Hardcastle's Soldiers by Graham Ison Read Free Book Online

dinner,’ he continued, and relayed the details of his last conversation with the military police officer.
    Marriott was always amused at his chief’s description of any enquiry as a dog’s dinner, although this was sometimes varied to a dog’s breakfast. ‘It looks as though someone stole the cap, the tunic and the trousers so he could carry out the robbery, sir,’ he said, repeating what Hardcastle had said to McIntyre.
    â€˜Yes, it does, but why?’ Hardcastle applied a match to his pipe and leaned back thoughtfully.
    â€˜Perhaps he’s a civilian, sir. Someone who didn’t want to be recognized among all the other soldiers at the railway station.’
    Hardcastle scoffed at that suggestion. ‘If some civilian can walk into a barracks in time of war and steal bits of uniform, it don’t say much for their security. No, Marriott, it’s got to have been a soldier. But it was obviously a soldier who didn’t know that Stacey would have a copper-bottomed alibi for the time of the murder.’
    â€˜I agree, sir, but apart from anything else, surely a soldier would’ve saluted an officer – that Lieutenant Mansfield who saw the murderer running away – rather than risk getting caught for something as silly as that after having done a murder, sir.’
    â€˜I’d’ve thought so, Marriott, but like I said, it’s a dog’s dinner. Still, thanks to the military police, there’s nothing we can do until Monday. Take the rest of the weekend off, and give my regards to Mrs Marriott.’
    â€˜Thank you very much, sir.’ It was rare for the DDI not to work right through Saturday and Sunday when he was engaged in a murder enquiry. ‘And mine to Mrs H.’
    Hardcastle did not, however, leave immediately. As usual, he managed to find some reports to scrutinize, criticize and correct, but at about half past two, he descended the stairs and walked through the front office of the police station.
    A police constable was donning a large cardboard placard that read: POLICE NOTICE – TAKE COVER.
    â€˜What’s that all about, lad?’ asked Hardcastle.
    â€˜Air raid, sir,’ said the PC, who thought – although he did not say so – that the placard made perfectly clear what was happening. ‘Didn’t you hear the maroons?’
    â€˜Maroons? What maroons?’
    â€˜Three of them were set off from Southwark Fire Station, sir, at fifteen-second intervals. It’s the new scheme for warning of an air raid. It usually means the raiders are about twenty miles away from us.’
    â€˜Well, I’m going home, lad. Bound to be a false alarm, and we’ve had more than enough of them lately.’
    The PC looked doubtful. ‘You’d be better off staying here in the basement, sir. Much safer, like.’
    â€˜It’ll take more than Fritz in one of his infernal flying machines to stop me from going home, lad, bombs or no bombs,’ said Hardcastle, and donning his bowler hat, he marched purposefully out of the police station.
    â€˜I s’pose being a DDI he thinks he’s exempt from getting killed, Sergeant,’ said the PC to the station officer. ‘His umbrella won’t be much help.’
    â€˜You watch your bloody tongue when you’re talking about Mr Hardcastle, lad,’ said the sergeant. ‘Now get out on the streets, and start blowing your whistle.’

FOUR
    H ardcastle walked out to Victoria Embankment to catch a tram to his home in Kennington. To his surprise there was one waiting at the stop, but it had been abandoned by the driver, the conductor and the passengers, doubtless to seek shelter from the air raid.
    Hearing the deep engine note of an aircraft, he looked up at the sky and saw a huge German Gotha bomber, its distinctive Maltese crosses clearly visible on its vast wings and its tail fin. Well, that took less than twenty minutes to get here, he thought,