Hardcastle's Obsession (10 page)

‘Did he have a moustache or a beard, Ruby?’ asked Marriott, who had started to make notes.

‘He had a moustache, bit like that Lord Kitchener, him in the poster what got drowned a couple of months back, but he never had no beard. Least I don’t think he had. No, I’m sure. He never had no beard.’

‘Has he been with any of the other women, d’you know?’

‘He might’ve, but I . . . oh, hang on though. I think he had a screw with Sarah a couple of times.’

‘Sarah who?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘Sarah Cotton. I think she last went off with him about a week ago. Leastways, that’s when I saw ’em together. He might’ve had her more often, o’course.’

‘Where can I find this Sarah Cotton, Ruby?’ asked Marriott.

‘Down Victoria, I s’pose. She’s back hanging about with us again now, but not that often. I know she tried Shepherd Market up Soho for a spell, but I think she got warned off by one of the other girl’s pimps.’

‘Was Sarah Cotton one of the girls who were brought in tonight, Ruby?’

‘Nah, she was picked up by a swell just before the rozzers got there, and went off in a taxi with him.’

‘Was that the man you mentioned just now?’ asked Marriott.

‘Nah! This one was a different geezer. Bit of a toff, though. Sarah seems to go in for toffs.’

‘When did you last see Annie Kelly, Ruby?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘The Friday afore she got topped, guv’nor, poor bitch,’ said Ruby promptly. ‘About a quarter to nine.’

‘And did she go off with this other man, then? The one with the cane with a dog’s head on it.’

‘She might’ve, ’cos I caught a glim of him chatting to her. But just then I had a trick of me own to do a bit of business with, and I never saw the going of her, nor him. When I got back to me pitch, about ten that would have been, Annie had gone and I never saw her again, poor little cow.’ Ruby emitted a compulsive sob, sniffed loudly and wiped away a tear with the back of her hand.

Hardcastle took the necklace from a drawer and pushed it across the desk. ‘I know Sergeant Marriott showed you this earlier on, but are you quite sure you’ve never seen it before, Ruby?’

Ruby Hoskins picked up the necklace, running it lovingly through her fingers. ‘Not that I can recall,’ she said.

‘You didn’t see Annie Kelly ever wearing it?’

‘No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t mind having that round me neck and that’s a fact, but it looks too bloody expensive for the likes of us. What’s it worth.’

‘About three hundred and fifty sovs,’ volunteered Marriott.

‘Cor blimey!’ exclaimed Ruby. ‘D’you reckon some trick give it her, like this toff what she was seeing?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Marriott.

‘So do I,’ scoffed Ruby. ‘I’d love to find a trick what’d give me something like that. Some hopes.’

‘All right, Ruby,’ said Hardcastle, taking back the necklace. ‘As soon as you see Sarah Cotton, tell her I want a word with her. I don’t want to go looking for her, but let her know she’s not in any trouble.’

‘Righto, Mr H.’ Ruby turned to the handsome Marriott and winked. ‘Ta for the fag, mister,’ she said.

‘One other thing, Ruby. Did you ever hear Annie mention a man called Seamus Riley?’

Ruby frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so. Why? D’you think it was him what done for her?’

‘I don’t know, Ruby. I’m afraid he could be one of many she went with.’ Hardcastle glanced at his watch as Ruby Hoskins swept out of the office. ‘It’s gone ten o’clock, Marriott,’ he said. ‘I think we’ll call it a day. See you first thing tomorrow.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said the grateful Marriott as he rose to leave. He had thought that Hardcastle was about to embark on what Parliament called an all-night sitting. Not that it would have been the first time.

At nine o’clock on Tuesday morning Detective Sergeant Wood was keeping observation in Vauxhall Bridge Road. He had stationed himself by a tram stop on the opposite side of the road from the offices of Naylor Clothiers Ltd, and, trying to look nonchalant, was reading a newspaper.

At ten o’clock precisely a yellow Rolls Royce Silver Ghost drew up outside the offices. For a moment or two, Wood admired the beautiful vehicle and knew, from his interest in motor cars, that it would have cost somewhere in the order of twelve hundred pounds. It was a sum that the detective sergeant could not even begin to visualize, equal as it was to at least ten years of his pay.

A chauffeur leaped from the driving seat, opened the passenger door of the limousine, and doffed his cap, all in one practised movement.

The man who alighted from the car had a moustache similar to that of the late Earl Kitchener, and carried a cane. Although Wood was able to see that he wore an albert, it was not possible for him to see any device that might have been attached to it, but overall the man fitted the description given to Hardcastle by Ruby Hoskins.

Waiting until the man had entered the offices, Wood folded his newspaper and strolled across the road.

‘Lovely car,’ he said to the chauffeur, surveying the vehicle with an admiring gaze. ‘Must be a pleasure to drive.’

‘It is, mate. Unfortunately it doesn’t get to be driven far. Needs a good blow out up somewhere like the Great North Road. Not that the boss likes me going too fast.’

‘Don’t you have to drive your guv’nor far, then?’

‘Far?’ The chauffeur scoffed. ‘I don’t call bringing him from Grosvenor Gardens to Vauxhall Bridge Road every morning and back again every night much of a journey. And of course, he goes to the Carlton Club for lunch. Every bloody day,’ he added with a sigh. ‘But on Wednesdays he tells me to clear off of a night. He says he’s going somewhere and he’ll take a taxi home because he don’t know what time he’ll finish. Then every weekend it’s down to Kingsley Hall of a Friday and back again Monday, regular as clockwork. Oh, but he did go to Brighton once for a dirty weekend.’

‘Could be worse, mate,’ said Wood with a laugh. ‘You could be driving a bus up to the front line in Flanders.’

‘Yeah, true enough,’ said the chauffeur. ‘Got to be grateful for small mercies, I suppose. Anyhow, better go and fill her up,’ he added, starting the engine. ‘This old lady drinks more petrol than my old man drank beer, and that’s saying something, believe me.’

As the Rolls Royce drove away, Wood took a note of the registration mark, and made his way back to Cannon Row.

Hardcastle listened carefully to Wood’s report. ‘You’ve checked the registration, I suppose.’

‘Yes, sir. The car is registered to Sir Royston Naylor at this address in Grosvenor Gardens,’ said Wood, handing a piece of paper to the DDI.

‘Right. Get one of the DCs down to Victoria to find this here Sarah Cotton, and bring her back here. I told that Ruby Hoskins I wanted to see her, but nothing’s come of it; I suppose she hasn’t been about. I’ve hatched a little plan to get Sir Royston Naylor into my police station so that I can have a little chat with him.’

‘D’you reckon Naylor’s your man, sir?’

‘He sounds like what I call a promising runner, Wood.’

‘D’you think this Sarah Cotton will be there at this time of day, sir?’ asked Wood. ‘It’s a bit early. In my experience tarts don’t usually start work before about eight in the evening.’

‘That used to be the case before this scrap with Fritz started, but not any more. If there’s a troop train in the offing these trollops won’t miss a chance to make a few bob, morning, noon or night. And well done, Wood,’ said Hardcastle, for him a rare word of praise.

It had gone two o’clock that same afternoon before DC Catto entered the DDI’s office.

‘I’ve got Sarah Cotton outside, sir.’

‘I’ll see her directly, Catto, but when I’ve finished talking to her I want you to follow her. Find out where she goes, who she meets and where she lives. Stick to her like glue, but be careful not to let her spot you because she knows what you look like. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir. But what if she picks up a trick, sir?’

‘You still follow her, lad. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear.’ Hardcastle sighed with exasperation. ‘Everywhere she goes, you go. That don’t mean you have to go into her room and watch her at work, of course.’ The DDI smiled wryly. ‘That’s one occasion you can use your discretion. If you’ve got any,’ he added caustically. ‘Now send her in. And send in Sergeant Marriott, too.’

‘Sit down, Miss Cotton,’ said Hardcastle, once Marriott had joined them.

Undoubtedly in her twenties, Sarah Cotton had the unmistakable bearing of being superior to the average prostitute, although she had affected apparel suited to her role of streetwalker. Furthermore, Hardcastle subsequently learned that Sarah Cotton was not her real name.

‘What d’you want with me, Inspector?’ Sarah raised her head in an attitude of defiance. Although she contrived a cockney accent there was an underlying suggestion that such a mode of speech was alien to her natural way of talking.

‘How well d’you know Sir Royston Naylor?’ asked Hardcastle, seeing no point in wasting time.

The DDI’s direct approach disconcerted the young prostitute, and for a moment or two she said nothing. ‘I, er, I’ve met him once or twice,’ she said eventually.

‘You mean he’s one of your tricks, Sarah.’

‘If you like. Why d’you want to know?’

‘And it’s usually on a Wednesday that he picks you up,’ said Hardcastle, making another direct statement based on what Naylor’s chauffeur had told DS Wood.

‘Yes, it ’as been the case in the past,’ replied Sarah cautiously. ‘But why d’you want to know about ’im? And why ’ave you brung me in ’ere?’ she asked, deliberately dropping an aspirate or two.

Hardcastle smiled at Sarah’s attempt to do what character actresses called a ‘common’. ‘To give you a word of warning, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Be careful who you go with.’ And with that enigmatic word of advice, he told Marriott to see Sarah Cotton out of the station.

‘By the way, sir,’ said Marriott when he had seen Sarah Cotton on her way. ‘I showed her the necklace, but she said she’d never seen it before.’

‘No more than I expected, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But it’s got to belong to someone.’

‘Perhaps it was the property of one of the victims of the bomb, sir, rather than our murder victim.’

‘Maybe, Marriott, maybe,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but I don’t think any of them living at Washbourne Street could’ve afforded a bit of tomfoolery worth three hundred and fifty quid. And now,’ he added, pulling out his watch and staring at it, ‘I think it’s time we took a turn down to Greenwich High Street, and see what this milkman friend of Annie Kelly’s has to say for himself. What was his name?’

‘Seamus Riley, sir.’

‘So it was. Sounds Irish.’ Hardcastle grabbed his coat, hat and umbrella and made for the door. ‘Well, come along, Marriott, don’t dally.’

Marriott rushed into the detectives’ office, seized his hat and coat, and followed Hardcastle down the stairs.

A man dressed in a blue and white striped apron and a straw boater was standing behind the counter of the dairy when Hardcastle and Marriott entered.

‘A very good afternoon to you, gentlemen, and what can I do for you today?’

‘We’re looking for Seamus Riley,’ said Hardcastle.

‘Oh, are you indeed, and what might you be wanting with him?’

‘We’re police officers,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Who are you?’

‘Cyril Underwood, sir, but I’m afraid you’re out of luck. He’s gone and joined the Riffs.’

‘That’s a tribe in Morocco,’ said Hardcastle, displaying another aspect of his randomly gathered historical knowledge. ‘What’s he doing there, Mr Underwood?’

‘I don’t know if that’s where he is, sir, but it’s what he called the Royal Irish Fusiliers. It seems that Riffs is their nickname, so he said.’

‘I see,’ said Hardcastle, irritated that he had been caught out. ‘And when did he join these here Riffs?’

Underwood thought about that. ‘Must’ve been all of five or six months ago, sir.’

‘And where did he live, before he joined the army?’

‘Now that I can’t tell you, sir. I do know he was a bachelor gay, but I’ve no idea where he was staying. I do remember him telling me that his mother and father were both dead. And he used to tell a story about a brother in the Royal Flying Corps who won the Victoria Cross, but was later shot down by the Red Baron. But I reckon he was bragging. You know what the Irish are like for spinning a yarn.’

‘Thank you, Mr Underwood,’ said Hardcastle, furious at having wasted a journey. ‘It looks like we’re on our way back to Colonel Frobisher at Horse Guards again,’ he added, turning to Marriott.

Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Horse Guards just as the assistant provost marshal was about to leave.

‘You’ve just caught me, Inspector,’ said Frobisher. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’m interested in a man called Seamus Riley, Colonel. I’m told he joined the Royal Irish Fusiliers about six months ago.’

Frobisher burst out laughing. ‘Given that it’s an Irish regiment, Mr Hardcastle, there must be a hundred Seamus Rileys in the Riffs, but I’ll see what I can do for you. Have you any idea where he lived before he enlisted?’

‘I’m afraid not, Colonel. All I can tell you is that he was a delivery man at a dairy in Greenwich before joining the army, and he claimed that his mother and father were both dead.’

‘I see. Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you that it might take some time. The regimental records are kept in Dublin and, as I suggested, it won’t be easy to track down this particular Seamus Riley. I’ll let you know as soon as I have something.’

‘There was one other thing, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle. ‘The dairyman who employed Riley said that Riley claimed to have a brother who won the Victoria Cross while serving with the RFC, but was later shot down by the Red Baron.’

‘Ah, Manfred von Richtofen, the scourge of the Royal Flying Corps,’ said Frobisher. ‘That’ll be easy to check, but I have to say that I’ve not heard of a Riley who got the VC.’