Hardcastle's Traitors by Graham Ison

up the ring.
    â€˜Oh my oath! Who done for him, then?’
    â€˜That’s what I’m trying to find out, Harris,’ said Hardcastle.
    â€˜Well, don’t look at me, Mr ’Ardcastle. I was celebrating the New Year in here.’ Harris gave a nervous laugh.
    Hardcastle laughed outright. ‘That’s the first time in your life you’ve ever had a watertight alibi, Harris.’
    â€˜So, Gosling was a fence, sir,’ said Marriott, when he and the DDI were in a cab on their way back to Cannon Row.
    â€˜Comes as no surprise, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But it makes our job that much harder.’
    â€˜It could be that the man who tried to fence the ring with Parfitt was the man who topped Gosling, sir.’
    â€˜Maybe,’ said Hardcastle thoughtfully. ‘A fence makes all sorts of enemies. On the other hand, he might’ve got the ring from whoever did the deed. But any way up he’s got some questions to answer when we do find him. And we will.’
    And of that, Marriott was in no doubt. ‘But Mr Parfitt said that the man who tried it on with him had a bandaged hand, sir,’ he said.
    â€˜I don’t suppose he’s the only man in London who’s hurt himself, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, and for the remainder of the journey, he remained silent, sunk in deep contemplation.
    Once back at the police station, Hardcastle swept through the front office and bounded up the stairs with an agility that was incompatible with his bulk.
    Throwing open the door of the detectives’ office, he glared round at his staff.
    â€˜Listen carefully. Sergeant Marriott and me have just had a word with Albert Harris in Wandsworth nick. He’s doing a handful for screwing and he told me that Reuben Gosling was a fence, which I’d suspected all along. Yesterday a man tried to fence a ring to Gilbert Parfitt in Vic Street. Catto knows that already. Don’t you, Catto?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜But we know that Harris nicked it in the course of a burglary at Grosvenor Place last October, and finished up in chokey for his pains. Now, for once in your lives you lot are going to pretend to be real detectives and get out on the street. Speak to your informants, if you’ve got any,’ said Hardcastle sarcastically, ‘and find out who else has been fencing bent tom to Gosling. Got it?’
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ chorused the detectives.
    â€˜Well, what are you waiting for,’ said Hardcastle, and returned to his office.
    Moments later, Marriott knocked and entered. ‘I’ve just had a call from Sergeant Glover at the APM’s office, sir.’
    â€˜Don’t tell me, Marriott, they can’t find Tindall.’
    â€˜On the contrary, sir. Glover said that the APM has urgent information for you, if you’d care to call in next time you’re passing.’
    â€˜We’ll be passing in about ten minutes’ time,’ said Hardcastle, donning his Chesterfield overcoat and seizing his hat and umbrella. ‘Come, Marriott.’
    â€˜Second Lieutenant George Tindall of the Royal Field Artillery has disappeared, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Frobisher.
    â€˜Is he missing in action, sir?’ asked Marriott.
    â€˜No, he’s absent without leave. That’s how we were able to get an answer so quickly. Sergeant Glover always looks at the list of absentees and deserters whenever you make an enquiry, Inspector.’ Frobisher glanced at Hardcastle with a half-smile on his face. ‘I think he’s formed the view that anyone in whom you have an interest is a criminal of some sort.’
    â€˜Your Sergeant Glover’s obviously a shrewd fellow; you might even make a policeman of him one day,’ said Hardcastle drily. ‘What more do you know, Colonel?’
    â€˜Apparently things were a bit quiet on Christmas Day in that theatre of the Front covered by Colonel Powell’s