Hardcastle's Soldiers by Graham Ison

‘What the blue blazes does he know about warfare?’ Squires was the red-faced and self-opinionated grocer whose shop was at the end of Kennington Road, and which was patronized by Alice Hardcastle.
    â€˜And he says that those tanks they had at the Somme would be the weapon of the future, with no more men dying in the trenches.’
    â€˜Does he indeed?’ said Hardcastle. ‘Well, my girl, Field Marshal Haig reckons that once this war is over, tanks will be done with, and aeroplanes, too, I wouldn’t wonder. He said that the army will use cavalry again in the future, and as he’s a field marshal, I should think he knows more about it than Mr Squires the grocer.’
    A fretful Hardcastle had spent Sunday reading the
News
of the World
, and mooning about the house, occasionally doing the various odd jobs that Alice had lined up for him.
    When Monday morning came, he could not get to work fast enough, and arrived at the police station at eight o’clock.
    Following his usual practice, he sat down at the station officer’s desk and examined the crime book.
    â€˜The winter patrols nicked a couple of tea leaves breaking into a house in Esterbrooke Street, sir,’ said the station officer. ‘DS Wood’s dealing with them. Up at Bow Street Court this morning.’
    â€˜Good,’ said Hardcastle, idly wondering why aspirant detectives continued to be called winter patrols in the height of summer. Satisfied that none of the other entries in the crime book were of immediate interest to him, he stood up.
    â€˜Another raid on Saturday, sir,’ said the station officer. ‘One of our lads brought down a Fritz bomber. Landed in the grounds of the Bethlehem Hospital in Lambeth Road, so I heard.’
    â€˜I know. I saw it when I was on my way home,’ said Hardcastle curtly, and went upstairs to his office, calling for Marriott on the way.
    â€˜Did you hear about the raid on Saturday, sir? Must’ve been about the time you left.’
    â€˜Yes, I saw it, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle wearily. He could envisage a day of people asking the same question.
    Unabashed, Marriott continued. ‘The bomber was brought down on L Division’s ground apparently, sir. I hope it wasn’t anywhere near your house.’
    â€˜No, it wasn’t,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and I can tell you that Mrs Hardcastle would’ve been extremely annoyed if it had been. She had the curtains down last week and washed them.’ And following that somewhat lame attempt at humour, the DDI took out his pipe and began to fill it. ‘We’ll get off down to Aldershot, then, Marriott, and see what these leery soldiers have got to tell us about the mystery of their missing kit.’
    Hardcastle, a stickler for timekeeping, had ensured that he and Marriott arrived at Aldershot railway station at ten minutes to ten. Once again a military police corporal was waiting with a staff car, and, at ten o’clock precisely, Hardcastle and Marriott walked into Captain McIntyre’s office at Salamanca Barracks.
    â€˜I’ve arranged for you to meet Lieutenant Colonel Valentine Fuller at a quarter to eleven, Inspector. He’s the commanding officer of the battalion where Stacey is undergoing training. In the meantime, gentlemen, perhaps you’d care for a cup of coffee.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ said Hardcastle. He did not want a cup of coffee, and would much have preferred to get on with the job. As a seasoned detective, he knew that the farther away one got from a crime, the less chance there was of solving it. It seemed to him that the army was a bit lackadaisical in its approach, and he hoped that it adopted a more purposeful attitude to prosecuting the war on the other side of the Channel. But he should have known that was the case; senior officers at Scotland Yard never seemed to possess the same urgency as those in the front line of policing.
    Once the unnecessary