Hardcastle's Frustration (7 page)

‘I'm in a reserved occupation,' said the youth sullenly. ‘Anyway, I've got adenoids.'

‘Haven't we all,' muttered Hardcastle, as the clerk disappeared through a door behind his desk.

‘Come this way,' said the clerk churlishly, as he reappeared moments later. He gave the impression of being annoyed that someone had got past him.

An elderly civil servant rose from behind his desk as Hardcastle and Marriott were shown into his stark office. It seemed that His Majesty's Government was not greatly interested in providing comfortable accommodation for its servants.

‘My name's Makepeace.' It seemed an inappropriate name for a man in his employment. ‘My clerk tells me that you're police officers,' he said, peering at the two detectives over his half-moon spectacles.

‘Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division and this here is Detective Sergeant Marriott.'

‘Please sit down and tell me how I can help you, gentlemen.' Makepeace indicated a couple of uncomfortable chairs as he resumed his own seat.

‘I'm investigating the murder of a man named Ronald Parker, Mr Makepeace,' began Hardcastle, ‘and I understand that he recently appeared before a tribunal to assess his fitness for conscription.'

Makepeace gave a short, cynical laugh. ‘There are hundreds of them going through the system on an almost daily basis, Inspector. Do you happen to have an address for Parker?'

Hardcastle glanced at his sergeant. ‘Marriott?'

‘Canbury Park Road, Kingston upon Thames,' said Marriott, and furnished the full details of Parker's employment. ‘And he was born on the twenty-third of July 1879.'

‘One moment while I look him up.' Makepeace crossed to one of several wooden filing cabinets and after a short search took out a Manila folder. ‘Here we are,' he said, sitting down again. He adjusted his spectacles and studied the docket for a few moments before looking up. ‘What exactly did you want to know, Inspector?'

‘Whether the tribunal found that he was eligible for military service, Mr Makepeace.'

‘Definitely not. He was examined by a medical board for the second time on the fifteenth of February this year and declared to be unfit. He was sent a letter notifying him of that result on Monday the eighteenth.' Makepeace closed the docket. ‘But you say he's been murdered.'

‘Yes, his body was recovered from the river on Monday last.'

‘I'm afraid we'll need to have a death certificate to keep our records straight, Inspector.' Makepeace picked up a pen, dipped it in the inkwell and looked expectantly at Hardcastle.

‘I dare say,' said Hardcastle, not wishing to become involved in the administrative niceties of the civil service. ‘I suggest you communicate with the coroner at Horseferry Road coroner's court. He'll doubtless be able to assist you, once he's reached a verdict, that is.'

‘It's all very irregular,' muttered Makepeace, as he put down his pen and closed the file.

‘Yes, it must be,' said Hardcastle, rising from his seat. ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Makepeace.'

The policeman saluted again as Hardcastle and Marriott left the building, but the DDI ignored him.

‘There's definitely something funny going on here, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, once they were back at the police station.

‘It looks as though he never got the letter, sir, otherwise he wouldn't have set off for Holland.'

‘If he ever did, Marriott,' said Hardcastle. ‘Frankly, I don't think he travelled any further than the distance between Kingston and where he was chucked in the river. And remind me to speak to the sub at Vine Street about that PC on the fixed point in St James's Square. The man should be put on the report.'

Detective Constable Fred Wilmot took the Underground train for the tortuous journey from Westminster to Dagenham Heathway. He was tempted to take a cab to Dagenham Dock, but feared that Hardcastle would disallow the cost as an unnecessary expense. Consequently, he walked the two miles to the dock gates.

‘Where can I find the dock-master, mate?' he asked a passing stevedore.

‘Should be in his office over there, guv'nor.' The docker pointed to a low grey building.

‘What's his name?'

‘Lynch, Pat Lynch, but everyone calls him Paddy. He's not Irish though, he comes from Canning Town,' responded the docker, and carried on walking.

The dock-master looked up as Wilmot entered.

‘Mr Lynch?'

‘That's me, but we ain't hiring today,' said Lynch, ‘and you'd be too late even if we was. You know the rules: you have to be here at six o'clock in the morning and take your chances with the rest and hope that the calling-foreman would take you on.'

‘I'm a police officer, Mr Lynch,' said Wilmot, cutting off Lynch's short lecture on the hiring of dock hands.

‘Oh, sorry, guv,' said the dock-master. ‘What can I do for you? Got a warrant for someone here, have you? That's the usual reason the law comes down here.'

‘Nothing like that,' said Wilmot. ‘D'you know a bargemaster called Parker?'

‘What Harry Parker? What's he been up to?'

‘Nothing that we know of, but can you tell me if he took a load of timber from here to Chelsea Reach yesterday?'

‘Seems to ring a bell,' said Lynch. ‘Half a tick, guv'nor.' He thumbed through a pile of manifests that threatened to overwhelm his desk. ‘Yeah, he did, on his barge the
Tempest
.'

‘He told us that he arrived at Chelsea Reach at about three o'clock yesterday afternoon. Would that be correct?'

Lynch glanced briefly at the large clock on the wall, as though that would give him the answer. ‘Yeah, that'd be about right,' he said, looking back at Wilmot.

‘So he couldn't have gone under Westminster Bridge at about eight in the morning.'

‘Not a chance, guv,' said Lynch. ‘Anyway, what's this all about?'

‘A body was found in the water there at about eight, and we wondered whether he'd seen anything.'

‘Oh, I see. If he had, he'd've reported it to you lot. Very law-abiding is Harry Parker.'

‘Thanks for your help, Mr Lynch,' said Wilmot, turning to leave. ‘Who in Chelsea Reach would want a load of timber? There's no building going there, as far as I know.'

‘Don't ask me, guv'nor,' said Lynch. ‘I'm only the dock-master and that keeps me busy enough without enquiring into things like that.'

‘Yes, I suppose so,' said Wilmot. ‘Thanks.' And with that confirmation of what he had guessed would be the case, he made his weary way back to Westminster.

On the Wednesday morning, Hardcastle made a decision. ‘We'll go to Kingston, Marriott,' he said.

‘What for, sir?'

‘To call on Mavis Parker.'

‘But she'll be at work, sir.' Once again, Marriott wondered whether his chief was playing some arcane game.

‘I should hope so, Marriott. And then we'll call on her neighbour. What was her name?'

‘Martha Middleton, sir,' said Marriott promptly.

‘So it is, so it is,' said Hardcastle. ‘You see, Marriott, if Mavis Parker is at home, we can't very well then go next door to her neighbour without Mavis knowing and wondering why. But if the worst comes to the worst, I'm sure we can think of a few questions for Mavis Parker if she does happen to be at home.'

‘I'm not walking this morning, Marriott,' said the DDI, when the two detectives arrived at Kingston railway station. ‘We'll take a cab.'

It was ten o'clock when they arrived at the Parkers' house in Canbury Park Road. As Hardcastle had hoped, there was no answer, but a moment later, the head of Martha Middleton appeared over the neighbouring fence.

‘She's at work.' There was a second's pause, and then she said, ‘Oh, you're the policemen who called on Monday.'

‘That's correct, Mrs Middleton. But perhaps you might be able to help us.'

‘Of course, Inspector, do come in.'

‘Thank you.' Hardcastle and Marriott made their way round to Martha's front door.

‘I've just put the kettle on. I dare say you could do with a cup of tea seeing as how you've come all the way from London.'

‘That's very kind of you, Mrs Middleton,' said Hardcastle. It seemed that Mrs Middleton had always just made a cup of tea. He and Marriott stepped over the threshold, removing their hats as they did so.

‘Do sit yourselves down in here, gentlemen. We normally only use it of a Sunday.' Martha unlocked the parlour door, showed the two detectives in, and lit the gas fire. ‘I won't be a mo,' she said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

‘She don't miss much, Marriott,' whispered Hardcastle, as the pair settled themselves on a sofa. ‘Thank God!' he added, as he glanced around the room. It was comfortably but drably furnished. There were brown velour curtains and nets at the windows. Above the fireplace there was a large mirror, beneath which was a mantel clock. Bric-a-brac adorned every available shelf and table. In the bay window there was a baby grand piano, the keyboard lid of which was raised and the sheet music of
Titwillow
open on the rest. A photograph of a young man in naval uniform occupied a prominent place on top of the piano.

‘Here we are, then.' Mrs Middleton entered the room bearing a tray on which were an electroplate teapot, sugar bowl and milk jug. The teacups and saucers were of good quality bone china, the sort that was only brought out for visitors. There were also some side plates and cake and biscuits. ‘Sugar and milk?' she asked. ‘Oh yes, of course you do. I remember from the last time you were here,' she said, seating herself opposite Hardcastle and Marriott. ‘I can't get lemons for love or money,' she added apologetically.

‘Thank you,' murmured Hardcastle. ‘Ah, Madeira cake
and
ginger snaps, I see. My favourites.'

‘I was lucky to get them, what with the shortages an' all.' Martha Middleton busied herself pouring tea, holding the tea strainer in a genteel fashion between thumb and forefinger with her other fingers spread out. ‘A dreadful thing, Mrs Parker's husband being killed like that,' she said, as she handed round the tea and plates and tiny tea napkins.

‘I'm surprised she's at work,' said Hardcastle. ‘She was told to take as much time off as she needed.'

‘Mavis was always one to put a brave face on whatever life threw up, you know, Inspector.' Martha sat back on the sofa and took a sip of tea, her little finger extended. ‘I remember when she lost her only child to the diphtheria a few years back.' She paused. ‘In fact it was just a year or so after the war started, I think,' she said, ‘but she just got on with life. I suppose getting a job at Sopwiths helped to take her mind off the tragedy. D'you know, she said to me only yesterday, that there's no point in grieving and that she just had to get on with things.'

‘Very commendable,' said Hardcastle, dunking a ginger snap into his tea.

‘Well, what with the war an' all,' continued Martha. ‘She said as how the aeroplanes had still got to be made. And, strictly entre nous, Inspector, she said they were developing a new aeroplane that was so revolutionary it could end the war.'

‘She shouldn't go around saying things like that,' muttered Hardcastle. ‘Walls have ears.'

‘You're quite right, of course, Inspector, but I suppose because my husband Gerald is a senior draughtsman at Sopwiths, she thought it would be all right to mention it to me. And what with you being a policeman, I s'pose it's all right to tell you.'

‘Having an important job like that's prevented your husband from being conscripted, I suppose, Mrs Middleton,' suggested Marriott.

‘Yes, thank the Lord.' Martha gave a little laugh. ‘Most people in this road seem to work at Sopwiths. Unfortunately, our son Jimmy had to go. Well, he didn't have to, he volunteered.' She nodded towards the photograph on the piano. ‘He's an observer in the Royal Naval Air Service. A lieutenant, he is.'

‘Very patriotic of him,' murmured Hardcastle.

‘Were they very close, Mrs Parker and her husband?' enquired Marriott.

‘Ah, now you're asking, Sergeant.' Martha Middleton leaned forward, intent upon sharing a confidence. ‘Strictly between the three of us, I think a bit of a rift had come between them. I oughtn't to be saying this really, but she could be a saucy little baggage at times, could Mavis. I s'pose it was something to do with her working at the factory and him being at the gas board, and not having much time for what you might call a social life. I mean to say, until this lot with the Kaiser started, women never went out to work, did they? But sometimes she'd go out of an evening on her own, even when Ron was at home.'

‘Could she have been doing another shift at the factory, perhaps?' asked Hardcastle, fairly sure that she had not.

‘Not the way she was dressed, Inspector, if you take my meaning. All dolled up like a barber's cat. She certainly knew how to dress herself up when she was out on the town.'

‘I suppose she never mentioned where she'd been?' asked Marriott hopefully.

‘Well, she did say once that she'd taken up roller skating. Apparently a lot of the girls from the factory went to the rink. I suppose it was a way of breaking the monotony of spending all day painting those aeroplanes.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Middleton,' said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott stood up. ‘And thank you for the tea.'

‘Any time you're passing, Inspector,' said Martha, primping her hair. ‘Always glad of a bit of company.'

‘Are you the pianist?' asked Marriott, nodding towards the piano. ‘I see you like Gilbert and Sullivan.'

‘We love it. We used to go to the Savoy Theatre quite regularly before the war, but we're a bit worried about the bombs in London now. But to answer your question, Mr Marriott, I only play a little. My Gerald's much better. I always said that he could've been a professional.'