Hardcastle's Frustration by Graham Ison Page A

promptly.
    â€˜Yes, I suppose they would,’ said Hardcastle thoughtfully. ‘Where are their offices?’
    â€˜In St James’s Square, sir.’ Marriott knew that the question would be asked at some stage, and had made a point of finding out.
    â€˜Not in Whitehall?’ Hardcastle took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at his sergeant.
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜That’s a damned funny place for a government office to be, Marriott. I thought they were all in Whitehall, but it seems that this war has turned the world upside down. I suppose we’d better have a walk round there and see what they’ve got to say about our Mr Parker. But first, I fancy a glass of ale.’
    The two detectives walked out of the police station into Derby Gate and descended to the downstairs bar of the Red Lion public house.
    â€˜If you’re buying, Marriott, mine’s a pint of best bitter.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ Marriott grinned; he knew that neither he nor the DDI ever paid for their beer in the Red Lion. It was one of the perks they enjoyed as members of the local CID.
    The Ministry of National Service occupied a white three-storied building that had undoubtedly been a fashionable town house before being requisitioned by the government, and had probably been the residence of a well-to-do family. It was evident that some families still lived in the square: straw covered much of the road to deaden the sound of traffic. The Spanish influenza pandemic was taking its toll, but only the more affluent families with sick relatives could afford the luxury of purchasing straw.
    A constable from C Division’s Vine Street police station, posted there to guard the building, stood on the steps, surveying the passing scene with a bored expression on his face.
    â€˜And what would you two gents be wanting with the Ministry of National Service?’ asked the PC as Hardcastle and Marriott mounted the steps. ‘Look a bit too old to join up, I’d’ve thought.’ He laughed at what he thought was a rather clever quip. ‘Anyway this ain’t the place for enlisting.’
    â€˜What I’m doing here is none of your damned business, lad,’ snapped Hardcastle, thrusting his warrant card under the policeman’s nose. ‘DDI Hardcastle of A.’
    â€˜Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir.’ The PC hurriedly assumed a position of attention and saluted. ‘All correct, sir.’
    â€˜Is it indeed?’ demanded Hardcastle. ‘Well, I’ll be having a word with your sub at Vine Street, lad. We’ll see if he thinks it’s all correct. The charge will be either incivility to a member of the public or insubordination to a senior officer. You can take your pick. Make a note of his divisional number, Sergeant.’ And leaving that threat hanging in the air, he pushed open the door. ‘Bloody slackness, that’s what it is, Marriott.’
    â€˜Yes?’ A sickly youth of about twenty, seated at a desk inside the door, looked up as the two detectives entered. He had the surly attitude of someone clothed with a modicum of authority.
    â€˜I’m a police officer and I want to see whoever’s in charge, lad,’ said Hardcastle. ‘And, as a matter of interest, why aren’t you in the army?’
    â€˜I’m in a reserved occupation,’ said the youth sullenly. ‘Anyway, I’ve got adenoids.’
    â€˜Haven’t we all,’ muttered Hardcastle, as the clerk disappeared through a door behind his desk.
    â€˜Come this way,’ said the clerk churlishly, as he reappeared moments later. He gave the impression of being annoyed that someone had got past him.
    An elderly civil servant rose from behind his desk as Hardcastle and Marriott were shown into his stark office. It seemed that His Majesty’s Government was not greatly interested in providing comfortable accommodation for its servants.
    â€˜My name’s