Free Hardcastle's Soldiers by Graham Ison Page B

Wipers.’
    â€˜Sir!’ yelled the abashed Webster, and retreated to the inside of the guardroom.
    â€˜I take it you don’t want your visit here advertised, Mr Hardcastle?’
    â€˜It would be better if it wasn’t,’ said Hardcastle.
    Punchard glanced at his watch. ‘Thirty minutes after twelve pip emma,’ he said. ‘Whatever your business, Mr Hardcastle, I daresay you could stand a wet in the sergeants’ mess before we get down to brass tacks.’
    â€˜Splendid idea,’ said Hardcastle, even more impressed by the RSM’s appreciation of priorities than he had been the first time he met him.
    â€˜I presume the colonel don’t know you’re here.’ Punchard had quickly surmised that Hardcastle’s unannounced arrival at the guardroom, in the absence of Captain McIntyre, meant that few people knew he was there.
    â€˜I certainly didn’t tell him I was coming,’ said Hardcastle, ‘nor Captain McIntyre, but I thought that if I wanted any information, you were the man to talk to.’
    RSM Punchard preened himself slightly. ‘There’s nothing as how goes on in these here barracks that I don’t know about, Mr Hardcastle,’ he said, ‘and that’s a fact.’ And with that pithy comment, he took his pace stick from under his arm, and set off at a brisk pace, followed by the DDI and Marriott.
    Halfway to the mess, Punchard spotted a figure some hundred yards away. ‘That man there!’ he roared, pointing with his pace stick.
    The figure stopped, and came to attention.
    â€˜You’re ambling about like a constipated clergyman. Get into quick time when you’re moving about the barracks.’
    Without further interruption, the RSM and the two policemen arrived at the sergeants’ mess.
    Leaving his cap, pace stick and Sam Browne in the entrance hall, Punchard waited while Hardcastle and Marriott deposited their hats and umbrellas there. He marched into the anteroom and invited the two detectives to take seats at ‘my table’ near the bar. Hardcastle noticed that there was a small card on the table that read ‘RSM’.
    â€˜Well, now, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Punchard, once the steward had served each of them with a pint of beer. ‘What can I do for you?’
    Hardcastle summarized what he knew, so far, of the death of Herbert Somers. He went on to tell the RSM of his theory about the murderer being someone at the barracks who had stolen the items of clothing for the purpose of committing the murders.
    â€˜I hope I can speak to you in confidence, Mr Punchard,’ continued the DDI.
    â€˜Your secret’s safe with me, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Punchard as he drained his pint of beer.
    Hardcastle turned to Marriott. ‘Tell Mr Punchard about the murder at Kingston, Marriott.’
    Marriott told the RSM about the stolen van, taken from a lock-up garage, and that Stacey had previously worked at the bakery from which it had been taken. He also added what was known about the murder of the prostitute Ivy Huggins.
    Punchard beckoned to the steward and ordered three more pints of beer before answering. ‘A pretty kettle of fish, Mr Hardcastle, and that’s a fact. But Stacey couldn’t have done it, as I’m sure you know.’
    â€˜I’ve sent a message to Captain McIntyre asking him to find out if Stacey had lost any keys, as it was his keys that were used to open the garage where the van was kept. But it’ll probably be a few days before I get an answer.’
    Punchard chuckled. ‘Very likely, Mr Hardcastle. But I can get the answer sweated out of the little bastard in seconds. Officers tend to pussyfoot about, if you take my meaning.’ He turned in his seat and crooked a finger at a young lance-sergeant.
    The sergeant was at the RSM’s side in an instant. ‘Yes, sir?’
    â€˜Double across to the guardroom and ask—’ Punchard paused.