied that von Kleiber was Parker's murderer. There's more to this whole business than meets the eye. We'll dig a little deeper.'

‘But surely the fact that von Kleiber confessed to the murder puts an end to it, sir.' Marriott was beginning to wonder what was really behind the DDI's enigmatic comment.

‘Yes, but that's all we have, that he confessed to it,' muttered Hardcastle. ‘There's no other evidence to support his admission, no firearm, nothing. It don't hang together, Marriott.' Sighting a cab at last, he instructed the driver to take them to Scotland Yard. Such was his irritation that he omitted to offer Marriott the usual cautionary advice about his reason for not asking to be taken to Cannon Row.

On the following morning, despite Gerhard von Kleiber's confession, Hardcastle reopened his investigation into the murder of Ronald Parker. And he began by once again examining all the statements and reports that had been made since the day that Parker's body was recovered from the Thames by the river police.

‘There's got to be something here, Marriott,' said Hardcastle at last, ‘but I'm damned if I can find it.' He pushed the pile of paper to one side and let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘Get someone to put that lot back where it came from.'

‘If you think that von Kleiber wasn't Parker's killer, sir, who do you think was responsible?'

‘I haven't the faintest idea, Marriott.' Hardcastle put down his pipe and crossed to the window of his office. Putting his hands in his pockets, he spent some minutes staring down at Westminster Underground station, as if the Upminster-bound train just pulling out would provide the answer. ‘We'll talk to Mavis Parker again,' he said, turning back to face his sergeant. ‘That'll be a good place to start.'

‘When, sir?' Marriott had the feeling that he was destined to lose another evening with his wife and children by a visit to Kingston. And the DDI confirmed it.

‘This evening, Marriott.'

‘Oh, I didn't expect to see you again, Inspector.' Mavis Parker's face bore a resigned expression when she opened her front door at half past six on the Friday evening. ‘You'd better come in.'

Once the three of them were seated in Mavis's parlour, Hardcastle got straight to the point of his visit.

‘Did Gerhard von Kleiber, or Lawrence Mortimer as you knew him, ever mention any of his friends, Mrs Parker? Or anyone that he might've known in this country?'

Mavis weighed the question carefully, just as she had done when being examined at the spy's court martial. ‘Not that I can recall,' she said eventually. ‘He was a very quiet sort of man, rarely talking about anyone. He never mentioned a family or his childhood or anything like that.'

‘I suppose not,' said Hardcastle, ‘but I'd've thought that the Germans would've given him some sort of story he could tell, just in case anyone asked questions about his background.'

‘I suppose so,' said Mavis, ‘but I never thought to ask. To be perfectly honest, Inspector, I was concentrating on not giving the game away. It wasn't easy for me.'

‘So I imagine,' murmured Hardcastle, ‘and I have to say that it was a very brave thing that you did. However, when he was arrested, Mortimer confessed to having killed your husband.'

‘So I was told by Mr Quinn on the day of the court martial. Don't you believe it, then?'

‘No, Mrs Parker.' Hardcastle paused. ‘This is a delicate question, but did Mortimer ever stay here with you overnight?'

‘Yes, he did, on one or two occasions, but only after my husband disappeared. But I told you that before.' Despite being required to establish a close friendship with von Kleiber, she still blushed at the admission. ‘It was necessary for the deception, you understand.'

‘I'm not criticizing, Mrs Parker, and I quite understand why you did what you had to do. What interests me is whether he left anything here, clothing or a suitcase, or anything like that.'

‘He did, as a matter of fact. There's an old raincoat in the cupboard under the stairs. He stayed here the night before he was arrested. It was pouring with rain when he arrived, but the next morning . . .' Mavis paused and blushed again. ‘But the next morning when he left, the sun was shining and it had the makings of being a lovely day. I suppose he just forgot all about it, but then he couldn't come back for it because that was the day he was arrested.'

‘Did you mention it to the police officers who were dealing with your case?'

‘No. I didn't remember that he'd left it here until a day or two after his court martial, but by then it didn't seem important.'

‘And the officers didn't ask if Mortimer had left any property here?'

‘No, they never asked about anything like that.'

‘Could I have a look at it, Mrs Parker?'

‘Of course, I'll fetch it,' Mavis said, and rose from her seat.

‘Sloppy, that's what I call it, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, when Mavis had left the room. ‘Fancy not searching a suspect's drum after they'd nicked him. I've never heard the like of it.'

‘But he didn't live here, sir.'

‘Don't make no difference, Marriott. It's somewhere he was known to have frequented, and it should have been searched. Even Catto would've known to do that, and he ain't the brightest star in the firmament.'

‘This is it, Inspector,' said Mavis, returning to the room holding a fawn mackintosh.

Hardcastle took hold of the garment and examined it closely. ‘Would you believe that, Marriott?' he said, turning the collar. ‘He only bought it at Harrods. Nothing but the best, eh? I wish I could afford a Harrods' mackintosh, but then I'm not a spy.' He felt in the pockets, both inside and outside, but found nothing. ‘We'll take this with us, if you don't mind, Mrs Parker. I dare say that Special Branch will be interested to have a sight of it.'

‘Of course, Inspector. I was wondering what to do with it, and I certainly don't want it hanging about here. I've enough of a problem disposing of all Ronnie's clothing.'

It was almost nine o'clock by the time that Hardcastle and Marriott returned to Cannon Row police station.

‘It's a bit late to send von Kleiber's mackintosh across to Special Branch now, sir,' said Marriott, glancing at his watch. ‘And presumably you'll want to give it Mr Quinn personally.'

‘I've no intention of sending it to SB, Marriott. If they weren't sharp enough to go looking for it, that's their funeral. They can have it when I've finished with it. Now then, have you got that Boy Scout knife with you, the one with the gadget for getting stones out of horses' hooves?'

‘Yes, sir.' Marriott smiled and handed over his pocket knife.

‘Right, now help me clear this stuff off my desk.' Hardcastle placed his ashtray and tobacco jar on the window sill, and waited while Marriott moved the remaining clutter to the top of a filing cabinet.

Once the desk was clear, Hardcastle spread out von Kleiber's mackintosh and began opening the seams with Marriott's knife.

‘Ah, this one's been undone and then sewn up again, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, finally opening the seam at the bottom of the garment's skirt. ‘And not very well, either.' Extracting a small piece of paper from where it had been secreted in the fold, he studied it briefly before looking up. ‘D'you speak German, Marriott?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Know of anyone who does?'

‘I think Mr Drew does, sir.'

‘Very likely, but he's a Special Branch officer, and the less that lot knows about this here bit of evidence the better.'

‘Can you make anything of it, sir?' asked Marriott, gesturing at the slip of paper.

‘There's an address on it, Marriott, and that's in English. Well, it would be, seeing as it's in London,' observed Hardcastle. ‘It's says number five Peveril Street, Battersea, and the name Watkins. That's all I can make out, but I suppose it'll have to do.'

‘What d'you make of that, sir?'

‘I think it's likely to be someone von Kleiber was told to contact if he ever got into any sort of trouble.' Hardcastle handed Marriott the piece of paper. ‘And if he turns out to be another spy we'll hand him over to those clever fellows at Special Branch,' he said triumphantly. ‘But first thing in the morning, we'll get up to Bow Street for a search warrant, and then we'll pay this bugger a visit, whoever he is.'

Not for the first time, Marriott had serious misgivings about Hardcastle's proposed course of action, but he was in no position to argue.

D
eeming it to be a matter of some secrecy, Hardcastle sought out one of that day's sitting magistrates in his chambers, rather than making his application in open court. He emerged successfully some minutes later, clutching the warrant.

‘Right, Marriott, off we go to Battersea,' he said, hailing a taxi.

Peveril Street was a turning off Battersea Bridge Road, and number five proved to be a barber's shop.

‘Some things never change, Marriott,' commented Hardcastle. He had known of several hairdressers who had been arrested for spying since 1914.

There were three chairs in the shop, each of which was occupied. Another five men were waiting on chairs along one side of the salon.

‘Could be some time, sir. We're always busy of a Saturday morning.' The speaker, a man of about fifty, was shaving a customer in the chair nearest the door, and peered at Hardcastle through gold-rimmed spectacles. He wore a short white coat, had a stooped posture and a small moustache. What little hair he possessed had been allowed to grow long on one side and was swept over his head in an attempt to disguise his baldness.

‘Are you the owner?' asked Hardcastle.

‘I am indeed, sir.' The man paused, the cut-throat razor he was using held clear of his client's face.

The DDI moved closer to the man so that he was able to speak to him without being overheard. ‘I'm Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division,' he said quietly, ‘and I want a word with you in private.'

The barber dithered and glanced at the neighbouring hairdresser, who had just finished cutting his client's hair and was shaking the gown the man had been wearing.

‘Take over shaving this customer, Jack. I've got to have a word with this gentleman.'

The owner led the way into a small back room. ‘Now, sir, how can I help you?' Almost craven in manner, he was ‘washing' his hands, and gave the impression of being greatly disturbed by the arrival of the police.

‘You can start by giving me your name,' said Hardcastle.

‘Watkins, sir. Henry Watkins.'

‘How well do you know Lawrence Mortimer, Mr Watkins?' said Hardcastle, delighted that the barber's name was the same as that on the slip of paper he had found in the spy's mackintosh.

‘I don't know anyone called Mortimer,' said Watkins. ‘Is he a customer?'

‘I doubt it,' said Hardcastle, thinking it unlikely that a customer would have hidden his hairdresser's name in the lining of a coat. ‘Now then, Mr Watkins, I have a warrant to search these premises. Do you live here?'

‘Yes, I do. I've got rooms over the shop. But why on earth do you want to search the place?'

‘Lead the way, then,' said Hardcastle, leaving Watkins's question unanswered.

The two detectives followed Watkins up a narrow flight of stairs. Arriving at a small landing at the top, they were confronted by three doors.

Hardcastle pushed open the nearest door, which proved to be a sitting room, and turned to survey the barber. ‘You can save me a lot of time, Mr Watkins, by telling me where you keep your revolver.'

Once again, Marriott was taken aback by Hardcastle's question, but he knew from experience how often such a direct approach had been instrumental in securing a confession.

‘Revolver, sir? I don't have no revolver.'

Hardcastle sighed and held out his hands in an exaggerated attitude of disbelief. ‘He doesn't have a revolver, Marriott,' he said sarcastically.

‘I doubt that, sir,' said Marriott, playing along with Hardcastle's theatrics.