Hardcastle's Frustration (20 page)

‘I presume you've heard what Wood discovered about Mortimer, Marriott,' said Hardcastle when his sergeant had joined him.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘In that case, I think we'll pay a visit to the War Office, Marriott, and have a word with this here Major Robert Talbot of the Royal Flying Corps.'

‘What do we hope to learn from him, sir?' Once again, Marriott was mystified that the DDI was changing the direction of the enquiry.

‘If Lawrence Mortimer is up to no good, and I rather think he is, then we can rely on the major to be factual about anything he knows, Marriott, which is probably more than his wife knows. And being an army officer, Major Talbot's likely to be a reliable and discreet informant.' And without further ado, Hardcastle put on his overcoat and hat, and seized his umbrella. With Marriott in tow, he set off for the War Office, further down Whitehall.

‘All correct, sir.' The policeman on the fixed point outside the War Office saluted as Hardcastle and Marriott approached.

‘I doubt it; there's a bloody war on,' muttered the DDI, as he ascended the four steps and pushed open one of the double doors.

‘Can I help you, sir?' asked the elderly custodian as he approached the DDI, but then recognition dawned. ‘Ah, it's Inspector Hardcastle, ain't it? I remember you coming here a few times a couple of years back, sir.'

‘You've got a good memory,' said Hardcastle.

‘You has to keep your wits about you in this job, guv'nor,' replied the custodian. ‘Now then, who did you want to see today?'

‘Major Robert Talbot of the RFC,' said Hardcastle.

‘Major Talbot, ah yes. Him what's working on this new air force nonsense. Not that I think it'll ever come to anything. After all, when this lot's over they'll be going back to cavalry like what we had in South Africa. That General French commanded the first cavalry brigade out there and routed the Boers at Colesberg. Never needed no airy-planes to sort that lot out.'

‘That's all very interesting,' said Hardcastle, ‘but where can I find Major Talbot?'

‘Ah yes, Major Talbot. Half a mo, guv'nor.' The custodian spent a few moments thumbing through a directory. ‘Now, let me see. Ah, there he is,' he said, jabbing the page with a finger. ‘I'll get one of the messengers to take you up, sir.'

Hardcastle and Marriott were eventually shown into a small office on the top floor of the War Office.

‘The police is here to see you, sir,' announced the messenger.

Robert Talbot was a young man, probably in his mid-twenties, and was seated behind a desk. He was in his shirtsleeves, and his distinctive RFC ‘maternity' tunic, bearing pilot's wings and the ribbons of the Distinguished Service Order and the Military Cross, was thrown casually over a chair.

‘Whatever it is, I didn't do it,' said Talbot, with a laugh. ‘Now then, what can I do for you?' He stood up, skirted the desk and shook hands.

‘I'm Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, Major, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.'

‘Is this a coincidence, I wonder? Oddly enough, my wife had a visit from the police yesterday afternoon, Inspector.'

‘Yes, I know, Major. Detective Sergeant Wood is one of my officers.'

‘Ah! Am I to take it that you're interested in Lawrence Mortimer, then? Reading between the lines, I rather thought that this business about people in our apartment block creating a disturbance was all my eye and Betty Martin. After all, detectives don't usually take an interest in that mundane sort of thing, do they? From what Felicity told me, I got the impression that your man seemed more interested in Mortimer than in noisy neighbours. Sorry, do take a pew.' Talbot swept up his tunic, slipped it on – but left it unbuttoned – and indicated a couple of chairs.

‘Your wife sounds like a very astute woman, Major,' said Marriott.

‘Not at all, old boy. It was me who worked out that there was more to your chap's enquiry than met the eye. Felicity's only interested in the newest dance craze to cross the Atlantic. I think her latest fad is something called the Monkey Hunch, whatever that is when it's at home. Not that I have any time for dancing what with all this business about creating something to be known as the RAF. According to the latest bumf to float up from downstairs, “Boom” Trenchard wants me to be called a squadron leader instead of a major. Still, I suppose it'll all come right in the end. But I've got my doubts, particularly as it's supposed to come into being on All Fools' Day.'

‘You're quite right, Major,' said Hardcastle. ‘We are interested in Lawrence Mortimer. And if I might speak in confidence—'

‘Of course, Inspector. Anything said between these four walls stays here.'

‘We have reason to believe that Mortimer might not be the corset salesman he claims to be.'

‘Mortimer a c
orset
salesman?' Talbot threw back his head and guffawed. ‘Not Pygmalion likely!'

‘What do you think he does for a living, then, Major?'

‘Frankly, I don't know, Inspector, but he's a bit of a shady cove, coming and going at odd hours. Whatever it is that he does, it's not a regular job. But you obviously think he's up to no good.'

Hardcastle weighed carefully what he was about to say next. ‘Between you and me, Major, I rather fancy him for a murder.'

‘Ye Gods! Do you really? By Jove, that's a turn up.'

‘It might be as well not to alarm your good lady by telling her that, Major, and it is only a suspicion at the moment. I'm not suggesting that he's a Jack the Ripper, rather that I think he might've murdered a man for a specific reason.'

‘I see. What can I do to help?'

‘Just keep your eyes open, Major, that's all,' said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott stood up. ‘Don't confront him, or ask questions or anything like that. Apart from anything else, I don't want him alerted to our interest, but if you happen to notice something odd, perhaps you'd let me know at Cannon Row police station.'

‘Gladly, Inspector,' said Talbot, shaking hands once again.

Marriott was still puzzled by the interview with Major Talbot when he and Hardcastle reached the street.

‘We don't seem to have achieved much by talking to the major, sir,' he said.

‘On the contrary, Marriott,' said Hardcastle. ‘We've cast our bread on the waters. Anyone like Major Talbot who's won a DSO and a Military Cross flying one of them wood and string contraptions on the Western Front will have developed a sharp eye. He'll tell us if he spots anything that's likely to be useful to us.'

Hardcastle settled himself behind his desk, took his pipe from the ashtray, but after a moment's thought replaced it.

‘Well, Marriott, so far we've got Lawrence Mortimer taking Mrs Parker out for a spin in his motor car on a Sunday morning. Marcus Sawyer, the solicitor, told Wood that Mortimer claimed to be a corset salesman. Frankly, I don't buy it and nor, would it seem, does Major Talbot. I think it's time we had Mortimer in for a few questions. I want to know how and where he met Mrs Parker, and what he's up to.'

But at that precise moment a knock on Hardcastle's door effectively took that decision out of his hands.

‘Good morning, sir.' The smartly dressed man who stood on the threshold was well known to Hardcastle, and his arrival usually presaged something unsettling.

‘Bless my soul, Marriott, if it ain't Detective Sergeant Aubrey Drew of Special Branch. I wondered how long it would be before you turned up, Drew.'

‘It's Detective
Inspector
Drew now, sir,' said Drew, with a grin.

‘Good gracious!' exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘What did you have to do for that, Mr Drew? Catch twenty spies, or can you get away with just collaring ten these days?'

‘Something along those lines, sir.' Drew glanced at Marriott. ‘Good morning, Charlie.'

‘Good morning, sir,' said Marriott, acknowledging, at least in Hardcastle's presence, the fact that Drew was now an inspector.

‘From what I know of Special Branch, Marriott, one should always beware of the smile on the face of the tiger.' Hardcastle glanced back at the SB inspector. ‘I don't somehow think you just called in to tell us of your good fortune, Mr Drew,' he said.

‘Indeed not, sir. Mr Quinn sends his compliments and would be obliged if you'd see him as soon as is convenient.'

‘Is it raining, Mr Drew?' asked Hardcastle,

‘No, sir,' said Drew, slightly puzzled by the question.

‘But one never knows when a sudden squall might occur,' said Hardcastle enigmatically, as he seized his bowler hat and umbrella. He knew that when a superintendent asked a divisional detective inspector to see him as soon as was convenient, it meant immediately. And it usually meant trouble, but just how much trouble he was soon to discover.

L
eaving the police station, Hardcastle crossed the courtyard and mounted the steps of New Scotland Yard, finally reaching the office of the head of Special Branch.

‘Good morning to you, Mr Hardcastle. I shan't keep you a moment.'

Superintendent Patrick Quinn, head of Special Branch for the past fifteen years, was standing behind a huge oak desk set across the corner of the room. He was a tall Irishman of severe countenance, with a grey goatee beard, an aquiline nose and black, bushy eyebrows. For a moment or two, his piercing blue eyes studied the inspector who now stood in front of his desk, before returning to the dossier he had been reading. Eventually closing it, he placed it in the centre of his desk, sat down and surveyed Hardcastle afresh.

‘Well now, Mr Hardcastle, I've received disturbing reports that you've been interfering in matters that are rightly the preserve of my Branch.' Although Quinn spoke with a soft Mayo accent, his voice, nonetheless, conveyed an element of menace.

‘Not intentionally, sir, I assure you,' said Hardcastle, even though he was aware that his tenacious pursuit of Parker's murderer might have been ruffling some of Scotland Yard's feathers.

‘Mrs Mavis Parker of Canbury Park Road, Kingston upon Thames,' said Quinn.

Hardcastle did not immediately reply, thinking that Quinn was about to continue. ‘Yes, sir, I'm investigating the murder of her husband,' he said eventually.

‘I'm well aware of that, Mr Hardcastle, but why have your men been following her about?'

‘When a woman's husband is murdered, sir, I've often found that the widow might've had something to do with it. I was hoping that she might lead us to the killer.' Hardcastle paused. ‘If, of course, she was not the murderess herself.' He was at a loss to know how Quinn knew of the observations he had set up. But it was not long before he found out.

‘D'you really think that Mrs Parker is capable of shooting a man in the back of the head, tying him up in a sugar sack and throwing him in the river, Inspector?' Quinn asked sarcastically.

‘Perhaps not, sir.' Hardcastle was taken aback that the head of Special Branch knew so much about the murder of Ronald Parker.

‘No, perhaps not indeed. Those two idiots you sent to carry out surveillance on her last Sunday morning could've seriously compromised a very important operation in which officers of this Branch and MI5 are involved. Standing about, openly writing down the details of Mortimer's car number plate and his description was just about the most crass piece of police work I've come across.'

‘If you don't mind me asking, sir, how did you know about that?' Hardcastle was thoroughly shaken by Quinn's continuing revelations.

‘Your men were being watched, Mr Hardcastle,' said Quinn, ‘but they were too busy engaging in their amateurish antics to realize that they, too, were under surveillance. You should familiarize yourself with the Latin tag
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes
? Loosely translated,' he continued, seeing the look of bewilderment on Hardcastle's face, ‘Who will watch the watchers? Or, as I've heard some translate it: Big fleas have little fleas on their backs to bite 'em, and little fleas have smaller fleas, and so on, ad infinitum.'

‘I didn't realize, sir,' said Hardcastle lamely. There was little else he could say in the face of Quinn's blunt assessment of the A Division officers' shortcomings.

‘Obviously. Well, I can tell you this: throughout your men's cack-handed performance they were being observed by an officer from MI5. He was the same agent, a Captain Gilbert Stroud incidentally, whom another of your officers followed all the way from his home in Kingston to his office in Waterloo House.'

‘But I still have to find the murderer of Ronald Parker, sir,' Hardcastle protested mildly.

‘I'm aware of that, Mr Hardcastle, but some things take precedence even over murder. Lawrence Mortimer has been under surveillance by officers of Special Branch and MI5 for some considerable time.'

‘I see, sir.'

‘I'm not sure you do, Mr Hardcastle.' Quinn sighed and opened the dossier in front of him. ‘I suppose I'd better acquaint you with the details of the operation, in the strictest confidence, you understand,' he said, staring at Hardcastle with a forbidding expression on his face, daring him not to breathe a word of what he was about to hear.

‘Yes, sir,' muttered Hardcastle.

‘There is little doubt that Mortimer is a German intelligence agent, but we need more information before he can be arrested,' Quinn continued. ‘In fact, we need to catch him
in flagrante
delicto
. We now know that he was sent here to garner information about British aeroplanes, and those produced by the Sopwith Aviation Company in particular. But he's only recently begun to take an interest and he befriended Mrs Parker in order to achieve his goal. Mrs Parker quite properly informed her works manager, a Mr Quilter, and he in turn informed us. As a result, Mrs Parker has been working closely with MI5 and ourselves, and has been feeding Mortimer false information that purports to be about prototype aeroplanes.'