Hardcastle's Frustration (8 page)

‘T
he cracks are starting to appear, Marriott,' said Hardcastle mysteriously, as the two of them walked down Canbury Park Road towards the railway station.

‘I suppose it would be helpful if we knew whether she'd met anyone at this roller skating rink, sir.'

‘There's one way to find out, Marriott. We go to the rink and we ask questions.'

‘All correct, sir.' As the two detectives reached the main gate of the aircraft factory, the policeman who had been there on Monday, saluted.

‘Ah, the very man,' said Hardcastle. ‘A test of your local knowledge, lad. D'you know of a roller skating rink in the town? I'm told that some of the factory girls go there.'

‘I think there's only the one now, sir,' said the PC, rubbing a ruminative hand round his chin. ‘They built these works on the site of the old one.' He nodded his head in the direction of the factory. ‘But I'm fairly certain that the only one left now is in Ceres Road, near the public baths. That's where a lot of the girls go, so I've heard.'

‘And where's Ceres Road, lad?'

‘Go straight down here to Richmond Road, sir,' said the policeman, extending his right arm, ‘left under the railway bridge, right into Wood Street and it's down there at the far end.'

It took the two detectives about fifteen minutes of brisk walking to find the roller skating rink.

A woman seated behind a counter looked up as Hardcastle and Marriott entered, and regarded them with a bored expression. ‘What size d'you want?' she asked, removing the pencil that was lodged in her hair.

‘Size?' queried Hardcastle.

‘Yes, what size skates d'you want?'

‘We haven't come here to skate, miss, we're police officers,' said Hardcastle. ‘Is the manager here?'

‘There isn't one; he went off to the army and got hisself killed by them Turks at Gallipoli. I'm the manageress.'

‘I see.' Even after nearly four years of war, Hardcastle still had difficulty coming to terms with women doing men's jobs, even though his daughter Kitty worked on the buses. ‘Can you tell me if a Mrs Mavis Parker ever comes here?'

‘Half a tick.' The woman pushed the pencil back into her hair and referred to a large book that was open on the counter. ‘Yes,' she said eventually. ‘She comes in a couple of times a week, usually with some of the girls from Sopwiths. Hires size five skates,' she added, as though furnishing a helpful description of the woman.

‘Is there anyone in particular who comes with her?' asked Marriott.

The manageress ran a finger down the entries in her book. ‘Yes, a Gertrude Hobbs,' she said, looking up again. ‘Why, what's Mrs Parker been up to?'

‘Did she ever come with a man?' asked Marriott, declining to discuss his and the DDI's interest in Mavis Parker.

The woman referred to the book again. ‘No, but she did leave with a man one night, the week before last that was. Is that helpful?' she asked, looking up.

‘What was his name?' asked Hardcastle.

‘Gilbert Stroud. He comes quite often. What's this all about, anyway?'

‘It's secret business, miss,' snapped Hardcastle, ‘and you're not to mention my interest either to Mr Stroud or Mrs Parker. Otherwise you could be in serious trouble under the Defence of the Realm Act. Is that understood?' He found it useful to threaten the draconian measures of DORA even when they were clearly inapposite.

‘Yes, of course.' The woman looked slightly taken aback by Hardcastle's warning. ‘I won't tell no one, mister.'

‘Do you have an address for this Gilbert Stroud?'

‘No, we don't take addresses.'

‘Do they come here regularly, miss, this Mr Stroud and Mrs Parker?' asked Marriott

‘They come here quite often on their own, but I've only ever seen them together the once, and as I said that was Wednesday of last week.'

‘What time do they normally get here?'

‘Mrs Parker usually comes in about seven o'clock of an evening, but Mr Stroud is usually here about six. When he comes, of course.'

‘What does he look like, this Gilbert Stroud?' asked Hardcastle.

The manageress gave the question some thought before answering. ‘About his age, I s'pose,' she said, nodding in Marriott's direction, ‘and about his build an' all. Oh, and he had a moustache, a bit like that picture of Lord Kitchener. You know, the one on the recruiting poster what they put up before he was drowned. Lord Kitchener, I mean, not Mr Stroud.'

‘Thank you, miss, that'll be all,' said Hardcastle, but as he turned to leave, the manageress spoke again.

‘I've just remembered. There was another man she came with once or twice.' The manageress ran a finger down her book. ‘A Mr Mortimer, Mr L. Mortimer.'

‘What did he look like?' asked Marriott.

‘I can't remember, I'm afraid. It's only the name I remember. And the size of their skates, of course, but only if they need to hire 'em.'

‘It's going to be a bit of a job finding these two men, sir,' said Marriott, once he and Hardcastle were in the street again.

‘No it won't, Marriott. I'll put a couple of men on it. They'll find them.'

Hardcastle wasted no time in assigning two detectives to the task of identifying Gilbert Stroud and Mr L. Mortimer.

Once back in his office at Cannon Row police station, he sent for Marriott.

‘Who've we got available for this following job at the skating rink, Marriott?'

‘Depends on when you want them to start, sir.'

‘Tomorrow evening,' said Hardcastle.

‘There's only Lipton and Catto, sir,' said Marriott, whose job, as the first-class sergeant, was to know where each of the detectives was at any given time, and to what duty they were assigned. ‘Carter and Keeler are both up at the Bailey with that robbery job, the Martin's Bank one.'

‘Is that trial still rumbling on?'

‘Yes, sir. Mr Rhodes has given his evidence, and the summing-up should start the day after tomorrow.'

‘Oh well, Lipton and Catto it'll have to be, I suppose. Fetch 'em in here.'

‘You wanted us, sir?' asked Lipton, the senior of the two.

‘I've got a following job for the pair of you,' Hardcastle began, ‘and I don't want you making a Mons of it, Catto,' he said, glaring at the other detective. ‘Is that understood?'

‘Yes, sir,' said Catto, as ever, apprehensive in Hardcastle's presence for no better reason than he always seemed to be the butt of the DDI's criticism.

‘There are two men who've been seen in the company of Mavis Parker at the skating rink,' said Hardcastle. ‘One's called Gilbert Stroud and the other one is a man who goes by the name of L. Mortimer. I want you to follow whichever of 'em comes out first. And if neither of 'em turns up, start again tomorrow. It might be helpful to have a discreet word with the young woman who seems to run the skating rink. But don't let on what you're up to, or you'll have me to answer to. Got that, have you, Lipton?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And you, Catto. Got that, have you?'

‘Yes, sir,' said Catto.

‘And I don't want to find that either of these men have cottoned-on that he's being followed.'

‘No, sir, of course not, sir,' said Lipton.

‘Right, start tomorrow. I'm told that they usually turn up at the rink round about six o'clock. I want to know where they live.'

‘D'you want them nicked, sir?' asked Catto. It was an unfortunate question, but he tended to ask stupid questions in the DDI's presence.

‘No, I do
not
want them nicked, Catto. It seems to me that you're all too fond of feeling collars, except when you should.' And with that reproof, Hardcastle dismissed the two DCs.

On Thursday morning, Marriott received a telephone call from Sergeant Glover in the APM's office.

‘I've got some information for you, Charlie, if you'd care to drop in.'

‘I'll be down straight away, Cyril,' said Marriott, and made his way the short distance along Whitehall to Horse Guards Arch.

Glover was in the act of making a pot of tea when Marriott entered his office.

‘Well, Cyril, have you solved my problem for me?'

‘In a manner of speaking, Charlie.' Glover gave a wry smile and, unbidden, poured Marriott a cup of tea. ‘This Staff Sergeant Benson of the Army Ordnance Corps you're interested in,' he began, as the two of them sat down.

‘You've found him, then. Is he in France?'

‘Oh, he's in France all right, Charlie.' Glover laughed and referred to his file. ‘He's buried in Boulogne, at the
cimetière de l'est
.' Having served in France at the beginning of the war, he spoke the words confidently enough, but without any attempt at a French accent. ‘That's what the French call the East Cemetery.'

‘When was he killed?' Marriott had his pocket book open, and had begun to make notes.

‘The seventh of May last year.' Glover took a sip of his tea. ‘It's always a good idea to check the casualty lists first when we're looking for a name. Apparently he got run down by a gun carriage team in the base ordnance area at the Port of Boulogne. He was killed instantly.' He glanced up with a wry smile on his face. ‘They're bloody careless at times, these artillery drivers.'

‘Presumably his wife was informed at the time of his death.'

‘Bound to have been.' Glover looked back at his file. ‘Yes, the War House was signalled by the port commander at Boulogne on the eighth of May 1917, and they in turn advised his wife, a Mrs Daisy Benson, by telegram on the eleventh. At the time she lived at Gordon Road, Kingston upon Thames.'

‘Yes, I know, and she's still there, but she told us that he was still alive.'

‘When was this?'

‘Last Monday, Cyril.'

Glover laughed. ‘Got a fancy man, has she?'

Marriott laughed too. ‘I think she's got more than one, Cyril, but you army coppers are terrible cynics.'

‘That's rich, coming from a civvy copper,' said Glover. ‘Anything else I can do for you, Charlie?'

‘No, not at the moment, Cyril, and thanks for the tea.'

‘I can tell you how to get to that cemetery if you want to pop over and make sure, Charlie.'

‘Thanks very much, but I think I'll give that a miss. My Lorna wouldn't care for that idea at all,' said Marriott, and returned to Cannon Row keen to report this latest twist to the DDI.

Hardcastle applied a match to his pipe and blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘There's obviously more to our Daisy Benson than meets the eye,' he said, once Marriott had finished telling him of Staff Sergeant Benson's death. ‘I think we'll have to have another chat with her.'

‘But how will that help us, sir?'

‘We won't know until we ask, Marriott.'

It took a few moments for Daisy Benson to recognize the two men on her doorstep.

‘Oh, it's you, Inspector,' she said eventually, and glanced nervously over her shoulder.

‘Yes, it's me, Mrs Benson.'

‘Good Lord, it's about Sid this time, isn't it? That's what you've come about. I can feel it in my bones. Is he dead?'

‘I'm afraid so, Mrs Benson.'

‘Oh dear God!' Daisy took hold of the doorpost and contrived to appear shocked by the news. As charades went, it was not very convincing. ‘When did it happen?'

‘Ten months ago, on the seventh of May last year, to be exact. As you well know, Mrs Benson,' said Hardcastle coldly. ‘You had a telegram from the War Office on the eleventh of May, four days after he was killed.'

‘You'd better come in, Inspector.' With unseemly haste, Daisy Benson ushered the two detectives towards the parlour, but it was too late. A man descended the staircase, putting on his jacket.

‘I'll be off, then, Daisy.' The man glanced apprehensively at Hardcastle and Marriott. He had encountered the police before, and was fairly certain that he had just done so again.

‘Oh, this is, um, Mr Smith, one of my lodgers, Inspector,' said Daisy.

‘I've left the, er, rent on the dressing table, as usual, Daisy,' said ‘Smith', with a broad wink, and hastened towards the front door.

‘Such a nice man,' said Daisy, but she could not control the flush of embarrassment that was rising slowly from her neck.

Waiting until Daisy Benson had taken a seat and composed herself, Hardcastle and Marriott sat down opposite her. Hardcastle remained silent, waiting to see what the woman had to say.

‘I don't know what you must think of me, Inspector,' she began. Hardcastle still said nothing. ‘Of course I knew about Sid getting killed, but I didn't tell anyone. You see, I was worried what the neighbours might think, with me having gentlemen lodgers, so to speak,' she added, rushing into an unlikely explanation.

‘Yes, of course,' murmured Hardcastle. ‘Do you have a revolver, by any chance?' he asked suddenly.

‘A revolver?' Daisy seemed unnerved by the question. ‘What on earth would I be doing with a revolver, Inspector?'

‘Some people do keep them for protection, Mrs Benson,' suggested Marriott. ‘Particularly widowed ladies living alone who have male house guests.'

‘Oh, no, I'm not worried by having business gentlemen taking a room here. They're all very respectable and trustworthy.'

‘And Mr Smith is a respectable business gentleman, is he?' asked Marriott.

‘Oh yes. He's . . . now what was it he told me he did?' Daisy lapsed into thought while trying to think up a spurious profession for her paying guest. ‘Yes, of course, he works for the income tax people, I believe.'

‘Strange, him starting this late on a Thursday,' said Hardcastle.

‘Yes, he does work odd hours,' said Daisy lamely. ‘I s'pose it's something to do with the war.'