Hardcastle's Obsession (3 page)

Marriott opened the large paper bag in which he had carried the unknown woman’s clothing from the hospital, and emptied it on to a table in the detectives’ office.

Using a pencil, Hardcastle poked at the various items, paying particular attention to the woman’s underwear. ‘That’s the sort of stuff a tart would wear, Marriott,’ he said eventually. ‘My girls wouldn’t be seen dead in that sort of clobber.’

‘No, sir,’ said Marriott, forbearing from saying that the unknown woman
had
been found dead in that sort of clobber. The DDI did not appreciate such humour, unless he was the one practising it.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised to find that she’s a prostitute. Where’s the nearest whores’ beat to Washbourne Street, Marriott?’

‘These days it’s mainly Victoria station, sir, and the girls usually congregate when a troop train’s due in. They seem to know that the two things a swaddy wants when he gets home on leave is a pint and a tumble. They tend to gather near the buffets, but the railway coppers move them on. So they just shift to the street outside, usually near the pub on the corner of Wilton Road. Then they get moved on again by our men.’

Hardcastle glanced, in turn, at each of the four detective constables who were standing around the table in the centre of the room. ‘Catto.’

‘Sir?’ said Detective Constable Henry Catto, stepping across to the DDI.

‘Take your three colleagues down to Victoria station and start asking questions among the prostitutes who hang about there. I want to know if any one of them is missing.’ That done, Hardcastle addressed himself to DS Herbert Wood. ‘Get a message off to surrounding stations, Wood, asking them to check reports of any missing persons who fit the description of our body.’

‘Anything for me, sir?’ asked Marriott.

‘Yes. Ask Mrs Cartwright if she can rustle up a couple of cups of tea, Marriott. Then we’ll sit down and put our thinking caps on.’

TWO

‘
H
ow’s your boy Jack, Mrs Cartwright?’ asked Hardcastle, as the station matron set down her tray and placed two cups of tea on the DDI’s desk.

‘He was all right the last time I heard from him, sir, thank you. He’s a lance-bombardier now.’ Mrs Cartwright was proud of her son who had been serving with the Royal Garrison Artillery since the outbreak of the war. ‘I managed to get some of your favourites,’ she added, putting a plate of ginger snaps on the desk.

‘Well done, Mrs C,’ said Hardcastle, and dropped three pennies on the tray.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Mrs Cartwright scooped up the coins and put them in the pocket of her overall coat.

‘Where’s your lad stationed now, Mrs C?’

‘I don’t rightly know, sir, except that he’s somewhere in France or Belgium, I suppose. He’s not allowed to say exactly where in his letters. I know he tries to tell me, but sometimes they arrive with whole bits blacked out.’

‘That’ll be the censor’s work,’ said Hardcastle. ‘It’s in case old Fritz happens to read the lad’s letters, so the censor’s making sure your boy doesn’t accidentally tell the enemy anything.’

‘I s’pose so, sir,’ said Mrs Cartwright, failing to understand how the Germans could possibly read her son’s letters home. Picking up the tray she went on her way.

‘Well now, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, dunking a ginger snap in his tea. ‘What are we going to do about this here murder of ours?’

Marriott was tempted say ‘Wait and see’, but he knew that was not the answer his chief wanted. ‘Is it possible that she was staying with one of the deceased, sir?’ he asked tentatively.

‘It’s possible, Marriott, but I doubt we’ll ever know now. Anyway, that don’t help us to identify her. She could’ve come from anywhere.’ Hardcastle found the prospect of investigating the unknown’s murder a daunting task, but he was not about to admit it to his sergeant.

‘I suppose the birthmark on her leg might help, sir.’

Hardcastle shook his head. ‘It’s a dog’s dinner, Marriott,’ he said, using one of his favourite expressions to describe a difficult enquiry, although this was sometimes varied to ‘a dog’s breakfast’. ‘We’d better see what Catto and his colleagues turn up, I suppose, if anything. There are times when I think that Catto needs a squib up his arse, Marriott. You really need to get a hold of him.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott, but forbore from further comment. He knew that DC Henry Catto was a good detective, and it was only when he was in the DDI’s presence that he seemed to become bereft of his confidence.

For the remainder of the morning, Hardcastle toyed with his detectives’ reports. Some he accepted, some he sent back with acerbic pencilled comments in the margin for alteration, and others he rejected outright.

At one o’clock, he again summoned Marriott. ‘Time you bought me a pint, Marriott,’ he said, and together they adjourned to the downstairs bar of the Red Lion. That Marriott should pay was one of the DDI’s jokes; Hardcastle never paid for his beer in the Red Lion.

The public house was conveniently situated on the corner of Parliament Street and Derby Gate, just outside the Whitehall entrance to New Scotland Yard. As usual, their lunch consisted of a fourpenny cannon and two pints of best bitter.

‘And now, Marriott, we’ll go round to Washbourne Street, and have a dekko at the scene of this here crime.’

The pavement and part of the road in front of 143 Washbourne Street had been barricaded, and a policeman stood guard.

‘All correct, sir.’ The PC saluted as he recognized the DDI.

‘Doesn’t look like it,’ muttered Hardcastle, gazing at the ruins of the house. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

‘Mr Marsh says we’re to keep an eye open for looters, sir.’ Marsh was the sub-divisional inspector in charge of the Rochester Row station.

‘Safe to go in there, is it, lad?’ Hardcastle always called PCs ‘lad’ regardless of their age or service.

‘I think so, sir. The men from the council depot have been round tidying up and making safe.’

‘Oh, you
think
it’s safe, do you? Well, I hope you’re right, lad, because if I fall arse over tit, I’ll come after you.’

Ducking beneath the barrier, Hardcastle and Marriott stepped across the rubble. Eventually finding the cellar steps, they descended warily into the basement. Much of the debris had been cleared away by council workmen, and the detectives were able to see reasonably well.

‘Have a look around, Marriott, and see if you can find anything that might shed some light on this poor girl’s death.’ Hardcastle began poking about with his umbrella, but held out little hope of finding anything that might further his investigation, but in that he was wrong.

Marriott caught sight of something glinting in the light that had penetrated that part of the basement. Stooping, he picked up a piece of jewellery.

‘What have you got there, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘It’s a necklace, sir. Lucky one of the workmen didn’t nick it.’

‘Let me have a look.’ Hardcastle put on his spectacles, took the necklace and examined it closely. ‘That’s called a dog collar necklet, Marriott. Looks like silver, and unless I’m much mistaken, they’re diamonds. I wonder who it belongs to.’ He handed it back. ‘Have a word with one of the jewellers on the ground, and see what he has to say about it. Might lead us somewhere, I suppose.’

‘It looks as though the clip’s been broken, sir,’ said Marriott, examining the necklace afresh.

‘Could’ve been torn off the victim’s neck in the struggle, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Not that I think a tom could’ve afforded a piece like that. Of course, it might’ve been given to her by a grateful client, or she might’ve nicked it.’

‘Maybe so, sir,’ said Marriott, slipping the necklace into his pocket. ‘But I don’t think there’s anything else here to interest us.’

Leaving Hardcastle to return to the police station alone, Marriott made for a jeweller of his acquaintance in Victoria Street.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Marriott. Won’t keep you a moment.’ Gilbert Parfitt was dealing with a customer, a well-dressed man, who was examining a tray of rings.

The man eventually decided against a purchase, and left the shop.

‘We’ve had today’s list, Mr Marriott,’ said Parfitt, turning his attention to the detective. The list to which he referred was circulated daily to jewellers and pawnbrokers, and detailed stolen items of jewellery and valuable metals that thieves might have attempted to sell.

‘Yes, I know, Mr Parfitt.’ Marriott withdrew the necklet from his pocket. ‘I wonder if you’d have a look at this silver and stones piece,’ he said, and handed it to the jeweller.

Parfitt spread a baize cloth on the counter, placed the necklet on it, and screwed a jeweller’s glass into his eye. He spent some minutes studying the piece before looking up. ‘A very nice setting, Mr Marriott.’ He put aside his glass. ‘Is it stolen?’

‘Not as far as I know,’ said Marriott. ‘It was found at the scene of a murder. We’re not sure who it belongs to, but we’re fairly certain it’s too expensive to have belonged to the prostitute who was murdered.’

‘Unless she stole it,’ said Parfitt with a smile.

Marriott nodded. ‘It’s a possibility we have to consider, of course. But can you tell me what it would be worth?’

‘The stones are diamonds set in platinum, not silver.’ For a moment or two Parfitt gave the matter some thought, and then referred to a large book that he withdrew from beneath counter. ‘At a reasonable estimate,’ he said eventually, ‘I doubt you’d get much change out of three hundred and fifty pounds, Mr Marriott.’

Marriott emitted a low whistle. ‘As much as that?’

‘I would say that it belonged to a woman of some wealth, Mr Marriott.’

‘I suppose there’s no way of tracing who it belonged to originally, is there?’

Parfitt looked doubtful. ‘I can take a description, Mr Marriott, and circulate the details among the trade. It may take some time, and even then I might not discover the owner. But I’m willing to try.’

‘Very good of you, Mr Parfitt,’ said Marriott. ‘I’m much obliged.’ And with that, he returned to Cannon Row, and told the DDI what he had learned.

‘Don’t get us much further, Marriott,’ grunted Hardcastle.

It was not until six o’clock that evening that Henry Catto returned to the police station. He tapped on the DDI’s door and waited for the barked command to enter.

‘Yes, Catto?’

‘Er, it’s about the prostitutes, sir,’ said Catto nervously.

‘Well, what about them? And don’t stand there hovering in my doorway like a dying duck in a thunderstorm. Come in, lad.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Catto took a pace or two towards Hardcastle’s desk. ‘We talked to the women who frequent the Victoria station area, sir, and—’

‘I should hope you did, Catto. That’s what I sent you up there for. What did you find out?’

‘We spoke to several of the women, sir, and Gordon Lipton found out that the one woman they haven’t seen for a few days is called Queenie Douglas.’

‘Where’s Lipton now?’

‘Er, in the office, sir.’

‘Well, I want to hear it from him. I won’t have any truck with hearsay or sloppy reporting, Catto. You should know that. Fetch him in here at once.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Catto fled, reappearing seconds later with DC Lipton.

‘Now, what’s all this about a missing tom, Lipton?’

‘I spoke to several of the women, sir, and one of them, a Polly Brewer, knew her quite well. She told me that Queenie Douglas hasn’t been seen around since last Sunday. That’d be the twenty-fourth, sir.’

‘And our anonymous body was found in the rubble of the house in Washbourne Street early on the Monday morning,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Did this Polly Brewer know where Queenie Douglas lived?’

‘Apparently she dossed down in Strutton Ground in a room over a chandler’s shop, sir. At least, that’s where she said Queenie turned her tricks.’

‘Right, carry on, and tell Sergeant Marriott I want him.’

Hardcastle buckled on his spats, seized his hat and umbrella and met Marriott in the corridor. ‘We’re going to Strutton Ground, Marriott. Get your titfer and gamp. Looks like it might rain.’ The pessimistic Hardcastle always thought it was about to rain.

‘Very good, sir.’ Marriott crossed the corridor to the detectives’ office and collected his bowler hat and umbrella, and he and the DDI set off for Victoria Street.

‘Well, Marriott, there seems to be only the one chandler’s shop here.’ Hardcastle stared up and down Strutton Ground.

‘Nice juicy apples, guv’nor,’ yelled a market trader from the other side of the road. ‘Fresh up from Kent today.’ He held up a large Cox’s Orange Pippin.

Hardcastle glared at the vendor. ‘I hope you’ve got a licence, lad,’ he said. ‘And when were your scales last checked?’

‘Bloody coppers,’ muttered the fruiterer, and replaced the apple on the carefully constructed pyramid of fruit on his costermonger’s barrow.

Hardcastle pushed open the door of the chandler’s shop. ‘Police,’ he announced tersely. ‘Who are you?’

‘Fred Watson, guv’nor, and I’ve been here twenty years and never had any trouble with the law.’

‘Well, you might have now,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What can you tell me about this prostitute who lives over your shop?’

‘D’you mean young Queenie Douglas, sir?’ The chandler sounded shocked at the suggestion that one of his tenants could be a prostitute. The apprehension showed in his face; he knew the allegation to be true.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘She ain’t no pross, guv’nor,’ protested Watson. ‘Nice young lady she is. I wouldn’t have no loose women in my lodgings.’ But the nervous twitching of Watson’s hands told the DDI otherwise.

‘Really?’ Hardcastle sounded sceptical. ‘You own these premises, do you?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Watson. ‘I rent the shop and the three rooms upstairs, but now our boy’s off to sea with the Royal Navy, we don’t need all three, so I thought as how I’d sort of sublet the spare room.’