Hardcastle's Frustration (11 page)

It was a quarter past ten when the train arrived at Waterloo railway station in central London. Wood hurriedly alighted from his compartment, just as Stroud stepped down from his.

On the concourse, Wood thrust a halfpenny at a newsvendor and grabbed an early edition of that day's
Evening Standard
. Reading the newspaper as he walked, but keeping an eye on Stroud, Wood scanned the account of the previous night's raid on Maida Vale by three German Staaken-Zeppelin bombers. A residential building had been destroyed, killing twelve people, and four hundred houses were damaged. With a sigh at the futility of it all, Wood put the paper in his pocket and devoted his attention to finding out where Stroud was going.

But in Waterloo Road, he almost lost his man. Stroud leaped on to a moving bus and mounted the stairs to the top deck. Fortunately, a cab hove into view and Wood hailed it.

‘D'you know where that number 1A bus goes?' he asked, pointing at the departing vehicle.

‘I'm a cabbie, not a bloody bus driver, guv'nor,' protested the taxi driver.

‘Never mind, follow it,' said Wood.

‘Are you joking, guv'nor?' asked the driver, turning in his seat. ‘That only happens in them Keystone Kops pictures.'

‘No, I'm not joking,' snapped Wood. ‘I'm a police officer. Get a shift on or we'll lose it.'

‘Right you are, then, guv'nor. Follow that bus, like the man says,' muttered the driver, as he put the cab into gear and drove away as quickly as his antiquated cab would allow.

The bus carrying Gilbert Stroud crossed Waterloo Bridge and wound its way along the Strand. It stopped frequently during its journey, either to pick up or set down passengers, or because it was held up in traffic. Finally it stopped at Charing Cross and Stroud alighted, but remained at the bus stop.

‘Is that it, guv?' asked the cab driver.

‘No, hold on until he gets on another bus.'

‘Right you are, guv.' The cab driver sniffed and wiped a hand across his moustache. ‘At least this sort of lark makes a change from the usual,' he commented.

A few moments later, a number fifteen bus stopped, and Stroud climbed aboard.

‘OK, follow it,' said Wood.

‘Off we go again,' said the cabbie.

The bus passed Trafalgar Square and drove along Cockspur Street until finally Wood observed Stroud alighting in Haymarket.

Quickly paying off the cab, and remembering, just in time, to note its plate number – or his claim would be disallowed – Wood followed Stroud into Charles Street and saw him enter a building called Waterloo House.

He strolled past the elegant house, but could find no indication as to what took place within its walls. He crossed the road to where a policeman was standing.

‘I'm DS Wood of A,' he said, showing the PC his warrant card. ‘Any idea what goes on in that building?' He nodded towards Waterloo House.

‘Other to say that it's some secret place to do with the government, Sarge, I don't really know,' said the PC. ‘But that's why I'm stuck here on a protection post.'

‘Right, thanks, mate,' said Wood, and began the long walk back to Cannon Row police station.

It was midday when Wood tapped on the DDI's door and entered.

‘What news?' asked Hardcastle, leaning back in his chair and linking his hands across his waistcoat.

Wood gave the DDI a full account of everything that had occurred from the moment he had taken up observation in Major Darke's house to the point where he had seen Gilbert Stroud enter Waterloo House.

‘But without going in, I couldn't find out what goes on in there, sir, but a local copper told me that it's something to do with the government and he's posted there to protect it, but he's no idea what it is.'

‘Good work, Wood, well done,' said Hardcastle, breaking his usual rule of not complimenting his subordinates. ‘Ask Sergeant Marriott to come in.'

‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.'

‘Did Wood tell you what he'd found out, Marriott?' asked Hardcastle, once his sergeant had joined him.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘See what you can find out about this here Waterloo House that Stroud went into.'

‘I've done it already, sir. I spoke to the CID at Vine Street, and it turns out that it's the headquarters of MI5.'

‘God help us!' exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘That's all I need. I suppose that means that Stroud is one of their people.' He was not happy at the prospect of getting involved with MI5 officers again. Their interference and obstruction into his investigation of Rose Drummond's murder in Hoxton in 1916 had left him not wanting to repeat the experience. ‘So what's this fellow Stroud doing getting tied up with Mavis Parker?'

Marriott hesitated before answering, but eventually he said, ‘It's beginning to look as though she's up to something, sir, and I suppose it means that we'll have to ask Special Branch.'

But Hardcastle did not reply immediately. He reached forward, picked up his pipe and spent the next minute filling it. Once he had lit it, he leaned back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling.

‘Not at the moment,' he said, suddenly leaning forward, and pointing the stem of his pipe at Marriott. ‘You know what those buggers are like, Marriott. I think we'll concentrate our attention on Mavis Parker because MI5 are obviously interested in her and it would be nice to beat that brainy lot at their own game, so to speak.'

‘I see, sir.' But Marriott did not in fact see at all. ‘What do you propose, then?'

‘We'll keep a careful watch on Mrs Parker, Marriott, that's what we'll do. I want to know everything she does and everywhere she goes. And I want to know who she's seeing, because it's pretty plain from what Wood found out that she's not having an affair with Gilbert Stroud. Not unless MI5 officers can spare time for the occasional bit of jig-a-jig, even when there's a war on. No, Marriott, he's obviously befriended Mavis Parker for a reason, and I'm wondering if it has something to do with this new Sopwith aeroplane that she told Mrs Middleton about. She mentioned it the last time we saw her.'

‘Are you suggesting that Mavis Parker might be spying, sir?'

‘That's exactly what I'm suggesting, Marriott.'

‘But isn't that the job of Special Branch, sir?' Marriott was concerned that his DDI appeared to be straying into territory that was rightly the preserve of the branch that was under the control of Superintendent Patrick Quinn and closely supervised by Assistant Commissioner Basil Thomson. And indeed into matters that were the concern of Colonel Vivian Kell's MI5.

‘Special Branch hasn't told me anything, Marriott, which they should've done seeing as how I'm responsible for investigating Ronald Parker's murder,' said Hardcastle, ‘and until they do, I shall continue to investigate it to the best of my ability. It's only common courtesy that I should've been told because they must've known he'd been topped.' He placed his pipe in the ashtray. ‘And if we find out that someone's been spying, I'll let Special Branch know. But not until after Parker's killer is standing on the hangman's trapdoor.'

‘Who did you have in mind for this observation on Mrs Parker, sir?' Marriott was extremely relieved that the DDI's plan would not be his responsibility. He knew, from previous experience, that the head of Special Branch would not view lightly any interference in the work of his department and would undoubtedly go into a towering rage when he learned of it.

Hardcastle gave Marriott's question sparse consideration. ‘Wood for one,' he said, ‘and possibly Lipton. He seems to know what he's about.'

‘Will two men be enough, sir?' Marriott forbore from suggesting Catto; he knew what Hardcastle's reaction would be.

But then Hardcastle confounded him. ‘I think we might also use Catto, Marriott,' he said. ‘He knows that area now, having spent a while in Kingston.'

‘When d'you want them to start, sir?'

‘Monday,' said Hardcastle tersely. ‘Fetch Wood in again.'

Wood had half guessed that his observation on Gilbert Stroud would not be the end of the matter and was not relishing further surveillance work. ‘You wanted me, sir?'

‘Yes, Wood.' Hardcastle explained precisely what he required of him. ‘Sergeant Marriott will give you all the details of where this woman lives and works, and I want to know everything she does. And if she meets another man, other than Stroud, that is, I want to know all about him. There's a man called Mortimer that she's apparently friendly with as well, but we don't know anything about him yet, neither do we have a description of him. And don't show out. Now, is all that clear?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘You're to take Lipton and Catto for a start, but let Sergeant Marriott know if you need any more men.'

‘Right, sir,' said Wood.

‘Well, we'll see what that brings forth, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, once Wood had departed, reluctantly to set about his new task. ‘And now I think it's time we had a pint. Then we'll call it a day.'

Alice Hardcastle was surprised to see her husband arrive home so early on a Saturday, particularly when he was investigating a murder.

‘Have you solved it, then, Ernie?' she asked.

‘Not yet, but there's nothing I can do until Monday.' Hardcastle settled down to read the evening newspaper, and was depressed to see that once again a whole page was given over to a gallery of photographs of officers recently killed in action.
Strange
, he thought,
how apparent it was that they were dead: there was that look about them.
He put aside the newspaper. ‘Where are the children?'

‘Kitty's up in the West End, doing some shopping, Maud's nursing and Wally's due in at any moment.'

‘Has Kitty got herself another job, yet?' Alice had mentioned that the Hardcastles' eldest daughter was thinking about giving up her work as a conductorette with the London General Omnibus Company. Even though the war was not yet over, some men who were unfit for further active military service had been returning to take up their former employment.

‘She's been talking about joining the Women Police Patrols, Ernie,' said Alice, fully aware of the reaction that would bring forth from her husband.

‘She's
what
?' roared Hardcastle, allowing the newspaper to fall to his lap.

‘You heard me, Ernie,' replied Alice mildly. ‘You should take it as a compliment that she wants to follow in your footsteps.'

‘Following in my footsteps be damned,' muttered Hardcastle. ‘The Women Police Patrols are nothing but a bunch of prurient, interfering busybodies.'

‘Really? I understood from the
Daily Mail
that they were doing good work among prostitutes. What's more, I read a suggestion in the paper's editorial the other day that women will one day be sworn in as constables, just the same as men.'

‘I've never heard such rubbish,' exclaimed Hardcastle crossly. ‘Women police officers? That'll be the day.' And with that contemptuous dismissal of what he perceived to be a ridiculous and untenable concept, he picked up his newspaper.

But Hardcastle's attempt to read the latest news was interrupted again, this time by the arrival of Walter, the Hardcastles' only son and the youngest of their three children. He was wearing his Post Office uniform, and had just finished a stint of delivering telegrams.

‘Hallo, Pa. I didn't expect to see you home this early.' Walter tossed his uniform kepi on to a nearby chair.

‘Nothing I can do until Monday, Wally,' said Hardcastle, casting his newspaper aside. ‘And don't leave that cap on the chair, put it in the hall.'

‘Been busy, Wally?' asked Alice.

‘I delivered about ten telegrams this morning, Ma, all with the special mark on 'em.'

‘What does that mean?' asked Hardcastle.

‘They put a special mark on the envelope for telegrams containing bad news, and we're told not to ask if there's a reply. Anyway, like I was saying, ten this morning, all killed and injured, mostly from Wipers, I should think. At least that's what the lads at the office were saying.'

‘It's Ypres, Wally,' corrected his father, even though the devastated Belgian market town was known to troops on the Western Front, officers and other ranks alike, as Wipers. ‘I hope to God this damned war will soon be over. Still, now that the Americans are involved, thank the good Lord, they'll soon see off the Kaiser. That General Pershing's got his wits about him.'

‘I still think I ought to volunteer,' said Walter.

‘You know what happened when you tried to join the navy in January, Wally,' said his mother. ‘They told you to carry on delivering telegrams because the war was nearly over.' Even so, she was desperately worried that, despite his failure to join the navy, Walter would sneak off to a recruiting office and succeed in enlisting in the army.

‘I could've gone when I was fifteen,' Wally complained. ‘Boy Cornwell won the Victoria Cross at Jutland when he was only sixteen.'

‘Yes, and he was killed doing it,' said Alice.

‘You couldn't have enlisted without my permission, Wally,' said Hardcastle, ‘and you wouldn't've got it.'

‘Well, I'm eighteen now, and I still think I ought to be doing something worthwhile.' Walter clearly refused to give up.

‘Well, you are,' said Alice. ‘It's important work you're doing, delivering telegrams to those poor people who've lost loved ones.'

‘Are you going to stay with the Post Office once the war's over?' asked his father, attempting to deflect his son's oft-repeated desire to enlist.

‘The postmaster said they won't be needing as many of us once men stop getting killed. I'm thinking of joining your lot, Pa.'

‘Ye Gods, not you as well, Wally,' exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘And by “my lot”, I suppose you mean the Metropolitan Police,' he added sternly. ‘It's a hard life, walking a beat for eight hours day and night in all weathers. And that's where you'll have to start.' He was not keen to have his son following him into the police force, but knew that once Walter had made up his mind, he was unlikely to be deterred.