Hardcastle's Obsession Read Free Page B

missing persons who fit the description of our body.’
    ‘Anything for me, sir?’ asked Marriott.
    ‘Yes. Ask Mrs Cartwright if she can rustle up a couple of cups of tea, Marriott. Then we’ll sit down and put our thinking caps on.’

TWO
    ‘ H ow’s your boy Jack, Mrs Cartwright?’ asked Hardcastle, as the station matron set down her tray and placed two cups of tea on the DDI’s desk.
    ‘He was all right the last time I heard from him, sir, thank you. He’s a lance-bombardier now.’ Mrs Cartwright was proud of her son who had been serving with the Royal Garrison Artillery since the outbreak of the war. ‘I managed to get some of your favourites,’ she added, putting a plate of ginger snaps on the desk.
    ‘Well done, Mrs C,’ said Hardcastle, and dropped three pennies on the tray.
    ‘Thank you, sir.’ Mrs Cartwright scooped up the coins and put them in the pocket of her overall coat.
    ‘Where’s your lad stationed now, Mrs C?’
    ‘I don’t rightly know, sir, except that he’s somewhere in France or Belgium, I suppose. He’s not allowed to say exactly where in his letters. I know he tries to tell me, but sometimes they arrive with whole bits blacked out.’
    ‘That’ll be the censor’s work,’ said Hardcastle. ‘It’s in case old Fritz happens to read the lad’s letters, so the censor’s making sure your boy doesn’t accidentally tell the enemy anything.’
    ‘I s’pose so, sir,’ said Mrs Cartwright, failing to understand how the Germans could possibly read her son’s letters home. Picking up the tray she went on her way.
    ‘Well now, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, dunking a ginger snap in his tea. ‘What are we going to do about this here murder of ours?’
    Marriott was tempted say ‘Wait and see’, but he knew that was not the answer his chief wanted. ‘Is it possible that she was staying with one of the deceased, sir?’ he asked tentatively.
    ‘It’s possible, Marriott, but I doubt we’ll ever know now. Anyway, that don’t help us to identify her. She could’ve come from anywhere.’ Hardcastle found the prospect of investigating the unknown’s murder a daunting task, but he was not about to admit it to his sergeant.
    ‘I suppose the birthmark on her leg might help, sir.’
    Hardcastle shook his head. ‘It’s a dog’s dinner, Marriott,’ he said, using one of his favourite expressions to describe a difficult enquiry, although this was sometimes varied to ‘a dog’s breakfast’. ‘We’d better see what Catto and his colleagues turn up, I suppose, if anything. There are times when I think that Catto needs a squib up his arse, Marriott. You really need to get a hold of him.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott, but forbore from further comment. He knew that DC Henry Catto was a good detective, and it was only when he was in the DDI’s presence that he seemed to become bereft of his confidence.
    For the remainder of the morning, Hardcastle toyed with his detectives’ reports. Some he accepted, some he sent back with acerbic pencilled comments in the margin for alteration, and others he rejected outright.
    At one o’clock, he again summoned Marriott. ‘Time you bought me a pint, Marriott,’ he said, and together they adjourned to the downstairs bar of the Red Lion. That Marriott should pay was one of the DDI’s jokes; Hardcastle never paid for his beer in the Red Lion.
    The public house was conveniently situated on the corner of Parliament Street and Derby Gate, just outside the Whitehall entrance to New Scotland Yard. As usual, their lunch consisted of a fourpenny cannon and two pints of best bitter.
    ‘And now, Marriott, we’ll go round to Washbourne Street, and have a dekko at the scene of this here crime.’
    The pavement and part of the road in front of 143 Washbourne Street had been barricaded, and a policeman stood guard.
    ‘All correct, sir.’ The PC saluted as he recognized the DDI.
    ‘Doesn’t look like it,’ muttered Hardcastle, gazing at the ruins