On Copper Street

by Chris Nickson

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ He’d never heard that John Calder was anything but honest. And he’d have caught a whisper if there’d been one.

  For the next hour he sat with Superintendent Kendall, listening to procedures until his eyes began to glaze and his mind drifted.

  ‘Tom,’ Kendall said with a smile.

  ‘What? Sorry.’ He almost blushed.

  ‘This White case?’

  Harper nodded. He knew he had bigger things on his plate. A whole station to run. But he’d put too much into this. He wanted to see it through to the end.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then go and look after it. Worse comes to worst, you’ll learn all this on the job. If I managed it, you can.’

  He didn’t need a second invitation. He was already out of the chair.

  SEVEN

  Ash had left a note on top of the records with a single word: Nothing.

  No William Calder.

  Back to the beginning. But perhaps there was something. An idea had blossomed as he listened to the numbing details of running a police station. Maybe Detective Sergeant John Calder had a brother named William. A little quiet digging … who knew where it could lead?

  It took much of the morning, sending clerks at the Town Hall to work through old, dusty records and delving through birth certificates and wedding certificates. But finally he had the information.

  William Calder existed. Thirty-eight, two years younger than his brother on the force. Married with no children, his occupation listed as a clerk in the city directory. He lived on the border of Kirkstall and Headingley, edging into respectability.

  The man seemed like someone quite ordinary, probably not the Calder mentioned in Henry White’s will or the Willie he’d heard mentioned in Whitelock’s. But a few questions wouldn’t go amiss. He’d make sure he discovered the truth.

  He should learn a little more about Detective Sergeant Calder, too. But he’d be careful to tread very lightly. Not a single word, not a breath that could get back to the man. No shred of doubt or suspicion without something solid to back it up.

  His first stop would be the beat bobby who patrolled by William Calder’s house.

  ‘Never had cause to talk to him, sir,’ PC Goodland said as he shook his head. They were standing on the corner of Kirkstall Lane and Cardigan Road, out of the breeze, in the lee of a brick wall.

  ‘Do you know him by sight?’ Harper asked. ‘Any idea where he works?’

  ‘Not really, sir. Round here, half of them toddle off to their offices every morning. They’re all out and back at the same time, not a sign of trouble. I might have seen him but that’s probably it. I haven’t a clue where he works. Somewhere in town, I expect.’

  ‘What about his wife? Do you know her?’

  ‘I don’t, sir.’ He sighed. ‘Sorry if I’m letting you down, but that’s how it is round here. From the address I can picture the house just fine. I know the girl who’s a servant there. To say hello to, like. But not the mistress.’

  ‘I’d like you to ask around a little, very discreet. See what anyone knows about Mr Calder, then tell me.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied doubtfully. ‘I wouldn’t expect much, though. Do you mind if I ask why?’

  The inspector simply tapped his nose. ‘Just keep it quiet.’

  The first seed planted.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ Reed said. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of it.’

  He was sitting in the back room of the bakery in Meanwood, his hands around a mug of tea. Elizabeth stood by the desk. He’d spent the morning going around Burmantofts and asking more questions about Arthur Crabtree. He’d found several of the boy’s friends, talked to people in shops all around the area.

  Not a soul had anything bad to say about the lad or his family. They lived quiet lives. There was some talk that the father had been wild back when he was young, but that was years ago. He taught Sunday school now, at the Baptist church they all attended each week.

  The more he searched, all he found was no reason at all for the acid attack. And no sign of anyone buying acid at the chemists’ shops in the area.

  ‘Could you have missed something?’ Elizabeth asked.

  He’d asked himself the same question coming here on the tram. What had he forgotten? What had he overlooked? It had to be there.

  Billy Reed shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Maybe you’re looking at it the wrong way,’ she suggested.

  ‘What other way is there?’ He couldn’t see one.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted after a while. ‘But you’ve been away from the police for a long time now.’

  He looked at her. Was she saying he couldn’t do the job? He could feel his skills returning with every question he asked.

  ‘I’ll find whoever did it,’ he promised.

  ‘You heard about Tom Harper?’

  He had. A beat bobby he knew had been full of the news that morning. Even with their history and the ending of a friendship, it was impossible to begrudge the man his promotion. He was capable. He was ambitious. The men liked him. And he was a good detective.

  ‘Good luck to him.’

  ‘Annabelle stopped by this morning,’ Elizabeth told him. ‘She wanted to order ten dozen bread cakes.’

  ‘Why? Are they celebrating his promotion?’

  ‘No. There’s some funeral on Sunday and she’s going to have the people at the Victoria afterwards. That political chap she knew.’

  Maguire. Reed had read about his death in the paper. Twenty-nine, no age at all. He knew Annabelle had grown up with him on the Bank and that Tom Harper liked him; that was it. None of his business.

  ‘What I need is to find the man who threw that acid.’

  ‘You’ll do it, Billy love.’ She smiled and stroked his cheek. ‘You know I believe in you. I did from the moment we met.’

  ‘I’d better make sure I take care of this, then.’ He stood and stretched, taking hold of his walking stick. ‘I’ll be home later.’

  Harper knew he had to make his choices carefully. He wanted to know about Detective Sergeant John Calder, but he had to do it without the man knowing. Who could help him? Everything completely unofficial, not a single word written down.

  He drifted across Crown Point Bridge and into Hunslet, where Calder was stationed. He kept his distance from the police station, hugging the back streets, popping his head into public houses in a search of any familiar face.

  At the Royal Oak he found one. Peter Hope. It wasn’t a name he carried well. Hopeless would be more apt. Almost forty, he’d been in and out of jail for petty offences since he was old enough to be sentenced. If he held a job, it never lasted long. Now he was sitting with a hangdog look, staring at the glass of beer the inspector had bought him.

  ‘Sergeant Calder,’ Harper prompted.

  ‘He only arrested me once,’ Hope said. ‘Caught me stealing some lead from a roof.’

  ‘When was this?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Don’t know. He was still in uniform so it must have been a while.’

  ‘Who else has he arrested, Peter?’

  ‘Plenty, I suppose. Jed Cartwright, I know that.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A bad lad.’ He gave a toothless grin. ‘In Armley right now. Caught breaking into a house. It was Mr Calder who took him in, I remember that.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘A month?’ Hope replied. ‘Happen a little longer.’

  ‘How was the sergeant with you?’

  ‘Fair.’ He turned his head to stare at Harper. ‘As fair as any of you lot can be, any road.’

  The jail was loud, every sound magnified and echoing around the walls. He waited patiently in the interview room until a guard brought Jed Cartwright.

  He was a scarecrow of a man, gaunt as death and almost as pale. Teeth brown, cheeks sunken, eyes haunted, Cartwright looked like a man who wasn’t long for this world. But he moved fluidly and settl
ed himself on a chair with a smooth movement. First impressions could be deceptive, Harper decided.

  ‘You got a cigarette?’ Cartwright asked.

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Then why should I talk to you?’ He folded his arms.

  ‘I can always have a word with the wardens and the governor. It’s interesting the range of privileges a prisoner can have.’

  The man had two months of his sentence still left to serve. Hardly his first time inside, Harper had seen that in his record. It wouldn’t be his last, either. Cartwright was an old hand at prison; that meant he appreciated the little things that could improve a man’s life.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Sergeant Calder arrested you.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Cartwright frowned, mystified. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Was he a fair man?’

  ‘He nicked me, took me in, gave his evidence. That’s it.’

  ‘Did he offer you a deal?’

  Cartwright laughed, a raw, rasping sound. ‘Oh aye, and what could I give him?’

  ‘The names of your fences, who hired you.’

  The man simply shook his head. ‘Everybody knows who the fences in Hunslet are. And no one hired me. I saw a house and took a chance. That’s it. Why?’ His gaze hardened. ‘Someone been saying something about me?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Just as well.’ He tried to sound threatening, but there was no fire behind his words.

  ‘What do you know about the sergeant?’

  ‘He’s a rozzer. What’s to know?’

  ‘Any rumours?’

  ‘Someone told me he was a hard man, but he was fine with me.’

  Nothing. But that fitted. No whispers or doubts about his honesty. He’d ask around a little more, just to be certain.

  By the end of the day he was convinced that John Calder was straight as a die. In the office he found a note from PC Goodland, the beat man who patrolled the area where William Calder lived.

  There was some talk along the street of men visiting the house from time to time. Always after dark. Suspicious-looking men. But, as Goodman pointed out, round there the words didn’t mean much; anyone unknown was suspicious.

  There was no real substance, but it was something. He’d need to think about it and decide what to do.

  A pile of papers waited on his desk. Take these home and read them. Kendall. One thing about running a station – the work never stopped.

  Annabelle had her books scattered across the table in the parlour. Now he had his papers. She laughed as he put them down.

  ‘How about all this?’ she said. ‘Anyone would think we were a right pair of clever clogs.’

  ‘Homework,’ he explained as Mary took him by the hand and led him into her bedroom. Sitting next to him on the bed, her expression as serious as an adult, she asked, ‘Da?’

  ‘What, sweetheart?’

  ‘Will you be in charge of every po-eeseman in Leeds?’

  ‘No, love, I won’t.’ He smiled. Where on earth did she get these ideas? ‘Only the ones at Millgarth, where I work. You’ve been there. And it’ll only be when they’re doing their jobs. Why?’

  ‘Ellen said that you had to pay them all out of your money.’ She stared up at him, cocking her head, with the same quizzical expression her mother wore at times. ‘But if you do that, how will there be any money left for us?’

  Dear God, he thought. He needed to talk to Ellen. First, though, he took time to calm Mary’s worries. She was at an age when she still believed him without question, nodding as he explained. Soon enough she slipped down on to the floor and pulled a doll from the toy chest, content and distracted.

  ‘What’s Ellen been saying?’ he asked Annabelle, and told her about Mary’s question.

  ‘You know Ellen; she’d never say that unless she was teasing. Mary must have misunderstood.’ Annabelle was sorting through a pile of clean clothes, picking out everything to be mended. A shirt that needed a new button, socks and stockings to be darned. A sheet that could use a patch. A few minutes’ stitching and there’d be another year or two left in it.

  ‘I hope she did.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with her.’

  He sat and started to work through the papers. At times his hearing problem was a blessing. The buzz and noise of daily life faded to nothing and let him concentrate. Figures and budgets were never riveting but he needed to make sense of them.

  ‘Tell me something,’ Annabelle said later. Mary was fast asleep, only closing her eyes after three stories. He was back with his papers, the only sounds in the parlour the crackling of coal on the fire and the scratching of Annabelle’s nib on paper.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you remember when you were little?’

  He looked at her curiously. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.’ He put down the papers. ‘I can recall some of it. Why?’

  ‘Did you ever think about who you’d grow up to be?’

  ‘I had hopes, I suppose,’ Harper said after a moment. But back then, life seemed a straight line. School for a few years, then work for the rest of your life. The same as his parents and their parents before them. It was the way everything was. He wanted to be a copper but that was a dream and dreams weren’t for the likes of them; he knew exactly what his future would be. He’d taken it all in with his mother’s milk. ‘I suppose I knew what would happen. Everyone did. A job at the brewery. I was lucky; I managed to escape it in the end. Why?’

  ‘This piece I’m writing for Maguire’s funeral,’ she said, as if that was an explanation. ‘I was talking to people who knew him when he was young. He didn’t have a thought about politics until about a dozen years ago. Funny how things can change, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is that true?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘That’s what they told me.’

  He was astonished. The man seemed as if he’d always been a firebrand, that it had been in him from the time he was born. The turns a life could take were odd. His own was enough. Who’d have imagined that grubby boy from Noble Street would end up in charge of Millgarth police station? Certainly not the lads who started at Brunswick Brewery when he did.

  ‘Good for him,’ Harper said finally. ‘He found what he wanted to do.’

  ‘Not for long enough,’ Annabelle said. ‘Come here and give me a cuddle, Tom.’

  EIGHT

  ‘William Calder,’ Harper said.

  ‘Found much, sir?’ Ash asked. ‘I’ve certainly had no luck.’

  ‘I found a possibility.’ He knew it wasn’t more than that. But still, he’d take a closer look. He recounted what PC Goodland had discovered.

  ‘It’s not a lot, is it?’ The sergeant frowned.

  ‘Thin as gauze,’ the inspector agreed. ‘But it’s all we’ve got. Let’s see what else we can come up with.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Anything more on the acid case?’

  ‘I saw Mr Reed late yesterday. I think he’s stumped, truth be told.’

  Harper rubbed his chin. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Honestly, sir, I don’t know.’ He pursed his lips under the heavy moustache. ‘It’s not a madman, I’m certain of that.’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t find hide nor hair that makes a reason.’

  ‘Do you want me to take a look? A fresh pair of eyes?’

  ‘If you have the time, I think it might be a good idea, sir.’

  ‘What about Inspector Reed? How do you think he’d react?’

  A small, polite cough prefaced the reply. ‘You know him better than I do, sir.’

  ‘Maybe I did, once upon a time, anyway.’ Harper smiled. And now? Who could tell?

  ‘It’s not my place to say, sir.’

  That was as much of an answer as he was going to get, the inspector saw.

  ‘Write it all up and leave it on my desk. Then follow up on this William Calder as a fence. It would definitely fit with Henry White.’ He took the keys from his
desk drawer. ‘He left one of these to a William Calder. I’d be very curious to know what it unlocks.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  He read the sergeant’s report on the acid attack and sat back, recalling what he’d seen at the shop the Friday before. Bad things came in threes, that was what they said, and he’d had them. Henry White’s murder, this, and Kendall leaving the force so he could die. Four, if you counted Maguire’s death. Enough, Harper thought. More than enough.

  Billy Reed was walking down the street as the inspector arrived, a firmer, surer stride, barely leaning on his stick. It was a bright morning, even the promise of some sun later once the early mist vanished.

  ‘You’re looking better.’

  ‘Back to work on Monday, the doctor says. I’ll still need to watch myself, but …’

  ‘That’s good news.’ Harper paused for a moment. ‘You know why I’m here.’

  A small nod. ‘I think I bit off more than I could chew, Tom.’

  He could see how much it pained Reed to admit it. That he might have failed. The old Billy – the detective sergeant who’d worked for him – would never have been able to say it. Instead he’d have spent the evening hidden in a pub, getting drunk.

  ‘We can work together,’ Harper offered. ‘I can give it what time I have.’

  ‘The way I hear it, you won’t have much of that.’

  ‘Kendall wanted me to apply for that job. I never expected to get it.’

  ‘You didn’t turn it down.’ He grinned as he spoke.

  ‘Would you? I don’t think Annabelle would ever have forgiven me.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s the nearest café?’

  ‘There’s one by Beckett Street Cemetery. Why?’

  ‘Let’s sit down, have a cup of tea, and try to sort out what’s going on here. There must be something we’ve all missed.’

  Reed lit a cigarette and blew out a slow stream of smoke.

  ‘I’ve been over it every which way. Up and down, in and out.’ He knew he’d examined everything. Looked into the boy and the girl. Made his enquiries about their families and turned up nothing at all. ‘I can’t find a scrap of sense behind it, Tom. I’m sorry.’