Hardcastle's Frustration Read Free Page A

and stood up. ‘We’ll have a trip to Kingston while we’re waiting for Dr Spilsbury to come up with some answers. See what Parker’s employers have got to say. Then we’ll have a chat with this here Daisy Benson and find out if she’s got anything useful to tell us.’ He paused in the act of donning his overcoat. ‘How do we get there?’
    â€˜Train from Waterloo station, sir.’ Marriott sighed inwardly. Hardcastle was playing his usual trick of pretending not to know. But Marriott was fairly certain that the DDI could not have forgotten that they had frequently travelled to Kingston two years ago when investigating the murder of Colonel Sir Adrian Rivers.
    â€˜Ah yes, I suppose so,’ said Hardcastle.
    â€˜D’you know where the Kingston upon Thames Gas Company’s got its offices, cabbie?’ asked Hardcastle, addressing the driver of the first cab on the rank outside Kingston railway station.
    â€˜Of course I do, guv’nor,’ said the cabbie, yanking down the flag of his taximeter. ‘It’s in Horse Fair.’
    â€˜Damn funny name for a street,’ muttered Hardcastle, as he and Marriott clambered into the taxi.
    It was only a short journey and the cab stopped outside offices that were close to Kingston Bridge.
    A young woman seated at a desk looked up as Hardcastle and Marriott approached her. ‘If you’ve come to pay a bill, it’s over there,’ she said curtly, pointing her pencil at a grilled counter where a short queue of people was waiting.
    â€˜I’ve not come to pay a bill,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘We’re police officers and I’m here to see the manager. Be so good as to direct me to his office, young woman.’
    â€˜One moment.’ With a toss of her head, the woman rose from her desk and walked the short distance to an oaken door. Knocking, she went in, returning moments later. ‘Come this way.’
    The manager, who appeared to be in his sixties, rose from his desk. One hand brushed at his heavy moustache, the other played with the albert stretched between his waistcoat pockets. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I’m Frank Harvey, the manager.’ He indicated two upright chairs. ‘Please sit down.’
    â€˜I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, Mr Harvey, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott. I understand that Ronald Parker is a member of your staff.’
    â€˜Ah!’ The manager leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘It’s interesting that the police are taking an interest. What can you tell me about him?’
    â€˜It’s more a case of what you can tell me, Mr Harvey.’
    â€˜He didn’t report for work on Friday or Saturday. There was no explanation, no sick note, nothing. It’s most irregular and extremely unusual in Parker’s case. I did wonder whether he’d been caught up in an air raid somewhere and is in hospital. One can never tell these days. I sent one of my clerks to his home, but he received no answer. Parker’s neighbour said that Mrs Parker is working for the war effort somewhere, but she declined to reveal where. She said it had something to do with national security.’
    â€˜Sounds like a shrewd woman,’ commented Hardcastle. ‘In what capacity is this here Parker employed, Mr Harvey?’
    â€˜He is the chief clerk,’ said Harvey, ‘but might I enquire why you’re interested in Mr Parker, Inspector? Are you searching for him, perhaps?’
    â€˜We’ve found him,’ said Hardcastle bluntly. ‘He’s dead.’
    â€˜Good heavens!’ Harvey stared at the inspector open-mouthed and fiddled with his watch chain again. ‘When did this happen?’
    â€˜We’re not sure, although the pathologist might be able to tell us, once he’s completed the post-mortem examination. However, I can tell you that his body