Hardcastle's Obsession (9 page)

‘Enough officers to arrest the bloody lot of them at nine o’clock tonight, Frank. I’m going to give them a talking-to. One of them must know something. Once you’ve got ’em rounded up, I’d be obliged if you’d have ’em put in the yard here at Cannon Row. I’m arranging for Harry Marsh at Rochester Row to lend a hand, so there should be enough men to make sure we catch the bloody lot of ’em.’

‘I’ll do my best, Ernie,’ said Tunnicliffe, and turned to examine the duty state on his desk.

Finally, as a matter of courtesy, Hardcastle reported to Superintendent Arthur Hudson, A Division’s commander, and explained what he was doing.

‘Seems a bit drastic, Ernie,’ said Hudson, ‘but if you think it’s the only way, so be it.’ The superintendent had great faith in his head of detectives and, although his methods were at times unorthodox, they frequently achieved the desired result.

Hardcastle downed his second lunchtime pint of beer, and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand.

‘I think that now would be a good time to pay Annie Kelly’s parents a visit, Marriott, and give them the sad news about their daughter.’

‘Have we got time, sir?’

‘Of course we have, Marriott. The uniforms won’t round up our toms until nine o’clock, and Greenwich ain’t that far.’

‘I thought I recognized this place,’ said Hardcastle, as the cab stopped in Nelson Street. ‘We came looking for Albert North here about three or four months ago. It was there,’ he added, pointing at the gap in the houses where once number 12 had stood.

‘It was the night we nearly copped it by the land mine that destroyed it, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Lucky we were in the Goose and Duck,’ he added, naming the pub at the corner of the street.

Hardcastle rapped loudly on the door of number 27.

‘Yes, what is it?’ A careworn woman wearing an apron opened the door, and stared suspiciously at the two men on her doorstep. ‘If it’s the rent you’re after, I ain’t got it.’ She spoke with a distinct Irish accent.

‘We’re police officers, madam.’ Hardcastle raised his hat. ‘Mrs Kelly, is it?’

‘Yes, I’m Mrs Kelly. Whatever’s wrong?’

‘Perhaps we could come in, madam,’ said Hardcastle.

After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs Kelly opened the door wide to admit the two detectives, and conducted them into the parlour.

‘I’m afraid we’ve got bad news for you, Mrs Kelly,’ Hardcastle began. He was not good at telling relatives of the death of a loved one. ‘It’s your daughter Annie. I’m afraid she’s dead.’

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God!’ exclaimed Mrs Kelly, and collapsed into a chair.

The door of the parlour was flung open, and a large man stood on the threshold. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded aggressively. ‘And who might you be?’ He glared at the two policemen.

‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, sir. I take it you’re Mr Kelly.’

‘I’m Patrick Kelly, yes.’ Kelly stepped across to his wife. ‘Maureen, whatever is it?’

But it was Hardcastle who provided the answer. ‘I’m afraid your daughter’s dead, Mr Kelly,’ he said.

‘Glory be to God! May the Lord have mercy on her soul. What happened, Inspector?’

As briefly as possible, Hardcastle summarized what the police knew of the death of the Kellys’ daughter.

‘What was she doing in the basement of a house in . . . where was it you said?’

‘Washbourne Street, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘It’s in Victoria, not far from the railway station.’

‘But what was she doing there? She had good post as a housemaid with a family in Ebury Street.’

This, Hardcastle knew, was going to be the difficult part. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mr Kelly, that your daughter had been soliciting prostitution in the Victoria area, and she’d been murdered.’

‘Are you telling me my daughter was a common tart, Inspector?’ Kelly took a step closer, his fists clenched, and for a moment Hardcastle thought that the Irishman was about to strike him.

‘Oh, my Lord!’ exclaimed Mrs Kelly, who had recovered from the initial shock of learning of Annie’s death, but now lapsed once more into a state of partial collapse.

‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt of it, Mr Kelly,’ said Marriott.

‘I’ll just get a drop of water,’ said Kelly, and left the room. He returned moments later, and handed the glass to his wife. ‘Drink that, dear, and you’ll be feeling better.’ He turned to Hardcastle. ‘This has been a terrible shock, Inspector,’ he said.

‘I imagine so,’ said Hardcastle.

‘Have you caught the spalpeen who killed the poor wee thing?’ asked Kelly.

‘Not yet, Mr Kelly, but rest assured I shall,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Are you in work?’

‘I’m on the night shift at Woolwich Arsenal, Inspector. Making shells for our lads at the Front. And if you’re thinking that’s a strange job for an Irishman, I can tell you that me and Maureen are Protestants from Derry, and true to King and Country.’

‘How long had your daughter been at Ebury Street, sir?’ asked Marriott.

‘Not more than six months,’ said Kelly. ‘We thought she’d settled into a good house, but now you tell me she was nothing more than a whore. Oh God, the shame of it.’

‘Was she walking out with anyone before she left home?’ Marriott was not convinced that the uniform manufacturer mentioned by PO Nelson was responsible for Annie Kelly’s death and wondered if her murderer might be closer to home.

‘There was a young fellow, name of Seamus Riley who she was seeing up till the time she left home.’

‘What can you tell me about him, Mr Kelly?’

‘He was a milkman, working out of the dairy in the High Street.’

‘Is he still there, d’you know?’

‘I don’t know. We don’t have our milk delivered, you see. I take the can when I go on the night shift and get it filled in the morning on my way home. Why? D’you think he might have something to with poor Annie’s death?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but it’s something we’ll look into.’

‘Where’s my dear girl now?’ asked Maureen Kelly, at last recovering sufficiently to take part in the conversation.

‘In the mortuary at St Mary’s hospital in Paddington, Mrs Kelly,’ said Marriott.

‘You can remove her whenever you like, Mr Kelly,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ll arrange it with the coroner.’

Kelly nodded slowly. ‘At least we can give her a decent Christian burial, and ask the good Lord to forgive her all her sins,’ he said.

SIX

T
he arrival, from three different directions, of the police vans outside Victoria railway station caused something akin to panic among the gathering of prostitutes. And their alarm was heightened when the A Division policemen leaped from the vans, and began to detain them.

‘Here, what’s this all about?’ screeched one woman, her hat becoming dislodged as a policeman seized her by the arm.

‘You’re nicked, my lovely,’ said the PC, ‘and you’ll find out what it’s all about down at the station.’

Inspectors Tunnicliffe and Marsh, having arranged for a cordon to be thrown around the women to ensure that none escaped, stood to one side, ostensibly supervising the operation. However, the sergeants and constables needed no guidance in dealing with the unruly collection of whores, and within minutes had herded them all into the vans. Moments later they were joined by a struggling group of prostitutes who were hurling abuse at the railway police officers who had just arrested them.

Predictably enough there were clamorous protests from the women, and the jocular comment of one PC that they were being conscripted and sent to Woolwich Arsenal to make munitions for the war effort did nothing to allay their fears.

Sub-Divisional Inspector Tunnicliffe appeared in Hardcastle’s doorway.

‘Your ladies of the night are all assembled in the station yard, Ernie.’

‘I’m much obliged, Frank. How many did you round up?’

‘Twenty-one including those from the forecourt of the railway station.’

‘Excellent.’ Hardcastle shouted for Marriott, and together they made their way downstairs, through the back door of the station, and into the yard.

‘There he is,’ shouted one woman as she sighted Hardcastle. ‘It’s a bleedin’ liberty, so it is. What’s going on, mister?’

‘What’s this all about, copper?’ shouted another cheeky tart.

Hardcastle stood on an upturned beer crate that he took from among those that the canteen manager had left for collection by the brewers. He held up a hand for silence. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle,’ he began. ‘Last Sunday night a house in Washbourne Street was bombed and the body of Annie Kelly was found in the basement the following morning, but we know she didn’t live there. She’d been strangled, and my job is to find out who did it.’

The DDI’s statement was met with a dignified silence; news of the murder had spread quickly among the women. Two or three of them crossed themselves, and called upon the Almighty to bless Annie’s soul.

‘I’ve spoken to one of the men who’d been with Annie,’ continued Hardcastle, ‘and he told me that she’d also been with a man who had a “sir” in front of his name. I want to trace this man urgently, ladies, because until I catch Annie’s killer you’re all in danger.’ He forbore from saying that, by the very nature of their profession, they were at risk all the time, but these women were well aware of the dangers they faced daily. ‘Some of you must have seen this man, perhaps even know his name. If any of you have, I want to know, sooner rather than later.’ He allowed his eyes to pass quickly over the group of women in a questioning manner. ‘I don’t expect you to shout it out, but if any of you have any information, come and see me here at Cannon Row, or you can tell Inspector Marsh at Rochester Row,’ he added, indicating the sub-divisional commander with a wave of his hand, ‘and it’ll get to me.’

‘One other thing, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘The necklace.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Show it to these ladies.’

Marriott put a hand in his pocket and took out the platinum and diamond necklet that he had found at Washbourne Street, and displayed it to the assembled women. ‘Did any of you ever see Annie Kelly wearing this necklace?’ he asked. ‘It was found at the scene of her murder.’

The women gathered round and peered closely at the item of jewellery. One by one each shook her head; none of them appeared to recognize it.

‘Very well, ladies,’ said Hardcastle, ‘now you can get back to work, and thank you for coming to see me.’ The implication that the women had come voluntarily did nothing to assuage their annoyance at the manner in which they had been detained.

‘Ain’t we being nicked for whoring, then, guv’nor?’ asked one saucy young trollop.

‘Not this time,’ said Hardcastle, and stepped down from his beer crate.

‘D’you think we’ll get anything out of them, sir?’ asked Marriott, once he and the DDI were back in Hardcastle’s office.

‘Maybe, Marriott, maybe,’ said Hardcastle cautiously. ‘They’re a strange lot are toms and they don’t much care for talking to the police, but when one of their own gets topped, they’ll likely come forward if they know something. What’s more, they’ll be the first to call the law if they ever see a copper getting the wrong end of a fight. Now, what about Catto and Lipton? Have they come up with anything yet?’

‘Yes, sir. It seems there are four main factories in the London area that make uniforms for the army.’ Marriott handed Hardcastle a list of the addresses. ‘All of them on the outskirts.’

‘But there’s one here with offices in Vauxhall Bridge Road, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, jabbing a finger at one of the entries.

‘Yes, sir, I noticed that. Easy walking distance from Washbourne Street
and
Victoria station. But the factory’s in Edmonton.’

‘Might be worth making a few discreet enquiries,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Put Wood on to it.’ Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood was one of those officers that the DDI regarded as ‘more reliable’, a rare compliment for him to bestow.

There was a knock on the DDI’s door, and the station officer appeared.

‘What is it, Skipper?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘One of them tarts you had nicked is downstairs, sir, name of Ruby Hoskins. Says she might have some information for you.’

‘Bring her up,’ said Hardcastle.

The woman who was shown into the DDI’s office was in her early twenties. She had heavily rouged lips and cheeks and had applied kohl to her eyes to make herself more attractive. She wore a bright, low-cut red velvet dress, and like many of the other women of her calling, had a feather boa around her neck. A large white ostrich quill dominated her black straw hat.

‘So, you’re Ruby Hoskins, are you?’

‘That’s me, guv’nor.’ With an audacious grin, the girl placed her hands on her hips and pushed one leg forward in a provocative pose.

‘Stop acting and sit down, lass.’ Hardcastle recognized her as the young woman who had enquired if she was being charged with soliciting prostitution. ‘Have you got something to tell me, Ruby?’

‘I don’t know if it’ll help, Mr ’Ardcastle,’ said Ruby, ‘but I did see poor Annie with a toff one time.’

‘Did Annie tell you his name?’

‘Nah, she never said.’

‘What did he look like, this man?’ Hardcastle took his half-smoked pipe from the ashtray, and lit it.

‘I don’t s’pose you’ve got a fag, have you, Mr H?’

‘No, I haven’t, but I dare say Sergeant Marriott will give you one of his coffin nails,’ said Hardcastle with a smile.

Marriott produced his packet of Gold Flake and gave one to the girl. Hardcastle slid his box of Swan Vestas across the desk, and waited while the girl lit her cigarette.

Ruby puffed smoke into the air. ‘I reckon this trick was about fifty, maybe a bit older,’ she said, leaning back in her chair and crossing one leg over the other. ‘He had a fancy suit on, and an albert with a funny design on the medal, and a bowler hat. Oh, and he had grey spats an’ all, and a walking stick with the head of a dog on the knob. Nasty looking thing it was.’