Free Hardcastle's Soldiers by Graham Ison Page A

with young Stacey, and see if he ever lost any keys.’
    When Marriott returned, he said, ‘He’ll let us know as soon as possible, guv’nor.’
    â€˜You didn’t say anything about Mr Fitman’s murder of a prostitute at Kingston, I hope.’
    Marriott grinned. ‘No, sir. It doesn’t do to tell these military policemen too much.’
    â€˜True,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Before we know where we are, he’ll be trying to solve it for us. And there’s nothing worse than having these amateur coppers interfering in a murder. Mind you, it could be worse; at least we haven’t got MI5 poking their noses in.’ The DDI still resented the interference of MI5 when he was trying to solve a murder last year, and he still blamed them for attempting to draw him away from the real killer.
    â€˜It strikes me, sir, that someone at Buller Barracks purloined the cap, tunic and trousers for the purpose of carrying out the robbery and murder at Victoria. The puzzle is why did he then go on to murder a tom.’
    â€˜If it was the same man, Marriott.’
    â€˜Bit of a coincidence if it wasn’t, sir.’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Hardcastle thoughtfully, ‘and I don’t like coincidences. But it’s no coincidence that Ivy Huggins plied her trade in Richmond Road within spitting distance of the bakery where Stacey worked before the army grabbed him.’ He placed his pipe in the ashtray, and rubbed his hands together. ‘On second thoughts, Marriott, we’ll go back to the barracks and make a few enquiries of our own.’
    â€˜D’you want me to let Captain McIntyre know, sir?’
    â€˜No, I don’t, Marriott. I think we’ll make our own way. I reckon that RSM Punchard is about the only bloke down there who knows what’s going on.’

SIX
    O bserving Hardcastle’s immaculate appearance, bowler hat and tightly rolled umbrella, the cab driver at Aldershot Station leaped from his taxi, and opened the door.
    â€˜Buller Barracks guardroom, cabbie,’ said Hardcastle.
    â€˜Off to the Front to give old Fritz a thrashing, sir?’ asked the driver.
    â€˜No,’ said Hardcastle, ‘I’ve come to sort out the British Army.’
    â€˜Blimey!’ exclaimed the driver, thinking that he must have a general in his cab.
    The guardroom at Buller Barracks appeared to have been built along the lines of an Indian bungalow, complete with a veranda. A smartly dressed sergeant stood in front of the door at the top of a short flight of steps, a brassard on his right arm bearing the letters ‘RP’. A cross-strap from his right shoulder to his left hip supported the weight of the revolver on his belt. Sighting Hardcastle alighting from his cab, the sergeant snapped to attention and saluted.
    â€˜Can I help you, sir?’ he asked.
    â€˜I’d like a word with RSM Punchard,’ said Hardcastle.
    â€˜Very good, sir. Who shall I say it is?’
    â€˜Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police.’
    â€˜Ah, right, guv’nor,’ said the regimental police sergeant, relaxing now that he knew Hardcastle was not an army officer. ‘Shan’t keep you a tick,’ he added, and went into the guardroom. Shortly afterwards a soldier came out and doubled across to the headquarters block. ‘I’ve sent a runner for him, gents. Doubtless, Mr Punchard will be with you directly.’
    Five minutes later, the ramrod figure of the regimental sergeant-major came marching towards the two civil police officers.
    â€˜Good day to you, Mr Hardcastle, and what can I do for you?’ Punchard noticed that the regimental provost sergeant was listening. ‘You can stop earwigging, Sarn’t Webster. Get about your duties a bit
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. And if you mention to anyone that I’ve had a visit from the civil police, I’ll have them tapes off your arm quicker than you can ask the way to