Hardcastle's Traitors (15 page)

‘Well I'm buggered,' said Sawyer, once Hardcastle had explained why he had become involved. ‘So that's it. Are you saying that Stein was a bloody spy, Ernie?'

‘Special Branch seems to think so, Tom.'

‘In that case I've probably wasted my time sending my men out to lean on their snouts.'

‘You never know,' said Hardcastle, who set great store by the value of informants. ‘Just because Special Branch reckon he was spying don't mean that some of the local villains don't know anything.'

‘If I hear anything, Ernie, I'll let you know. I s'pose you've got one of those telephone instruments, being the Royal A Division?'

‘Yes, we have,' said Hardcastle. ‘Another flash in the pan. It won't last, Tom, you mark my words. We always managed to do the job without all this newfangled rubbish they're giving us.'

‘I sometimes think I'm getting too old for this job, Ernie. It all seems to be passing me by. I'll be glad when I've got me time in and I can push off to some nice little cottage in the country with my Martha. Somewhere in Kent takes me fancy.'

Hardcastle laughed. ‘You'd be bored out of your mind, Tom.'

‘Not me, Ernie. A nice little garden with a few roses, and the grandchildren coming to see us. No, I can't wait.'

‘You mentioned back stairs just now, sir, and a back alley,' said Marriott.

‘Yes, there's an alley that leads off Harley Grove, Skipper. It gives access to the rear of these premises,' said Sawyer. ‘I had a look at the door this morning and there aren't any locks. Anyone could've walked in and it looks as though someone did.'

‘And made his escape the same way,' suggested Hardcastle.

‘That's about the strength of it, Ernie.'

‘Well, there's not much here to whet our appetite,' said Hardcastle, as he began wandering around the small room. Stein appeared to have owned very little in the way of personal property. A cupboard contained a few items of clothing and a pair of boots in need of repair.

‘This coat's got a button missing, sir,' said Marriott, taking a worn, serge reefer jacket from the back of the only chair in the room. ‘There should be six buttons, but there's only five. And I'd swear they match the one we found in Gosling's shop. There's what looks like bloodstains on it, too, sir.'

Hardcastle took hold of the jacket and examined it closely. ‘I think you're right, Marriott. Bring it with you. And bring those boots with you, too. If they don't match the footprint we found in Gosling's shop, Kaiser Bill's my uncle.' He felt in the pockets of the reefer jacket. ‘Well, well,' he said, taking out a silver necklace, a wristwatch and an albert watch chain. ‘If these ain't proceeds from Gosling's shop, I don't deserve to be a DDI.'

‘D'you think this topping's tied up with another job, then, Ernie?' asked Sawyer.

Hardcastle explained about the murder of Reuben Gosling.

‘How lucky can you get?' said Sawyer, laughing once again. ‘Two for the price of one.'

‘Maybe,' said Hardcastle thoughtfully. ‘When you examined Stein's body, Tom, did you happen to notice whether he'd got a cut on either of his hands?'

‘Now you come to mention it, Ernie, he had a bandage on his right hand. I didn't look any further, but I dare say Dr Spilsbury will be able to give you chapter and verse.'

‘What about fingerprints, Tom?' asked Hardcastle.

‘Oh, I never bother with that, Ernie. I know where to find my villains, and I've got some good snouts on the manor.'

Hardcastle, who had himself only recently begun to appreciate the value of this comparatively new science, nodded. ‘Yes, Tom, I think you're right; the Job is passing you by. I'll get Charlie Collins down here to give the place the once over. You never know, I might get lucky.'

‘And luck is what you'll need, Ernie.'

‘I've just had a thought, Marriott,' said Hardcastle.

‘Really, sir?' Marriott tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice; he knew that the DDI's ‘thoughts' often led the enquiry off on some wild goose chase.

‘Have a look at the windows. It's just possible that the sash weight we found in Gosling's shop came from here.'

Marriott crossed to the only window in the room. The glass was filthy and it was almost impossible to see out of it. He attempted to raise the lower window, but succeeded only after applying all his strength.

‘You're right, sir. The wooden fillet has been removed and the left-hand weight is missing.'

‘I'll put money on it being the one that Catto found under the cabinet in Gosling's shop, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘Get Mr Collins to have another look at it with a view to comparing any prints on it with those of Stein's. He'll probably have to go to St Mary's to take Stein's dabs.'

I
t was half past six by the time that Hardcastle and Marriott got back to Cannon Row.

‘I've compared the button we found in Reuben Gosling's shop with the remaining five on the coat we seized from Stein's room, sir,' said Marriott, ‘and I'm as sure as can be that it matches.'

‘What about the boots we found, Marriott? Any luck with those?'

‘I compared them with the photograph of the footprint in Reuben Gosling's shop that Simpson's photographer took for us, and I'd swear that the right boot is identical, sir.'

‘Now we're getting somewhere, Marriott,' said Hardcastle. ‘Get on to Mr Collins, and ask him to meet us at Stein's room at Bow Road tomorrow to make a thorough examination for fingerprints. I'll be particularly interested to know if any of those he finds match any he found in Gosling's shop or in Sinclair Villiers's car.'

Marriott glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I doubt that he'll still be in his office, sir.'

‘Not in his office, Marriott?' Hardcastle raised his eyebrows and stared at his sergeant. ‘Mr Collins is a CID officer. Of course he'll still be in his office. See to it.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Marriott, and left the police station to make his way across the courtyard to what was known to members of the Force as Commissioner's Office.

Hardcastle had just started to check the reports that were awaiting his attention when DC Rafferty of Special Branch appeared in his office.

‘Oh, it's you again, Rafferty,' said Hardcastle, laying down his pen with a sigh of exasperation. ‘What is it now?'

‘Mr O'Rourke would like to see you as soon as possible, sir.'

‘Who?'

‘Detective Chief Inspector O'Rourke is acting as Mr Quinn's deputy, sir, while Mr Quinn and Mr McBrien are away. He's currently occupying Mr Quinn's office.'

‘Where is Mr Quinn, then?'

‘Mr Quinn is currently engaged on other duties, sir.'

‘Really? And what sort of other duties might they be?'

‘I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say, sir.'

‘You mean you don't know, Rafferty. Very well.' Although Hardcastle did not regard Special Branch officers as being real detectives, he acknowledged that they were very good at prevaricating. He deluded himself that his own detectives would know where he had gone at any given time. Seizing his hat and umbrella, he followed the SB officer across to the Central Building of New Scotland Yard. When he was halfway there, he met Marriott on his way back.

‘Mr Collins will go down to Bow Road tomorrow morning as requested, sir. He said to tell you that he'll meet you at Stein's room at nine o'clock.'

‘I told you he'd still be on duty, Marriott,' said Hardcastle. ‘Send a telegraph to Mr Sawyer and let him know. In the meantime I've got to see Mr O'Rourke.

‘Who's Mr O'Rourke, sir?'

‘He's a senior Special Branch officer, Marriott. I'd've thought you'd've known that. Wait for me until I get back.'

‘Very good, sir.'

Hardcastle tapped on the heavy oaken door of Superintendent Quinn's office and waited until bidden to enter.

‘Be so good as to report on the progress of your enquiries into the Stein murder, Mr Hardcastle.' James O'Rourke, like Quinn an Irishman, was a man not accustomed to wasting words.

What Hardcastle did not know, however, was that although Quinn was supposedly engaged on ‘other duties' he had in fact ceded the enquiry into Stein's murder to O'Rourke, who was an expert in Jewish extremist factions within the United Kingdom and Ireland.

‘An interesting development has occurred, sir.'

‘And what might that be?' O'Rourke frowned at Hardcastle, and stroked his beard.

Hardcastle explained about the button and the footprint that had been found at the scene of Gosling's murder, and that he was now fairly certain that there was a connection between Gosling's death and the killing of Peter Stein.

‘That comes as no surprise, and it's interesting that they are both Jewish.' O'Rourke scribbled a few notes on a pad. ‘I'll pass that on to Mr Quinn and to MI5. Anything else?'

‘Captain Haydn Villiers is detained in the Tower, sir. I understand that he's likely to be charged with treason.'

‘I know that, Mr Hardcastle, but I doubt that the charge will be one of treason. It's more likely to be under Section One of the Official Secrets Act. But we shall see.'

‘It would seem that Villiers is also Jewish, sir. When I interviewed his mother, I noticed that she was wearing a Star of David around her neck.'

‘On a chain, I presume,' said O'Rourke acidly, pausing and looking up from his note-taking.

‘Yes, sir, on a chain.' Hardcastle felt as though he was being treated like a junior detective.

‘I suspect that this whole business has something to do with the Zionists, Mr Hardcastle, and their desire for a Jewish homeland. We already know that Villiers is to be charged with passing information to the French Jew Pierre Benoit, who in turn passed it to Stein … or maybe Sinclair Villiers.' O'Rourke emitted a deep sigh. ‘As if we had not got enough to do tracking down secret agents that the Germans have the audacity to send here, we now have to deal with the home-grown variety. Very well, keep me informed of any developments.'

‘Very good, sir.' Hardcastle was surprised that Special Branch was now including Sinclair Villiers in the conspiracy.

‘That's all,' said O'Rourke, waving a hand of dismissal.

When Hardcastle returned to his office, he had told Marriott to go home, telling him it was time that they had an early night. A quarter past eight was not exactly early in Marriott's book, but at least it was an improvement on the previous few evenings.

Leaving his bicycle outside, Marriott let himself into his police married quarters in Regency Street as quietly as possible. He knew that the two children, James and Doreen, five and three respectively, would both be in bed.
One day
, he thought,
I might even be home early enough to read them a bedtime story.
He took off his coat and hat and hung them on the hook in the tiny hall.

Lorna Marriott was in the kitchen preparing supper. She stopped what she was doing to give her husband a kiss. ‘Been let off the leash, love?' There was surprise in her voice.

‘It's what the guv'nor calls an early night, pet.'

‘Well, I suppose it's earlier than usual,' said Lorna, returning to the cooker.

‘Mr Hardcastle sends you his regards,' said Marriott.

‘I'd rather he sent you … earlier than this.' Lorna looked pointedly at the kitchen clock before turning to face Marriott. ‘What was it this time?'

‘The murder we're dealing with has got a bit complicated, pet.' Hanging his jacket on the back of a chair, Marriott opened a bottle of brown ale and settled himself at the kitchen table. ‘We're investigating another murder that took place on Bow Road's patch in Whitechapel Division,' he said, admiring the trim figure of his twenty-eight-year-old wife as she darted back and forth across the small kitchen.

‘Haven't they got any detectives down there, then, love?' asked Lorna sarcastically.

Marriott laughed. ‘Yes, of course they have, but it seems that the job at Bow Road is somehow tied up with the murder of Reuben Gosling in Vauxhall Bridge Road.'

‘I sometimes think you'd've been better off if you'd stayed in the Uniform Branch, Charlie,' said Lorna, as she put a plate of haddock, peas and mashed potatoes on the table in front of him. ‘Meg Lewington's husband Sid works eight-hour shifts and has one day off a week. And I'll bet he'll be an inspector before you are.' Sidney Lewington, a station-sergeant at Gerald Road police station on B Division, lived with his wife Meg next door to the Marriotts.

‘I'd be bored to tears, pet.' Marriott was unwilling to enter into a discussion about career prospects in the Metropolitan Police, even though he occasionally wondered if becoming a CID officer had been a wise move. ‘What's for pudding?'

‘Apple pie and custard,' said Lorna.

Alice Hardcastle's reaction to the arrival of her husband was different from Lorna Marriott's. But, as she often said, she had been ‘married to the police force' for the past twenty-three years and had grown accustomed to the hours her husband was obliged to work.

‘You're early tonight, Ernie,' she said, as Hardcastle appeared in the kitchen doorway.

‘There wasn't much more I could do today, love. But tomorrow's going to be busy. I've been stuck with a murder on Bow Road's toby.'

Alice turned from the stove and flicked a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. ‘Why's that? I thought you were dealing with that one in Vauxhall Bridge Road.'

‘I am, but the two of them are connected.' Hardcastle poured a whisky for himself and an Amontillado for his wife. ‘The bosses at the Yard thought it'd be a good idea if I handled both cases.'

‘I sometimes think they take unfair advantage of you, Ernie. It's time you were promoted and given an easy job at the Yard.'