Free Hardcastle's Obsession by Graham Ison Page B

trains.’
    ‘I know, Ernie, and one of them got topped a week ago. What d’you want from me?’
    ‘Enough officers to arrest the bloody lot of them at nine o’clock tonight, Frank. I’m going to give them a talking-to. One of them must know something. Once you’ve got ’em rounded up, I’d be obliged if you’d have ’em put in the yard here at Cannon Row. I’m arranging for Harry Marsh at Rochester Row to lend a hand, so there should be enough men to make sure we catch the bloody lot of ’em.’
    ‘I’ll do my best, Ernie,’ said Tunnicliffe, and turned to examine the duty state on his desk.
    Finally, as a matter of courtesy, Hardcastle reported to Superintendent Arthur Hudson, A Division’s commander, and explained what he was doing.
    ‘Seems a bit drastic, Ernie,’ said Hudson, ‘but if you think it’s the only way, so be it.’ The superintendent had great faith in his head of detectives and, although his methods were at times unorthodox, they frequently achieved the desired result.
    Hardcastle downed his second lunchtime pint of beer, and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand.
    ‘I think that now would be a good time to pay Annie Kelly’s parents a visit, Marriott, and give them the sad news about their daughter.’
    ‘Have we got time, sir?’
    ‘Of course we have, Marriott. The uniforms won’t round up our toms until nine o’clock, and Greenwich ain’t that far.’
    ‘I thought I recognized this place,’ said Hardcastle, as the cab stopped in Nelson Street. ‘We came looking for Albert North here about three or four months ago. It was there,’ he added, pointing at the gap in the houses where once number 12 had stood.
    ‘It was the night we nearly copped it by the land mine that destroyed it, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Lucky we were in the Goose and Duck,’ he added, naming the pub at the corner of the street.
    Hardcastle rapped loudly on the door of number 27.
    ‘Yes, what is it?’ A careworn woman wearing an apron opened the door, and stared suspiciously at the two men on her doorstep. ‘If it’s the rent you’re after, I ain’t got it.’ She spoke with a distinct Irish accent.
    ‘We’re police officers, madam.’ Hardcastle raised his hat. ‘Mrs Kelly, is it?’
    ‘Yes, I’m Mrs Kelly. Whatever’s wrong?’
    ‘Perhaps we could come in, madam,’ said Hardcastle.
    After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs Kelly opened the door wide to admit the two detectives, and conducted them into the parlour.
    ‘I’m afraid we’ve got bad news for you, Mrs Kelly,’ Hardcastle began. He was not good at telling relatives of the death of a loved one. ‘It’s your daughter Annie. I’m afraid she’s dead.’
    ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God!’ exclaimed Mrs Kelly, and collapsed into a chair.
    The door of the parlour was flung open, and a large man stood on the threshold. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded aggressively. ‘And who might you be?’ He glared at the two policemen.
    ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, sir. I take it you’re Mr Kelly.’
    ‘I’m Patrick Kelly, yes.’ Kelly stepped across to his wife. ‘Maureen, whatever is it?’
    But it was Hardcastle who provided the answer. ‘I’m afraid your daughter’s dead, Mr Kelly,’ he said.
    ‘Glory be to God! May the Lord have mercy on her soul. What happened, Inspector?’
    As briefly as possible, Hardcastle summarized what the police knew of the death of the Kellys’ daughter.
    ‘What was she doing in the basement of a house in . . . where was it you said?’
    ‘Washbourne Street, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘It’s in Victoria, not far from the railway station.’
    ‘But what was she doing there? She had good post as a housemaid with a family in Ebury Street.’
    This, Hardcastle knew, was going to be the difficult part. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mr Kelly, that your daughter had been soliciting prostitution in the Victoria area, and she’d been