Hardcastle's Soldiers by Graham Ison

‘As you were. The man I want has just come in.’
    At that moment, Sergeant Webster, the regimental police sergeant, had entered the anteroom, presumably intent on having a pint before going in for lunch.
    â€˜Sarn’t Webster.’
    â€˜Sir?’ Webster hurried to the RSM’s table.
    â€˜You’ll have to delay your lunch and your pint for a minute or two, Sarn’t Webster. Go and find Stacey in B Company’s lines or the cookhouse, and ask him if he’s lost any keys lately. Well, since he was conscripted. He’s a leery little sod, so don’t take any old fanny from him.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ Sergeant Webster looked mildly affronted at the RSM’s implication that he would have difficulty in extracting information from recruits. Apart from which, he was irritated at having been deprived of his beer, albeit briefly, and that would spur him on to getting an answer quickly.
    â€˜And not a word to anyone else about it. It’s confidential police business. And don’t tell him or anyone else that the civil police are here making enquiries. Understood?’
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ said Webster, and hurried away.
    Punchard turned to the two detectives. ‘I daresay you could do damage to some lunch, Mr Hardcastle, and you too, Sergeant Marriott.’
    â€˜Most kind,’ murmured Hardcastle, and he and Marriott rose to follow the RSM into the dining room.
    They had just finished the main course, and were about to embark on the dessert, when Sergeant Webster returned.
    â€˜I’ve just had a word with Stacey, sir, and he says that he thinks he had his keys swiped about the same time as he lost his cap, although he can’t remember exactly when he noticed they was gone. Does that make sense to you, sir?’
    â€˜Thank you, Sarn’t Webster,’ said the RSM, without answering the RP sergeant’s question. ‘You can go and get your pint now.’ As Webster left, Punchard turned to the DDI. ‘Well, there you have it, Mr Hardcastle, but how does that help?’
    â€˜It means,’ said Hardcastle, as he polished off the last of the excellent plum duff pudding that the sergeants’ mess cook had prepared, ‘that someone in this barracks was able to enter the room where Stacey was quartered, and nick his keys, and, by the looks of it, a tunic and a pair of trousers. I reckon he also had the lad’s cap from the boozer they were in. And that that someone then went on to murder the cashier at Victoria Station, and top the prostitute in Kingston. All I need to know is who could have left the barracks last Wednesday, carry out two murders, and his absence wouldn’t have been noticed.’
    Punchard led the way back to the anteroom, and, without asking the detectives if they wanted any, ordered three glasses of Cockburn’s old port which, Hardcastle knew, cost at least three shillings a bottle. ‘It’s not that easy, Mr Hardcastle,’ he said, answering the DDI’s last question. ‘As I said, last time you was here, we’ve got nigh-on a thousand men under training here.’
    â€˜Would any of them be able to disappear for twenty-four hours without being noticed?’
    â€˜Certainly not,’ said Punchard vehemently, as though the suggestion were a slight on his professional competence. ‘But there’s the permanent staff to consider.’ He paused in thought for a moment or two, calculating. ‘There’s some forty-six officers, plus numerous warrant officers, sergeants and corporals. And there are a few private soldiers in the stores and elsewhere. All in all, you’re probably looking at nigh-on two hundred personnel who can more or less come and go as they please when they’re not on duty.’
    â€˜Ye Gods!’ exclaimed Hardcastle, as he grasped the full impact of the daunting task now facing him. ‘I wonder if it’s possible to narrow it down a