Hardcastle's Obsession

by Graham Ison

  Recent Titles by Graham Ison from Severn House

  The Hardcastle Series

  HARDCASTLE’S SPY

  HARDCASTLE’S ARMISTICE

  HARDCASTLE’S CONSPIRACY

  HARDCASTLE’S AIRMEN

  HARDCASTLE’S ACTRESS

  HARDCASTLE’S BURGLAR

  HARDCASTLE’S MANDARIN

  HARDCASTLE’S SOLDIERS

  HARDCASTLE’S OBSESSION

  Contemporary Police Procedurals

  ALL QUIET ON ARRIVAL

  BREACH OF PRIVILEGE

  DIVISION

  DRUMFIRE

  JACK IN THE BOX

  KICKING THE AIR

  LIGHT FANTASTIC

  LOST OR FOUND

  WHIPLASH

  WHISPERING GRASS

  WORKING GIRL

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2011

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2011 by Graham Ison.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Ison, Graham.

  Hardcastle’s obsession.

  1. Hardcastle, Ernest (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Police–England–London–Fiction. 3. World War,

  1914-1918–Casualties–England–London–Fiction.

  4. Great Britain–History–George V, 1910-1936–Fiction.

  5. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.9′14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7801-0011-1 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8002-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-329-8 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  GLOSSARY

  ALBERT: a watch chain of the type worn by Albert, Prince Consort (1819–61).

  APM: assistant provost marshal (a lieutenant colonel of the military police).

  BAILEY, the: Central Criminal Court, Old Bailey, London.

  BAILIWICK: area of responsibility.

  BEAK: a magistrate.

  BEETON, Mrs: famous writer of a widely read cookery book.

  BEF: British Expeditionary Force in France and Flanders.

  BIRD, to give the: to dismiss.

  BLACK ANNIE or BLACK MARIA: a police or prison van.

  BLIGHTY ONE: a wound suffered in battle that necessitated repatriation to the United Kingdom.

  BLOW, a: police slang for a relief.

  BLUEJACKET: a seaman in the navy.

  BOB: a shilling (now 5p).

  BOCHE: derogatory term for Germans, particularly soldiers.

  BOOTNECK: a member of the Royal Marines.

  BOOZER: a public house.

  BRADSHAW: a timetable giving routes and times of British railway services.

  BRIEF, a: a warrant or a police warrant card or a lawyer.

  CARPET: three months’ imprisonment. Three months was the time it took to weave a carpet in prison workshops.

  DABS: fingerprints.

  DARTMOOR: a remote prison on Dartmoor in Devon.

  DDI: Divisional Detective Inspector.

  DEKKO: a look (ex Hindi).

  DRUM: a dwelling house, or room therein. Any place of abode.

  DUFF, to put up the: to make pregnant.

  DUMMY, to throw a: to set a false trail.

  FOURPENNY CANNON, a: a steak and kidney pie.

  FRONT, The: theatre of WW1 operations in France and Flanders.

  GAMP: an umbrella (from Sarah Gamp in Charles Dickens’s Martin Chuzzlewit).

  GLIM: a look (a foreshortening of ‘glimpse’).

  GLOSTERS: Alternative spelling for the Gloucestershire Regiment.

  GUNNERS, The: a generic term to encompass the Royal Horse Artillery, the Royal Garrison Artillery and the Royal Field Artillery. In the singular, a member of such a regiment.

  GUV or GUV’NOR: informal alternative to ‘sir’.

  HALF-COLONEL: a lieutenant colonel.

  HAVE IT UP, to: to engage in sexual intercourse.

  HAWKING THE MUTTON: leading a life of prostitution.

  HOLLOWAY: women’s prison in North London.

  JIG-A-JIG: sexual intercourse.

  KC: King’s Counsel: a senior barrister.

  MADAM: a brothel keeper.

  MATELOT: a sailor, usually of the Royal Navy.

  NICK: a police station or prison or to arrest or to steal.

  NICKED: arrested or stolen.

  OLD BAILEY: Central Criminal Court, in Old Bailey, London.

  ON THE GAME: leading a life of prostitution.

  OX AND BUCKS: Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry.

  PICCADILLY WINDOW: a monocle.

  PIMP: a prostitute’s ‘minder’.

  POLICE GAZETTE: official nationwide publication listing wanted persons, etc.

  PROSS: a prostitute.

  PROVOST, the: military police.

  QUID: £1 sterling.

  RAGTIME GIRL: a sweetheart; a girl with whom one has a joyous time; a harlot.

  RECEIVER, The: senior Scotland Yard official responsible for the finances of the Metropolitan Police.

  ROSIE: tea (rhyming slang: Rosie Lee).

  ROYAL A: informal name for the A or Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police.

  SALLY ANNE: the Salvation Army.

  SAM BROWNE: a military officer’s belt with shoulder strap.

  SAUSAGE AND MASH: cash (rhyming slang).

  SCREWING: engaging in sexual intercourse.

  SDI: sub-divisional inspector.

  SHILLING: now 5p.

  SILK, a: a King’s Counsel (a senior barrister) from the silk gowns they wear.

  SKIP or SKIPPER: an informal police alternative to station-sergeant, clerk-sergeant and sergeant.

  SMOKE, The: London.

  SOMERSET HOUSE: formerly the records office of births, deaths and marriages for England & Wales.

  SOV or SOVEREIGN: one pound sterling.

  SPALPEEN: a rascal; a worthless fellow.

  SWADDY: a soldier (ex Hindi).

  TITFER: a hat (rhyming slang: tit for tat).

  TOM: a prostitute.

  TOMFOOLERY: jewellery (rhyming slang).

  TOMMING: pursuing a life of prostitution.

  TOMMY or TOMMY ATKINS: a British soldier. The name ‘Tommy Atkins’ was used as an example on early army forms.

  TOPPED: murdered or hanged.

  TOPPING: a murder or hanging.

  TOUCH OF THE VAPOURS, a: to be overcome with faintness.

  TRICK, a: a prostitute’s client.

  TRICK, to turn a: to engage in sexual intercourse.

  TUMBLE, a: sexual intercourse.

  UNDERGROUND, The: London Underground railway system.

  UP THE SPOUT: pregnant.

  UP THE DUFF: pregnant.

  WAR HOUSE: army officers’ slang for the War Office.

  WAR OFFICE: Department of State overseeing the army. (Now a part of the Min
istry of Defence.)

  WIPERS: Army slang for Ypres in Belgium, scene of several fierce Great War battles.

  ONE

  A Zeppelin hovered over central London. But the moderate south-east wind was not strong enough to move the clouds, and the visibility was so poor that the huge menacing shape of the giant airship was invisible to the probing searchlights on Apsley Gate. Only the steady throb of its four 210-horse-power Maybach engines could he heard in the streets below. And it was raining.

  It was five past ten on the night of Sunday the 24th of September 1916. The Great War had been in progress for just over two years, and the nation was still reeling from the losses on the first day of the Battle of the Somme: 58,000 casualties of which a third were dead.

  The maroons, warning of an air raid, had been set off thirty minutes earlier from the nearby fire station in Greycoat Place. At the time, there were thirteen people in the old Victorian house at 143 Washbourne Street; it was perhaps fortunate that there were not more.

  When the alert had sounded, a few of the residents had made for the basement of the four-storied dwelling. Others, some in nightclothes with just an overcoat or even a blanket around their shoulders, had fled the short distance to Victoria railway station, there to seek sanctuary in the depths of the Underground railway system. Some were clutching their dearest personal possessions; in their haste others had not bothered. A couple of the women were clasping tiny babies each wrapped in a shawl.

  Minutes after the departure of the shelter-seeking inhabitants, the Zeppelin discharged a cluster of bombs intended for the railway station. But they struck the roof of No 143, and penetrated to the third floor before exploding with deadly force. The entire house imploded, sending tons of masonry into the basement. A section of wall fell outwards into the street, and by chance struck a passing telegram delivery boy. He was thrown from his bicycle and died instantly, another casualty of this apparently interminable war.

  The fire brigade crew that arrived minutes later could do little but extinguish the flames. If anyone was buried beneath the piles of rubble, it would need more than the slender resources of the firemen to excavate them. They sent for workmen from the City of Westminster depot. But neither they nor the fire crew held out much hope for any survivors.

  The search operation had continued all night. But by nine o’clock on the Monday morning, when clerks were hurrying to work at the offices in Victoria, seven bodies had been recovered, two of them small children.

  Inspector Jasper Sankey and two constables from Rochester Row police station had been on hand for most of the night to assist in the recovery of the corpses.

  A small knot of sightseers watched the grisly task confronting police and rescue workers. Corralled to one side of this crowd were the lucky residents of number 143 who were congratulating themselves on the wisdom of having taken shelter elsewhere. But delight at their salvation from this latest German atrocity was tinged by the sadness of having lost their homes, all their worldly possessions, and in some cases, their friends.

  ‘Is there anyone from this house who’s an old soldier?’ asked Sankey, addressing the group of survivors. He had a good reason for posing the question.

  ‘Me, sir.’ A man of about forty stepped forward. He was wearing an old tweed jacket over a collarless shirt, and thick flannel trousers. The right arm of the jacket was pinned up. ‘Lost me arm at Festubert last year, guv’nor,’ he explained.

  ‘In that case, you’ll have seen a few dead bodies in your time, I imagine,’ said Sankey.

  ‘Aye, too many, guv’nor, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Albert Jackson, sir. Sergeant in the old Ox and Bucks I was, until I got me Blighty one.’ Jackson tapped the stump inside his empty right sleeve.

  ‘The Ox and Bucks?’ queried Sankey.

  ‘Yes, sir, the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry. Second battalion. Our lot was at Waterloo with the Duke of Wellington, you know.’

  ‘Were they indeed?’ Sankey was not greatly interested in the history of Jackson’s former regiment. ‘Would you be prepared to come with me to the mortuary to identify these people, Mr Jackson?’ He pointed at the departing lorry on to which the dead and disfigured bodies from the house had been loaded. And the one body of the telegram boy.

  ‘Might as well,’ said Jackson. ‘I’ve got bugger all else to do.’ He took a pipe from his jacket pocket, and adroitly filled it from a pouch. ‘Learned a few one-handed tricks since Fritz took me arm off, guv’nor,’ he added with a grin. ‘Case of having to. Still, I was one of the lucky ones, I s’pose. Could’ve been blinded or lost me legs like some poor buggers.’

  ‘D’you know the people who lived there?’ Sankey nodded towards the ruined house. With four floors housing separate families, it suddenly occurred to him that Jackson might not know them all.

  ‘Yes, I do. Most of the menfolk are away at the Front, see, and I try to keep an eye open for the wives and their bairns. In case there’s anything I can do, like. Amazing, ain’t it? The wives are expecting to hear their husbands have copped it, but now it’s the other way round.’

  ‘How many people were living in the house, Mr Jackson?’

  ‘Thirteen all up, Inspector.’

  ‘We’ve recovered seven bodies from the basement,’ said Sankey. ‘Plus the telegram lad, but he wasn’t in the house.’

  ‘That don’t add up, guv’nor,’ said Jackson.

  ‘What doesn’t add up? What d’you mean by that?’ Sankey turned to face the old soldier.

  Jackson waved his hand at the small crowd of survivors. ‘There’s seven of us here what lived there, so that makes fourteen in all. One too many, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Perhaps one of them was staying with a relative who lived there,’ suggested Sankey.

  ‘Who’d want to come up to the bloody Smoke with all this going on?’ queried Jackson, shaking his head. ‘They’d have to be raving mad.’

  ‘Anyway, I dare say we’ll sort it out.’ Sankey beckoned to a passing cab, and directed the driver to take him and Jackson to Horseferry Road mortuary. He hoped that he would be able to claim reimbursement of the fare on the grounds that he was escorting a disabled ex-soldier on official business. The Metropolitan Police was extremely parsimonious when it came to expenses.

  As befitted an old soldier who had seen too many dead bodies, Albert Jackson displayed no emotion as he surveyed the victims of the air raid. For a moment or two, he just stood silently, wondering, yet again, what was to be achieved by such a pointless loss.

  One by one he put names to each of them. Except for one. The exception was a young woman, probably in her twenties and who, compared with the others, was almost unscathed.

  ‘Dunno who she is,’ said Jackson, ‘but I reckon she died of the shock. It happens, you know, guv’nor. I’ve seen it in the trenches.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Sankey, who had dealt with air raid victims on all too many occasions. ‘And you’re sure you’ve no idea who she is.’

  ‘Positive, guv’nor. Never set eyes on her till now. She certainly don’t live at one-forty-three.’

  Inspector Sankey was now faced with a problem. If the dead woman had been a visitor to the ruined house, and had been staying with a family that had been killed, the chances of identifying her were considerably lessened. And that meant it would not be possible to inform her family. Not that it would be the first time that an air raid victim had been buried in an unmarked grave.

  It was now eleven o’clock on the Monday morning, and Sankey had been on duty for thirteen hours. But there was still work to be done.

  He made his way to the Royal Horticultural Society hall in Vincent Square where the newly homeless of the Washbourne Street bombing were being given temporary shelter.

  He found the disconsolate group in a corner of the large hall. Those who had made for the railway station in their nightclothes were now dressed in a variety of clothing provided for them by t
he Salvation Army.

  ‘I’m Inspector Sankey of Rochester Row police station,’ he announced.

  Seeing the policeman’s drawn face, and his torn and dust-covered uniform, a young woman in ‘Sally Ann’ uniform handed him a cup of tea. ‘I reckon you could do with that, Inspector,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, miss.’ Sankey took a sip of the scalding liquid, and returned his gaze to the Washbourne Street survivors. ‘We found the body of a young woman in the basement of your house,’ he began, ‘but Mr Jackson couldn’t identify her.’

  ‘Never seen her before,’ said Jackson.

  ‘She appeared to be in her early twenties with long brown hair. She was wearing a fancy red cotton blouse, a black skirt to about mid-calf, and high, black, laced boots. Do any of you know this woman? Or had any of you seen her at all?’

  There was a brief babble of conversation among the survivors, but eventually it was obvious that none of them was able to help.

  Sankey decided that he had done enough, and could safely leave it to others to find out the name of the young female victim.

  At eight o’clock on Thursday morning, Divisional Detective Inspector Ernest Hardcastle walked into the front office of Cannon Row police station. Built to the plans of Norman Shaw, the station and the daunting structure of New Scotland Yard opposite had been built of granite quarried from Dartmoor by prisoners from the nearby prison.

  ‘All correct, sir,’ said the station officer, his four-bar chevrons indicating that he was a station-sergeant.

  Hardcastle grunted an acknowledgement. He was always irritated that the regulations required junior officers to report thus, whether all was correct or not.

  The station officer placed the crime book on the desk, opened it and stood back to allow Hardcastle to sit down. The DDI put on his spectacles, and glanced quickly through the night’s entries. Two pickpockets had been detained outside Buckingham Palace the previous evening, a burglar had been arrested during the night in Grosvenor Place, and a man had been caught stealing a bicycle in Waterloo Place.

  Deciding that none of these crimes required his immediate attention, Hardcastle stood up and walked upstairs to his office.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Detective Sergeant Charles Marriott stood at the door of the detectives’ office. As the first-class sergeant, he was in charge of the junior Cannon Row detectives, and was the officer that Hardcastle favoured to assist him in any investigation that was assigned to him. ‘Mr Hudson wishes to see you straight away, sir.’