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our Mr Parker was a bit of a Lothario, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle once the two detectives were back at Cannon Row police station. ‘What you might call a gas board Romeo.’ He chuckled at his feeble joke.
    â€˜I don’t really blame him, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘That Daisy Benson is a good-looking woman. Enough to turn any man’s head, I should think.’
    â€˜Yes, and I wonder how many of her paying guests have benefited from her favours.’ Hardcastle scraped out his pipe and put it in his pocket before glancing at his watch. ‘I doubt that we can do much more tonight, Marriott. Take yourself off home; it might be the last early night we have before this case is closed. I’ve a feeling that it’s going to get complicated.’
    â€˜Especially if Parker had more than one lady friend, sir,’ suggested Marriott.
    â€˜Thank you for that helpful comment, Marriott. Go home before you depress me further. And my regards to Mrs Marriott.’
    â€˜Thank you, sir, and mine to Mrs H.’
    Once Marriott had left the station, Hardcastle settled down to deal with his accumulated paperwork. But first he read
Police Orders
, the daily publication that reported all that was happening, and going to happen, in the Metropolitan Police. He noted with a wry smile that a constable in one of the outer divisions had been dismissed after being found drunk and asleep in a wheelbarrow. Such a punishment carried with it the very real possibility that the man concerned would be called up for the army and finish up in the trenches.
    At half past seven, he decided that he had done enough for one day, and donned his overcoat and bowler hat and seized his umbrella.
    But before leaving the station, he looked into the front office. The station sergeant reported that all was correct.
    â€˜Anything happened that’s likely to interest me, Skipper?’ asked Hardcastle.
    â€˜A couple of your lads nicked a pickpocket at the guard change at Buck House this morning, sir, but apart from that, nothing.’
    â€˜Who were they?’
    The station sergeant referred to the charge book. ‘DCs Catto and Lipton, sir.’
    â€˜They’re not trying hard enough.’ Hardcastle had an unfair view of Henry Catto’s abilities as a detective, but he was good at his job, and seemed only to appear uncertain of himself in the DDI’s presence. ‘They could do better than a couple of dips if they tried.’
    Hardcastle had waited nearly half an hour in the fog for a tram to arrive at the stop on Victoria Embankment, and when it did arrive it was crowded. Once he had taken the fares, the conductor alighted and returned to the front of the tram. For the rest of the journey, he walked slowly ahead of it with an acetylene gas lamp. Trams had been known to run down lost pedestrians in such weather, despite the constant ringing of the vehicle’s bell.
    As a result of the delay, it was nearly nine o’clock before Hardcastle let himself into his house, remembering to shake his umbrella and leave it on the doorstep before he entered. It was the house in Kennington Road, Lambeth, in which he and his wife Alice had lived since their marriage some 25 years ago, and was a few doors down from where the famous Charlie Chaplin had once resided.
    â€˜Is that you, Ernie?’ called Alice from the kitchen.
    â€˜Yes, it’s me, love.’ Hardcastle hung up his hat and coat and, as was his invariable practice, checked the hall clock against his hunter before entering the kitchen. ‘Sorry, I’m late, love,’ he said, and kissed his wife. ‘What’s for dinner? It smells wonderful.’
    Alice turned from the range and flicked a lock of hair from her forehead. ‘I spent fifteen of our meat coupons on a sirloin of beef, Ernie,’ she said, ‘which only leaves us three points for the rest of the week. But we’ve got to have a decent bit of beef once in a