Hardcastle's Frustration Read Online Free PDF Page A

that would have exempted him from military service.’
    â€˜Yes, sir, that’s true. He wasn’t a well man and he’d been before a tribunal once before, but a couple of weeks ago he’d been called back for another examination. He was worried that this time they’d pass him fit. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go; he just thought that his health wouldn’t stand up to being in the trenches. One hears such terrible stories about what it’s like out there.’
    â€˜So I believe.’ Hardcastle had witnessed some of the results of total war during his visit to the Belgian town of Poperinge eighteen months previously. He would never forget seeing badly wounded soldiers at the railway station, lying on stretchers in the open air, awaiting evacuation. ‘Well, I think that’s all, Mrs Parker. You have my sympathy,’ he muttered as a gruff afterthought; he was not good at expressing words of condolence.
    â€˜You’d better take the rest of the day off, Mrs Parker,’ said Quilter. ‘In fact, take as much time as you need. I’ll get one of the other women to see you home.’ He glanced at his secretary. ‘Perhaps you’d arrange that, Miss Douglas.’
    â€˜Yes, Mr Quilter,’ said his secretary.
    â€˜Thank you, sir.’ Mavis Parker glanced at the works manager, but said nothing to Hardcastle.
    â€˜I may need to see you again, Mrs Parker,’ said the DDI. ‘What time d’you normally finish work?’ He had been told by Martha Middleton, Mrs Parker’s neighbour, but as usual was confirming the information he had received.
    â€˜Six o’clock, sir,’ said Mavis Parker.
    â€˜A bad business, Inspector,’ said Quilter, once Mrs Parker had been escorted from the office by Miss Douglas. ‘D’you think he committed suicide?’
    â€˜I have no idea at this stage, Mr Quilter,’ said Hardcastle, well knowing that it was murder.
    â€˜What time is it, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle, when the two officers were back at the main gate of the factory.
    â€˜A quarter past four, sir,’ said Marriott, wondering why the DDI had not looked at his own watch, but dismissed it as another of Hardcastle’s little perversities.
    â€˜I see you’ve still got that wristwatch, Marriott. I’m surprised you haven’t knocked it off on something.’ Hardcastle, attached as he was to his half-hunter, could not understand the modern trend of wearing a watch attached to the wrist by a strap.
    â€˜Yes, sir, and it keeps good time.’
    â€˜So does mine,’ muttered Hardcastle, declining to become embroiled in a debate about the relative merits of watches. ‘What was the address on that letter that was found on Parker’s body?’
    Marriott took out his pocket book and glanced at it. He had made notes of the letter, knowing that Hardcastle would, sooner or later, want to know the details.
    â€˜Gordon Road, sir, and it was a woman called Daisy Benson who wrote the letter.’
    â€˜So she did,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I wonder how far that is.’ He turned to the policeman standing guard. ‘Where’s Gordon Road, lad?’
    â€˜Turn right into Queen Elizabeth Road, sir,’ said the PC, pointing off to his left, ‘then go under the railway bridge and it’s the first turning on the left. It’s not much of a stride, sir. Less than half a mile, I should think.’
    It took the two detectives just under ten minutes to find the address. The detached house was similar to the one in which the Parkers lived, except that Daisy Benson’s house had two windows on the upper floor and the door was on the front rather than at the side.
    The woman who answered Hardcastle’s knock looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Attired in a dress that revealed a good twelve inches of well-turned ankles, she had dispensed with a chemisette thus