On Copper Street

by Chris Nickson

  Luck. The thing that solved so many cases, Harper thought. It had been luck that he’d overheard the remark in Whitelock’s. Luck that had put them on the path to Calder. Just a tiny bit more, he hoped, and they’d crack this. Maybe Billy Reed would have some luck of his own, too, and find some answers about the acid.

  Another hour, not long before William Calder was due in court. Ash came into the office, rubbing his cheeks with his palms.

  ‘He’s admitted being a fence.’

  ‘That’s a start. What about the rest?’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘Still insists he’s never met Henry White and doesn’t know anything about a key or a will.’

  And if he stuck to that he was in the clear. They had absolutely nothing to tie the two men together. A name on a will proved sod all; he wasn’t the only William Calder in England.

  ‘We have enough to get him sentenced.’

  ‘He did tell me who brought him that silver, sir,’ Ash said with a smile.

  ‘Anyone we know?’

  ‘Oh yes. The uniforms are on their way to his lodgings now.’

  ‘Good job. Well done.’

  ‘I saw Sergeant Calder outside. He said he’d like to go down to court with his brother.’

  ‘If that’s what he wants. We’ve bought ourselves a little time now. Let’s see if we can come up with a connection between Calder and Henry White. It’s there, I can feel it in my water.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And sergeant?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Have you ever considered applying to become an inspector?’

  Harper spent the rest of the day going around his informers. Plenty of them knew Henry White, but the name William Calder seemed to mean nothing. Then, just as he was close to giving up, Nancy Ross leaned heavily on the table in the Golden Cock and asked, ‘Do you mean Willie Calder the fence?’

  He could feel his heart beating a little faster. ‘That’s the one. You know him?’

  ‘You’ve used him, haven’t you, George?’ She nudged her husband. He had a sly, feral look.

  ‘I did,’ he agreed. He wasn’t a man of words; his wife usually spoke for him. The inspector had no idea how old Nancy Ross might be; she’d looked close to fifty for all the years he’d known her. Plump, her skin very pink, hair grey and wiry. Most of the time she had a clay pipe in her mouth, smiling to show cracked, brown teeth. Now she was sitting with a glass of gin in front of her.

  ‘And you knew Henry?’

  ‘Course we did, luv. Shame what happened to him.’ She frowned, the lines showing deep on her face. ‘He kept himself to himself, but I never heard anyone say a bad word about him.’

  ‘What do you know about him and Willie Calder?’

  ‘I saw him there once,’ George said.

  Harper turned. ‘Where? When?’

  The man shrugged. ‘At Calder’s house. I don’t know. Could have been a year ago. Maybe two. He was on his way out. I ran into him at the door.’

  ‘What did he have to say?’

  George Ross shrugged again. ‘I don’t remember. How do you do? Hello? Something like that. Nothing important, like as not.’

  ‘You only saw him there once?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you ever see Henry with anyone else?’ He had them sitting here; it was worth asking.

  ‘Not really. We’d just spot him here and there, wouldn’t we?’ Nancy said. ‘Why?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ The moment had passed; he could feel it slipping away. Nothing more to learn here. He placed two shillings on the table, enough to keep the pair of them drinking into the evening.

  At least he had a connection now, although he’d never dare to drag George Ross into court. Any competent solicitor would tear him to shreds. Still, he had a small wedge to use on Calder now.

  He hadn’t forgotten the remark he’d overheard in Whitelock’s. Willie and Henry. It might have been nothing, but it felt as if it had weight. He just didn’t have any evidence. Yet.

  ‘I’ve known the Crabtrees for years,’ the woman told Reed. Her face was prim, shocked that anyone even needed to ask questions. ‘They’re a lovely couple.’

  He’d gone back and done what Tom suggested: ask about the family. No matter what he tried, everyone gave him the same answers. Not a stain on their characters. Regular chapel goers for as long as anyone could remember. Jack Crabtree had been involved with the Band of Hope and he ran the Sunday school. As upright as it was possible to be. He’d worked for the same company since he left school, promoted to foreman.

  Some of the older folk had tales about Jack’s father, the kind of gambling drunkard Reed had encountered so often when he was still on the beat. But after he’d grown out of his youthful wildness, Jack had always been one for the straight and narrow and his wife was exactly the same. One child, Arthur, and now he was blind from the acid.

  ‘I don’t know why the Lord is punishing them that way,’ the woman continued. ‘But I can tell you this – He wouldn’t test those who couldn’t stand it.’ She sniffed and held a small handkerchief to her nose.

  It was a street of through terraced houses, a large step up from the back-to-backs no more than a hundred yards down the road. The windows all shone; the women used vinegar and newspaper on the glass, and the steps were scrubbed clean twice a week. People took pride in their homes and wanted everyone to know it. The Crabtrees lived at the end of the terrace, a place as spick and span as all the others.

  ‘Have you met Dorothy Crabtree?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Yes.’ He remembered the small confused woman he’d briefly seen. She’d been overwhelmed by everything, and who could blame her? Her husband had been the stoical one when they met, but even he looked as if his faith was being tested.

  Neighbours had helped. Meals cooked and left for them so they could spend time at the hospital. After two days Jack Crabtree had gone back to his work. Never a question about it. That was what a man did. His wife was the one who passed her days and evenings at the infirmary with Arthur.

  ‘Jack was never one for idle chitter-chatter,’ the woman answered when Reed asked. ‘Dun’t talk about himself, thinks that’s the sin of pride.’

  He thanked her and moved on, hearing the door close softly. After being on his feet for hours, his leg and his back were aching. But he’d keep pressing. He wanted a solution before he returned to the fire brigade on Monday. He wanted to succeed. He’d had failures before, but he was the one who’d requested this case. He’d admitted he was getting nowhere, but Tom had offered only suggestions and support. Damned if he was going to show himself up now.

  Finally, halfway through the afternoon, Reed walked down to the factory by York Road. Three large stone buildings with windows set high in the walls, all set around a cobbled courtyard. A smaller brick building off to the side. And everywhere a noise like striding into an inferno, with engines rattling and humming and men shouting at the top of their voices to be heard. The heavy hiss of steam burst like punctuation in the air.

  He had to ask twice, and was pointed in a new direction each time until he found Jack Crabtree tapping a gauge at a boiler in the brick shed and looking worried.

  ‘I need to talk to you. About what happened to your son.’

  ‘I’m working.’ Crabtree barely bothered to glance at him. ‘It’ll have to wait.’

  ‘No,’ Reed said, ‘it won’t. This is police business.’

  ‘All right.’ The man set his jaw firmly. ‘Wait a minute.’ He waved a young man over and gave him instructions, pointing to different controls. Eventually he seemed satisfied and turned away. ‘In the yard.’

  He led the way to a far corner that was sheltered from the wind. Crabtree stood, arms folded, waiting.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘what do you need?’

  ‘What do I need?’ Reed said in disbelief. ‘Why do you think I’m here? I want to talk about whoever threw that acid at your son.’

  ‘God will get
us through it.’

  ‘Maybe He will. That’s between you and Him,’ he said, his voice sharp. ‘But I want the man who did it.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve told you that before.’

  Reed took out a cigarette and lit it. He didn’t bother offering one to Crabtree. The man was chapel; he wouldn’t smoke or drink.

  ‘You must have thought about it, though.’

  ‘Of course I have. Every minute.’ Crabtree raised his eyes and for a second the pain showed. ‘My wife, too. But we can’t change it. We’ll come through, and we’ll be stronger for it. All of us.’

  The man’s willing acceptance of it all, the weakness inside that he tried to disguise as strength, disgusted Reed.

  ‘And while you’ve been thinking, have you come up with any idea why it happened? Or who might have done it?’

  The man shook his head. ‘I said the last time you asked me. I’ve no idea. I still don’t.’

  ‘And your wife?’

  ‘She doesn’t, either,’ Crabtree said with certainty. He opened his mouth to say more. A sudden roar drowned him out. It seemed to begin underground, making the whole yard shake beneath their feet. Then it grew. Deafening, metallic. Painful. The feeling that the air was being sucked out of his lungs.

  Reed didn’t need to think. He ducked, covering his head, and pulled Crabtree down to the ground with him. All the training, the constant repetition, paid off. A heartbeat of complete stillness, then the sound returned, louder than before as the explosion came. Metal and glass flew through the air.

  They were lucky, hidden away round the corner. But he felt the blast. He knew more debris would come in a second. Splinters of wood, fragments of stone and metal poured down like rain.

  It couldn’t have taken more than five seconds. In his head he knew that. But it still felt like forever. A century. An age. Cautiously, Reed exhaled. He stood, feeling all over his body for injuries. A few cuts on his hands and face, nothing major. Nothing broken. Crabtree was stumbling to his feet, dazed and terrified, a deep gash on his cheek bleeding heavily.

  ‘Are you all right?’ The man didn’t seem to notice. But he was upright and moving; he couldn’t be too bad.

  Reed ran across the yard, broken glass crunching under his feet. The shed with the boiler had simply disappeared. There was just a space where it had once stood. A few twisted, jagged shards of metal and a broken concrete floor were all that remained. The rest was strewn everywhere.

  He stopped. Sniffed. Gas. Christ.

  A few men began putting their heads tentatively around the door of the main factory. All the windows had been blown out, but the building looked safe enough.

  ‘Get back,’ Reed yelled and waved. His ears were ringing; he could hardly hear a thing. The men started to duck away. ‘There’s gas.’ His voice hardly seemed to be there. ‘Call for the fire brigade.’

  Crabtree was coming towards him, a rag pressed against the cut on his face.

  ‘Charlie …’ he began, staring around. ‘Charlie was in there.’

  ‘You can’t do anything for him now,’ Reed said, not even sure if the man could hear. His voice seemed to be underwater, muffled, muted. He put a hand on Crabtree’s arm, pulling him into the factory. It was like handling a scarecrow, soft and strange.

  A manager stood inside, a tailor’s dummy in his neat suit and tie, looking utterly lost.

  ‘Gas,’ Reed said. The man simply stared at him. ‘We need all the gas off. Everywhere. Now! Do you understand?’ For another second the manager stared at him dumbly, then nodded and dashed away.

  All around, men were talking, on the verge of panic. He could see the desperation and fear in their eyes. The thick stone walls of the factory had shielded them from the blast. A few injuries from falling glass, but nothing bad.

  ‘I’m Inspector Reed.’ He shouted the words, then repeated them, waiting until they gave him their attention. He could still barely hear himself. ‘I’m with the Fire Brigade and Police. I need you all to stay in here. You’re safe for now. Is anyone hurt?’

  Men shook their heads. A few looked down at the ground. Others chattered away, prattling, relieved to be alive and uninjured. Someone had put Crabtree on a chair in the corner and put a cup of something in his hand. He was going to need to talk to the man. Later, much later. Once everything had been cleared.

  Reed shook his head and swallowed, trying to clear his ears. A thought flitted through his mind: this must be how Tom Harper felt all the time. Cut off. Disconnected.

  He grabbed at a man going past. ‘I need a count of everyone here, and how many reported for the shift.’ The man nodded, then turned on his heel.

  In the distance, on the edge of his senses, he believed he could make out the bell of a fire engine. Good. Get the lads here, taking care of everything.

  This was what he did. He was trained for situations like this. He knew how to handle them. As the firemen dismounted from the engine and stretched out the hoses, Reed joined them in the yard. The smell of gas seemed to have dissipated. The manager must have done what he asked. For the first time, he could look around properly. With all the rubble – bricks, heavy timbers, metal sharp as spears – it was a miracle that the cobbles weren’t strewn with bodies. Absolute bloody luck.

  ‘Not much for us to do here, sir,’ Sergeant Wilson said after half an hour. The men had been thorough, checking the gas was off and combing through the remains of the boiler house. They’d found a body fifty yards away, battered, broken, hardly recognizable as the man Crabtree had left in charge. ‘I’d say they got off lightly, all things considered.’

  No fires to extinguish. No real danger. It had been an easy call, Reed knew that. He’d served with every one these men, he knew he could trust them. He knew they’d been surprised to find him here, leaning on his walking stick and directing them all over the place. But they obeyed without question.

  ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘It’ll be a little while before they’re making anything again, but they’ll survive. Good work. Thank you.’

  The sergeant smiled and saluted. ‘Glad to help, sir.’

  It could have been so much worse. A single death. A few more injured by flying glass, none of them serious. Crabtree looked shaken and quiet, as if he’d retreated into a little world of his own. But he was the man in charge of the boiler; it was all his responsibility. Another minute or two and he might have been the one blown up.

  Reed thought back. When he walked in, Crabtree had been tapping a dial and looking worried. Was there a problem? He’d find out. But not now. Let the man ponder his mortality. Once that shock had passed, there’d be time. In the morning.

  An envelope was waiting on his desk when he returned to the office, Inspector Harper written on the front in Ash’s neat, clipped penmanship. He tore it open and pulled out a newspaper cutting.

  A woman was killed in an accident with a tram yesterday on Vicar Lane. It is believed that she stepped out between vehicles into the path of the electric tram. An ambulance was called but her injuries were too severe and she died at Leeds General Infirmary. She has been named as Mrs Gertrude Parkin of Harehills.

  Accident, he wondered? Or grief? He was never going to know. One more casualty from all this. Like ripples slowly moving out across a pond.

  TEN

  ‘You were there?’ Harper asked. Reed nodded.

  ‘I was lucky. We were round a corner, away from the blast. But now I have to look into it for the Brigade.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He was their arson investigator; this was part of his job. ‘So no more on the acid.’

  ‘There won’t be much chance, Tom, I’m back to work. I definitely have quite a few questions for Crabtree about the boiler. He didn’t look happy when I first saw him, before it all happened. I wanted to let you know what was going on.’

  ‘Did you talk to him about the acid?’

  ‘Only for a minute. He says he doesn’t have a clue, but I’d swear there’s something he isn’t telling me. E
verything happened before I had the chance to press him.’

  ‘Where else should we be looking?’

  Reed let out a long, weary sigh. ‘Honestly, I wish I could tell you.’ He gave a shrug. ‘I’m sorry. I thought it was going to be simple.’

  ‘I’ve given up hope of anything being easy. But you were lucky.’ He reached across and felt the broad hole in Reed’s coat.

  ‘The lads on the engine pointed that out when they arrived.’ He grinned and barked out a short laugh. ‘I hadn’t even noticed.’

  ‘Elizabeth will be glad to see you in one piece.’

  ‘She’d be happier if we could get this solved.’ He took a deep breath. Time to say his piece, the reason he’d come down to Millgarth instead of going straight home. ‘I don’t want to, but I’m going to have to throw it back to you. I’m officially back to work on Monday. But I’ll be starting on the explosion in the morning.’

  ‘Keep asking questions about Crabtree if you get the chance. Talk to him – with someone dead, this is bound to have shaken him up. See if anything comes up.’

  ‘I will.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘No promises, but I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘That’s all I can ask.’

  ‘I’ve been worried sick about you, Billy Reed.’ He was barely through the door when she appeared, her glare turning into a look of horror when she saw the cuts on his face and the tear in his clothes. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said with a smile, putting his arms around her. ‘Honestly. I was there when it happened, but I was safe.’

  He told her all about it, sitting at the kitchen table and sipping hot, sweet tea.

  ‘Luck doesn’t hold forever,’ she said when he finished. ‘That injury to your leg was bad enough.’

  ‘It’s my job.’ She knew that; they’d talked about it often enough before. Yes, the work was dangerous. They were careful; they weighed every risk. The fire brigade rarely lost a man. The only things you couldn’t account for were accidents.

  It had been a good do, Harper decided as the hackney carried him back to the Victoria. The kind of send-off people remembered with a warm smile. The chief constable had come and given a speech, the heads of all the divisions were there, each of them wishing Kendall a long, happy retirement.