Hardcastle's Soldiers (12 page)

‘By all means, Inspector. If you find any of the young bounders perhaps you'll let me know. But what's your interest?'

‘It's a bit of a long shot, but it's possible that one of them was responsible for the murder of the cashier at Victoria Station that I told you about before, and a prostitute in Kingston upon Thames.'

‘Good God!' exclaimed Frobisher. ‘D'you really think so?'

‘No, but it's a stone that we mustn't leave unturned, so to speak,' said Hardcastle enigmatically. He and Marriott stood up. ‘Thank you for your assistance, as usual, Colonel. I'll inform you of any developments.'

Back at his police station, Hardcastle stared glumly at the sheet of paper that Sergeant Glover had given him, before handing it to Marriott.

‘I don't know, Marriott,' he said eventually. ‘We could be running all over the bloody place in search of this lot. Bryant lives in Fulham, Morrish in Norwich, Nash in south-east London, and Strawton in Carlisle. And, if what Colonel Frobisher said is true, it might all be some administrative balls-up anyway.'

‘We could start with those closer to home, sir,' suggested Marriott. ‘Bryant and Nash don't live too far from Victoria Station, and I somehow doubt that the chap from Norwich or the fellow from Carlisle would risk doing a robbery in an area they didn't know too well.'

‘Maybe you're right, Marriott.' Hardcastle pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘What's Nash's correct address?'

‘Twenty-five Stanstead Road, Forest Hill, sir. I've had a look at the map, and the road's only a short walk from the railway station.'

‘Better make a start, then.' With a sigh, Hardcastle stood up, seized his hat and umbrella, and made for the door.

F
or the most part, the houses in Stanstead Road were occupied by bank clerks, middle-ranking civil servants, and those in lower managerial positions. They were terraced and each pair of houses shared a porch, the front doors of which were side by side.

‘Would you be Mrs Nash by any chance?' asked Hardcastle, raising his bowler hat.

‘Yes, I'm Rose Nash.' The woman appeared to be about forty years of age, and was wearing a floral pinafore apron over a black-and-white check day dress. She looked enquiringly at the two men on her immaculately whitened doorstep.

‘We're police officers, madam,' said Hardcastle, ‘and we'd like to talk to you about Adrian Nash. I understand he's your son.'

Rose Nash paled and put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God!' she exclaimed. ‘He's not been killed, has he?'

‘Not to my knowledge, Mrs Nash,' responded Hardcastle.

‘Well, what, then? You gave me quite a turn.'

‘I think it might be as well if we came in, Mrs Nash,' said Hardcastle. Marriott had noticed that the adjacent front door had opened slightly, and he had touched the DDI's arm to draw attention to what was probably a nosey neighbour engaging in a little eavesdropping.

Rose Nash showed the two detectives into the front parlour, a fussily furnished room. The paintwork was brown, as was the three-piece suite, and there were brown velvet curtains that tended to darken a room already made gloomy by heavy net curtains. The mantelshelf and several small tables were cluttered with bric-a-brac and personal photographs of people in stiff poses; presumably they were of the Nash family.

‘I'm Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle, ma'am, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.'

‘What's this about Adrian?' asked Rose Nash, having invited the police officers to sit down. She whipped off her apron, and dropped it behind the settee, out of sight, before sitting down herself.

‘I understand from the military authorities that your son is absent without leave, Mrs Nash.'

‘Absent? How ridiculous. He's serving in France. He's just been granted a commission, you know. Why on earth would he absent himself, now that he's an officer?' Mrs Nash was obviously very proud of her son. ‘We had the military police here a day or two ago asking the same silly questions. I sometimes wonder how we're going to win the war if that's the way the army carries on.'

‘Be that as it may,' said Hardcastle, although he was inclined to share Mrs Nash's view about the lack of military efficiency. ‘But I have it on good authority – namely the military police – that he did not arrive at his unit in Boulogne.'

‘Well,' said Mrs Nash, with a measure of hauteur, ‘I suggest they've got it wrong, and I'm surprised that a detective inspector … That is what you said you were, isn't it?'

‘Yes, ma'am,' said Hardcastle.

‘Yes, well, I'm surprised that you're wasting your time on this ridiculous business. I'm sure you have more important things to do.'

It was obvious to Hardcastle that he was not going to get an admission from Adrian Nash's mother, much less to be told where her son was now – even if she knew – and he tried another tack. ‘When did you last see him, Mrs Nash?' he asked.

‘The fifth of July, a Thursday,' replied the woman promptly. ‘My husband and I saw him off at Waterloo Station. He was going to Southampton to embark on the night troopship to Boulogne.'

‘Is your husband in the army, Mrs Nash?' asked Marriott.

‘No, he's an engineer with the water board. It's a reserved occupation. Rather like yours, I imagine,' said Rose Nash tartly.

‘Your son worked there, too, didn't he?' enquired Hardcastle. RSM Punchard had said so, but the DDI always liked to make sure of his facts.

‘Yes, but he was a clerk. They said that his job wasn't essential to the war effort, and he was conscripted. Personally, I didn't think he was well enough. He had a lot of illness as a youngster, you know, apart from the usual childish maladies, but the army passed him fit. Anyway, he was lucky enough to get a commission – no more than he deserved, of course – and looked very smart in his new uniform.'

‘D'you happen to have a photograph of him?' asked Hardcastle.

‘No. We wanted him to have a portrait done at that photographic studio at Lea Green, but he said we were making too much fuss.' Mrs Nash pointed at one of the framed photographs on a small shelf. ‘I'm afraid that's the only one we have,' she said. ‘That was taken the year he started at grammar school.'

Hardcastle stood up and moved nearer to the print, peering closely at it, but it was not well done – probably taken by an amateur photographer – and was a rather fuzzy photograph of a ten-year-old who could have been anybody. It was certainly of no use as a means of identifying the absentee officer. If, in fact, he was absent rather than merely being misplaced by the army.

‘Have you by any chance received a letter from your son, Mrs Nash?' asked Marriott.

‘Not since he went on active service, no. But I'm told such letters take a long time to get through.'

‘Well, we'll not trouble you any further, Mrs Nash,' said Hardcastle. ‘I've no doubt that the army has made a mix-up, and that your son will turn up right as rain.'

‘I'm certain of it,' snapped Rose Nash.

‘I hope you understand that we have to follow up this information.'

‘Yes, I suppose so,' said Mrs Nash grudgingly, and showed the two detectives to the door.

‘Well, that was a waste of time,' muttered Hardcastle, as he and Marriott walked back to the railway station.

‘D'you think he might be our man, sir?'

‘He was at Buller Barracks at the right time, Marriott, but then so were dozens of others, including the other three absentee officers. And as Colonel Frobisher said, it's quite likely that they've been the victim of shoddy paperwork.'

‘But he didn't want to have his photograph taken, sir.'

‘No, he didn't, and I find that interesting, Marriott. When you think about it, almost every house we've been to since the war started has a photograph of any serving man of the house in his uniform. Especially if he's an officer.'

All in all, Marriott thought that Adrian Nash's shyness about being photographed was irrelevant, but decided not to say as much.

The Bryants' house in Jervis Road, Fulham, was a semi-detached property with clean windows and a newly whitened doorstep.

‘Would you be Mr Bryant, by any chance?' enquired Hardcastle of the man who answered the door.

‘Yes, I'm John Bryant. Who are you?'

‘Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, Mr Bryant. This is Detective Sergeant Marriott.'

‘The police! What can I do for you?'

‘There's nothing to worry about, sir, but we'd like to talk to you about your son Wilfred.'

‘He's not here. He's in the army. You'd better come in, gentlemen.'

Once in the sitting room, which proved to be in as clean and tidy an order as the Somers' residence in Lewisham, John Bryant invited the two detectives to take a seat. ‘Now, what is it you want to know about young Wilfred? He's not in any trouble, is he?'

‘Not to my knowledge, sir, no,' said Hardcastle.

‘It's a strange coincidence, you calling today, because we had the military police here a few days ago. They wanted to know if we'd seen Wilfred lately. They talked some nonsense about him being missing. Well, that gave me quite a start, I can tell you. The boy's only just been posted, although he wasn't allowed tell me where he was going, but I suppose it was France somewhere.'

‘It's partly in that connection I've called, Mr Bryant,' said Hardcastle.

‘Really? Well, what the hell d'you think I can do about it?' John Bryant was beginning to sound annoyed.

‘We think there's probably been a mix-up at the War Office, sir,' said Marriott, seeking to placate Wilfred Bryant's father and stem any possible show of irritability by his DDI. ‘I'm afraid we have to follow up these enquiries, although we have much more important things to do.'

‘Yes, I suppose you do,' said Bryant, his irritation slowly lessening. ‘But we said goodbye to him on the …' He paused as he tried to recall the date. ‘The fifth of July, I think it was. He'd only been given forty-eight hours embarkation leave, and he had things to do in that time.'

‘Does he have a lady friend?' asked Hardcastle.

‘I believe so. He talked of some young lady he'd got to know while he was working at the Army and Navy Stores in Victoria Street, but I don't think anything came of it. Once he'd volunteered for the army and got his commission, he seemed hell bent on soldiering. I think he might be tempted to make a career of it.'

If he lives that long
, thought Hardcastle, as he stood up. ‘As my sergeant said, sir, it appears to be a mix-up with the army. No doubt you'll get a letter from him soon. If you do hear he's safe and sound perhaps you'd let me know at Cannon Row Police Station. Saves the paperwork getting the better of us.'

‘Certainly I will,' said Bryant, as he escorted the two policemen to the front door.

Hardcastle paused on the threshold. ‘Do you happen to have a recent photograph of your son, Mr Bryant?'

‘Not yet. He had a studio portrait done in his new uniform, but I haven't got it back from the photographer yet. But why d'you want a photograph?'

‘So that I can see what he looks like,' said Hardcastle. ‘Good day to you, Mr Bryant.' And with that, he and Marriott strode off down the road before Bryant could enquire more deeply into Hardcastle's interest in a photograph.

But Marriott could not understand his chief's obsession with photographs. It would be no good, in his opinion, showing Lieutenant Mansfield a posed portrait of an officer in the hope that he would be able to identify the private soldier he saw running away. And of whom, presumably, he had but a fleeting glimpse.

‘We've been wasting too much time, Marriott,' said Hardcastle as the two CID officers reached the end of Jervis Road. Marriott agreed, but said nothing. And then the DDI made a surprise announcement. ‘As we're not far away, I think we'll pay a visit to this Jack Utting who managed to get himself knocked over by a bicycle the day before the murder. If he's finished work.'

Marriott was amazed. ‘What d'you hope to get out of him, sir?' he asked.

‘Watch me, and you'll learn, Marriott,' said Hardcastle mysteriously. ‘What's his address?'

‘I don't know, sir. Mr Richards gave
you
the piece of paper with it on.'

‘Ah, so he did.' Hardcastle ferreted in his pockets until he found the note of the details that the Cox and Company's bank manager had provided. ‘Here we are.' He hailed a taxi. ‘Gloucester Street, cabbie. It's off Belgrave Road, just by the junction with Denbigh Street.'

‘I know where it is, guv'nor,' muttered the cabbie. ‘It's my job.'

A man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties answered the door of the house in Gloucester Street, Pimlico, and stared at the two men on the doorstep.

‘Yes?'

‘I'm looking for Mr Jack Utting,' said Hardcastle.

‘That's me,' said the man. ‘Who are you?'

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

Utting appeared a little perplexed, if not unnerved, by this announcement. ‘What's it about?'

‘I'm investigating the murder of your colleague Herbert Somers at Victoria Station a week ago last Wednesday.'

Utting shook his head. ‘That was terrible,' he said. ‘I was supposed to be on duty that day.'

‘So I understand,' said Hardcastle, ‘and I want to ask you some questions about it.'

‘Oh, I see. You'd better come in, then,' said Utting, and led the way into the parlour. ‘My wife's out doing some shopping at the moment, but I can make you a cup of tea if you like.' He seemed anxious to please, something that did not escape the DDI.