Hardcastle's Obsession (5 page)

‘I didn’t say you had, my girl. But one of your sisters of the street was found strangled last Monday in the basement of a bombed house in Washbourne Street not half a mile from here.’

‘Well, I don’t know nothing about that.’

‘Who’s this soldier you’ve been seeing, Miss Douglas?’ asked Marriott.

‘Soldier? What soldier?’

‘That’s what I’m asking,’ said Marriott patiently. ‘He’s a corporal in the Glosters.’

‘That’s Harry Waldren. We’re going to get wed.’

‘God Almighty!’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘And where can we find this Corporal Waldren?’

‘What d’you want him for?’

‘Now, just you listen to me, my girl,’ thundered Hardcastle. ‘Like I said, I’m investigating a murder, and I don’t have time to be buggered about by the likes of you. So, unless you want to spend the night in the nick, tell me where he is.’

‘I don’t rightly know. Not now, like. He was staying at the Union Jack Club, so he said.’

‘When did you last see him?’ asked Marriott. His policeman’s instinct told him that Waldren might be a deserter, and would not be found at the club near Waterloo railway station that provided accommodation for soldiers on leave, and which was visited frequently by the military police in search of absentees.

‘Last night.’

‘And did he stay with you the night?’

‘What bleedin’ business is that of yours?’ demanded Queenie, placing her hands on her hips in an attitude of defiance.

‘Every business,’ snapped Hardcastle.

‘Yeah, he did as it happens. So what?’

‘When are you seeing him again?’

‘Dunno,’ said Queenie churlishly.

‘If I take you down the nick, lass, you won’t be seeing him at all,’ threatened Hardcastle. ‘So, when are you seeing him again?’

Queenie gave a loud sniff and tossed her head defiantly. ‘Tonight.’

‘Where?’

‘Down the Elephant boozer, other end of Perkins Rents. Why?’

‘What time?’

‘He reckoned as how he’d be there come seven o’clock.’

‘One other thing, lass . . .’ Hardcastle turned to Marriott. ‘Have you got that necklace we found?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott produced the platinum and diamond necklet that had been discovered in the basement of the bombed-out Washbourne Street house.

‘Have a look at that, Queenie,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Did you ever see any of the girls wearing that?’

Queenie Douglas glanced at the piece of jewellery. ‘Nah, never.’

‘Didn’t think so,’ muttered Hardcastle, and without another word, he swept down the stairs and out into Strutton Ground.

‘That’ll give us time to make a few enquiries, Marriott,’ Hardcastle said mysteriously, as he and his sergeant turned into Victoria Street.

With Marriott beside him, Hardcastle marched confidently through the maze of streets that led to Horse Guards Road, and crossed the parade ground into Horse Guards Arch.

The dismounted Life Guards sentry, since the outbreak of war clad in drab khaki rather than the ceremonial dress of the Household Cavalry, dutifully brought his sword to the salute. Hardcastle, accustomed to being mistaken for an army officer, doffed his bowler hat in acknowledgement of a compliment to which he was not entitled, and pushed open the door leading to the office of the Assistant Provost Marshal of London District.

‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said the APM’s chief clerk, a military police sergeant named Glover. ‘You’ll be wanting to see Colonel Frobisher, no doubt.’

‘Maybe not, Sergeant Glover. I’ve always found that military police sergeants usually know more about what’s going on than their officers do,’ said Hardcastle with uncharacteristic flattery. ‘But don’t tell the colonel I said so.’

‘Always happy to help, Inspector,’ said Glover, preening himself slightly at Hardcastle’s empty blandishment. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘D’you know anything about a Corporal Harry Waldren of the Gloucestershire Regiment, Sergeant Glover?’ Hardcastle’s sensitive antennae had told him that Waldren might have come to the notice of the Provost Branch, a conclusion to which Marriott had already arrived.

‘Ah, The Slashers,’ said Glover.

‘The Slashers?’ repeated a puzzled Hardcastle.

‘It’s a nickname, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘When the regiment was in Canada in 1764 they acquired—’

Hardcastle held up a hand. ‘Enough, Marriott. I don’t want another of your damned history lessons.’

‘Bear with me, Inspector,’ said Glover, smothering a laugh as he crossed to a filing cabinet and took out a file. ‘Here we are. Corporal Harry Waldren. I thought the name rang a bell. He’s adrift.’

‘Thought as much,’ said Hardcastle. ‘How long’s he been on the run?’

‘About five weeks,’ said Glover. ‘He was sent on leave from the First-Fourth Battalion up near Albert, but he never went back. D’you know something about him, then?’

‘Yes, and you can tell the APM that I’ll likely lay hands on him before the day’s out.’

‘Perhaps you’ll let us know when you nick him, Inspector, and we’ll send an escort to collect him.’

‘Not before I’ve asked him a few questions about a murdered prostitute,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Thank you for you assistance, Sergeant Glover, and I’ll let you know when you can have him back.’ The DDI paused at the doorway. ‘As a matter of interest, is this Waldren married?’

Glover glanced at the file again. ‘Yes, he is, Inspector. His wife’s called Mabel, and she lives with their three kids in Barnstaple. We’ve had patrols call there several times, but she said she’d not seen hair nor hide of him for over a year.’

‘Well, that don’t come as a surprise,’ said Hardcastle.

When the two detectives returned to Cannon Row police station, DC Lipton was waiting for the DDI.

‘Got a positive identification, sir.’

‘About time,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘Come in the office.’

‘I eventually found Polly Brewer at Victoria station last night, sir,’ said Lipton, ‘but I had to hang about until half past nine before she turned up.’

‘I’m sure your devotion to duty is commendable,’ observed Hardcastle drily. ‘Get on with it.’

‘Yes, sir. Any road, she was talking to a soldier, but I intervened, and the soldier scarpered. I took her round to the mortuary, and I had to wake up the night watchman. He weren’t too pleased and said as how he shouldn’t—’

‘For God’s sake, Lipton,’ growled Hardcastle, ‘there’s no need to make a book out of a short story. Just tell me what you found out.’

‘Yes, sir. Well, Polly had a good look at the body, and after she’d had a touch of the vapours, she told me that the dead woman was Annie Kelly, a single woman twenty-three years of age.’

‘That’s more like it. And where did this Annie Kelly turn her tricks? Did this here Polly Brewer tell you that?’

‘Yes, sir. Annie had a room in Ebury Street, next door to the school on the corner of Belgrave Street.’

‘Good,’ said Hardcastle.

Lipton took that single word as both a commendation and a dismissal, and returned to the detectives’ office.

‘This evening,’ said Hardcastle, as he took the head off his lunchtime pint of bitter in the downstairs bar of the Red Lion, ‘we’ll get ourselves round to the Elephant pub at about six o’clock, and lay in wait for our Corporal Waldren. I’ve a shrewd suspicion he might turn up earlier than Queenie suggested. Then we’ll lift him and have a cosy chat back at the nick. He might just have had his wicked way with Annie Kelly. When he wasn’t having a tumble with Queenie, that is.’

The public bar of the Elephant public house in the street bearing the apt name of Perkins Rents was crowded. Cigarette and pipe smoke hung in the air, and a sailor was managing to conjure a popular tune from a piano that badly needed tuning.

‘Hello, Mr Hardcastle,’ said the landlord, a jovial red-faced individual. ‘Don’t often see you in here. You’ll be a bit busy, I s’pose,’ he added, nodding a greeting at Marriott.

‘You could say that, Arthur.’

‘A couple of pints of the best, is it? On the house, of course.’

‘Very kind,’ murmured Hardcastle, who had not expected to pay anyway, ‘but you can do me a favour.’

‘Just say the word, guv’nor.’ Arthur, sensing that the DDI was about to impart a confidence, leaned closer to him.

‘I don’t want to be seen in here because I’m waiting for a swaddy who might have some information that’d help me out with a murder. If he spots me he might just run. In fact, he’s sure to because he’s adrift from the army.’

‘You’d best come in the parlour, then, guv’nor,’ said Arthur, opening the flap in the bar and leading the two detectives into a room at the back. ‘Who’s this soldier you’re after, Mr Hardcastle?’ he added, placing their beer on the table.

‘He’s a corporal in the Gloucestershire Regiment, Arthur. Harry Waldren, he’s called, and he’s got badges on the front and back of his cap.’

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult to spot, then. I’ll tip you the wink when he shows. On his tod, d’you reckon?’

‘He will be when he comes in,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But he’s supposed to be meeting a tom in here, name of Queenie Douglas.’

‘What, Queenie from Strutton Ground?’

‘D’you know her, Arthur?’ asked Marriott.

‘I do that, Mr Marriott,’ said Arthur, ‘but I never knew she was on the game. Well, that’s her barred, and no mistake. I’ve got me licence to think of.’

‘Well, don’t bar her tonight, Arthur. You might frighten her soldier boy away.’

Ten minutes later, the landlord appeared in the parlour with two fresh pints of beer. ‘Young Queenie’s turned up, Mr Hardcastle,’ he said, ‘and she keeps eyeing the door like she’s waiting for someone. Seems a bit on edge.’

‘That don’t surprise me, Arthur,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ve got an idea that she knows me and Sergeant Marriott are anxious to lay hands on her beau.’

‘Right. I’ll let you know when he shows up.’

But neither Hardcastle nor Marriott had a chance to start on his second pint of beer before the landlord reappeared.

‘He’s just come in the public, guv’nor,’ said Arthur in a stage whisper.

‘Is there a way out of here so that we can get into that bar from the street, Arthur?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘If we approach him from this side he’ll likely take to his heels, and I’m getting a bit old in the tooth for chasing after villains.’

‘Come this way, guv’nor.’ Arthur led Hardcastle and Marriott out of the parlour door and along a short narrow passage. ‘If you go through here into the private bar,’ he said, indicating another door, ‘you can go out into the street, and back into the public.’

Eventually the two detectives were outside again. Hardcastle pushed open the door of the public bar just as Queenie and her soldier were making for the exit.

‘Corporal Harry Waldren?’ queried Hardcastle.

Sensing that the two men confronting him were police officers, the soldier looked over his shoulder, a hunted expression on his face, but seeing there was no way of escape, yielded. ‘Yeah, what of it?’

‘I’m a police officer, Waldren, and I’m arresting you for being a deserter from His Majesty’s armed forces.’

‘Dunno what you’re talking about,’ responded Waldren predictably.

‘And I want to talk to you about a murder that took place locally last Sunday.’

‘I don’t know nothing about no murder.’ Waldren’s face reflected his panic.

‘And your wife’s complaining that she hasn’t heard from you for over a year,’ the DDI added.

Hardcastle’s statement brought about a fierce reaction from Queenie Douglas. Reeking of stale, cheap scent, and dressed in a garish, red stuff dress with a feather boa and velvet hat with a purple ostrich feather, she was the epitome of a low-class whore.

‘Wife?’ screeched Queenie. ‘Are you bloody married?’ Without waiting for a reply, she swung her handbag and dealt Waldren a heavy blow on the side of the head, causing him to lose his cap and stagger backwards. ‘You two-timing lying little sod, Harry Waldren. If you’ve put me up the duff, I’ll find you and cut your balls off.’ She closed with Waldren and delivered what was known in wrestling circles as a forearm smash.

‘’Ere, bloody leave off, Queenie,’ shouted Waldren, shaking his head and rubbing his chin.

Queenie’s fisticuffs and her loud, coarse tirade had caused the pianist to stop playing, and there was a round of applause from the clientele who had quickly gathered close to the warring pair, delighted that this domestic exchange was providing a little light relief to their mundane lives.

‘That’ll do,’ said Marriott, stepping between the couple, ‘unless you want to join him at the nick, Queenie.’

‘For Gawd’s sake get me out of here,’ beseeched Waldren as he attempted to distance himself from Queenie Douglas.

‘Get a cab, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle as he took a firm grip on the errant soldier’s arm.

A minute later Marriott returned to the public bar. ‘Waiting outside, sir,’ he said.

Hardcastle stared at the figure of Corporal Harry Waldren, now slouched in a chair in the interview room at Cannon Row police station.

‘You’re a deserter from your battalion in Albert,’ said Hardcastle.

‘No, I ain’t. You’ve got that wrong. I’m on leave.’

Having paused to light his pipe, Hardcastle leaned towards the corporal. ‘Only this morning I was talking to the military police at Horse Guards, Waldren,’ he said quietly, ‘and they told me that you’re on the run. And that’s good enough for me. Now then, we can do this one of two ways. I can tell the provost that you surrendered to the police, which’ll go in your favour at your court martial, or I can tell ’em that you denied it. In that case, you’ll cause me a great deal of trouble because I’ll have to take you in front of the Bow Street magistrate tomorrow morning. And I won’t hesitate to tell him you resisted arrest and had to be restrained by Sergeant Marriott and me.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Waldren churlishly. ‘Have it your own way.’