On Copper Street

by Chris Nickson

  Everyone in the room knew he was dying, but no one was about to ruin the evening by saying so. Instead there were jokes and laughter, tall tales and plenty of beer. The whole time the superintendent looked relieved, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from him.

  Harper moved from group to group, accepting their congratulations on his promotion. Before he left, though, he settled next to Kendall, watching the others. He was tired, his ear ached from straining to hear so many conversations, but he needed this moment.

  ‘Do you think you’ll miss it?’

  The super toyed with his glass, the pipe in his mouth. ‘Every day,’ he answered with a wry smile. ‘For a while, at least.’

  ‘It won’t be the same without you.’ Kendall had taught him how to be a detective, always there from the first day Harper began working in plain clothes. And now that would become his role. Everything changed, it all moved on.

  ‘You’re good enough for the job, Tom. You’ve learned.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. I’ll start finding out tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ll be just fine.’ He raised his beer in a toast. ‘Good luck to you.’

  ‘And to you.’ Like everyone else, he was skirting the truth. But if there was one night when that was acceptable, this was it. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done.’

  ‘At least you made it interesting.’ Kendall laughed. ‘You have a knack for doing things the hard way. But you get them done. Come and visit us, you’ll always have a seat by the fire. Annabelle and your daughter, too.’

  ‘I will,’ he promised, meaning it. How long would the super last, though, away from Millgarth?

  ‘You look like that job’s already worrying you and you don’t even start until tomorrow,’ Annabelle said.

  ‘It’s not that.’ Harper was sprawled in the chair, legs stretched out towards the fire. ‘I was just thinking about Kendall. He loved the work. It’s … I don’t know. And someone else died today, too.’ He told her about Mrs Parkin and the way she’d felt about Henry White.

  ‘Poor love,’ she said. ‘Do you think she …?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ was all he could tell her. He reached across and took hold of her hand, needing the contact, the warmth.

  ‘Are you going to look into it?’

  He shook his head. Accident or suicide, it wasn’t police business. In a day or two they’d hold the inquest and next week the woman’s body would be in the ground. He didn’t even know if she had children. With a low sigh, Harper roused himself. It was late and he needed to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

  Millgarth looked exactly the same. No bunting, no flags out to welcome him. Tollman was on duty at the front desk, treating him the way he had every other day.

  It felt strange to pass by the desk that had been his for so long, then into the office that would probably still smell of pipe tobacco a year from now. He settled into the chair, looking around, then pulled the first paper from the waiting pile. Time to make a start.

  At eleven Harper walked out of the station. He needed some air. He needed to talk to people. He was a detective, not a damned glorified clerk. And he was still determined to solve Henry White’s murder. He’d started this case and he’d see it through. Ash was out, trying to find anyone else who could connect Henry with Willie Calder.

  Time to go back to the source.

  Voices echoed around the prison, bouncing off the walls. The place smelt of old boiled cabbage, urine, and too many lost hopes. The eyes looking out from the cells held a mixture of hatred, desperation, and pain. Harper marched along the corridor, close on the heels of one of the uniformed guards, a young man with a moustache and a cocky smile.

  ‘In here, sir,’ the lad said. ‘We’ll have him along for you in a minute.’

  The window was too high to look out, but it brought some pale light into the interview room. Two chairs and a scarred wooden table. He’d been there five minutes when he heard the sharp clicks of boots in the corridor, then the door opened and Calder appeared.

  ‘How do you like Armley jail, Willie?’ Harper said. ‘Have a seat, I want to talk to you.’

  A police nick might not have broken him, but a real prison had damaged his spirit. Calder hadn’t even been here a full day but already he looked like an old lag. Hunched shoulders, folding in on himself as if he was trying to disappear. His face was so pale it seemed haunted, and the dirt was ingrained in his skin.

  ‘Bit different from Headingley, isn’t it? No servant to come round and take care of you.’

  Calder didn’t raise his head or reply. Harper pulled out the set of keys and tossed them on to the table.

  ‘Which one is it, Willie? Which one did Henry leave you?’

  Silence filled the room. Somewhere in the distance a voice screamed, a stream of words he couldn’t make out. Calder didn’t move. But Harper knew he’d get his answers.

  ‘Which one?’ He pushed them towards the man. ‘Show me.’

  Very slowly, timidly, Calder’s fingers crept along the table. He touched the smallest of the keys on the ring, a shiny piece of steel. Good, Harper thought; that was progress.

  ‘What’s it for? Give me some good information and you could end up spending less time in here.’

  ‘For a box.’ His voice was a croak, as if the spark had gone from it. ‘In a bank.’

  A box in a bank?

  ‘A deposit box, you mean?’ he asked and Calder nodded. ‘Which bank?’

  ‘I don’t know. He never told me.’

  Harper took a deep breath.

  ‘Let me get this straight. Henry White left you a key in his will, even though you insist you don’t know him.’ Calder shrugged; one lie dismissed. ‘You know it fits a deposit box in a bank, but you’ve no idea which bank. Is that right?’

  For a moment the man glanced up and nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s inside the box?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  Frustration was beginning to rise inside him. ‘You’re not much help, are you?’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth.’

  ‘Then you’d best tell me all of it,’ he warned.

  Calder gave a cough and leaned forward as if he was passing on a secret.

  ‘Henry said he had something for me in his will, a key to a box. Said I’d have to find out which one for myself. He was laughing when he said it, like it was the funniest thing he’d heard.’

  Harper stared at him. ‘You seriously expect me to believe that?’

  ‘It’s the truth. I swear.’ He blinked behind his spectacles. ‘That’s what he said. I thought it was a joke.’

  ‘But you picked out the key without a problem.’

  ‘He showed it to me. When he told me about it.’

  ‘And you never asked what was in the box?’

  ‘Course I did,’ Calder replied. For the first time there seemed to be some fire in his voice. ‘But he wouldn’t say. It’ll be a surprise, that’s what he promised.’

  Harper was thinking, trying to fit the small fragments together and coming up with nothing.

  ‘Did he give you any kind of clue as to which bank?’

  ‘No. I asked but he wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘I see.’ Harper stood, sweeping the keys back in his pocket. He’d learned everything he could here.

  ‘What are you going to do to help me?’ Calder said. Fear filled his face. ‘I’ve told you everything I know.’

  ‘You’re going to have to wait and see. But if you want my advice, plead guilty when you come to trial and ask for all your offences to be taken into consideration. That often makes the judges more lenient.’

  ‘I—’

  But Harper was already leaving, waving the guard through to return the prisoner to his cell. He’d knew he’d taken long enough from his new job simply to come out here. He didn’t have time to waste bartering over scraps with Willie Calder. The man had gone free for years; let him face some justice now.

  Ash stared at the key and rubbed his
chin.

  ‘And we’ve no idea which bank, sir?’

  ‘None,’ Harper told him. ‘It’s probably one in the middle of town, though. I can’t see anywhere past there having deposit boxes. If you describe Henry, that should help. There can’t be many as down-at-heel as him leasing one.’

  The sergeant grinned. ‘That’s true enough.’ He started to rise.

  ‘Did you give any thought to what I said?’

  Ash cocked his head. ‘Sir?’

  ‘About becoming an inspector. We’re going to need one at the station. I think you’d be ideal.’

  The sergeant kept a hand on the doorknob. ‘I talked to my Nancy about it …’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She thinks if you believe it, then it’s a good thing. So yes, sir, I’m interested.’

  Harper smiled. ‘I’ll have a word with the chief next week. But that means we’re going to need a new sergeant.’

  ‘Conway, sir,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘He’s a detective constable over at D division. We trained together. He has a sharp mind, he deserves the chance.’

  ‘Sound him out, see if he’d be interested.’

  ‘I will, sir. And thank you.’

  D Division. It covered Wortley, Armley, Kirkstall. Plenty of crime. Anyone who’d worked there would be well-seasoned. One more thing to consider when Monday rolled around. He took the watch from his waistcoat. After four and he still had plenty to keep him busy. Back to the grind.

  He climbed the stairs at the Victoria and opened the door to the parlour to find Mary standing two feet away. Her back was as straight as any new recruit, eager to please. As she gazed up at him, she brought up her right hand in a salute, her expression serious and intent.

  ‘Soo-tend-unt.’

  From the kitchen he could hear Annabelle trying to stifle her giggles. He wanted to smile but forced himself to keep a straight face. Carefully he raised his own hand and saluted back. Only then did the girl relax.

  ‘Mam said that was how we could celebrate,’ Mary said.

  ‘Your ma can be very strange, can’t she?’ He picked the girl up and twirled her around until she began to shriek with pleasure, then carried her through to stand by the kitchen door.

  Annabelle was still softly laughing, dabbing the tears of joy away from her eyes.

  ‘Honestly, Tom …’ She shook her head and tickled Mary under the chin. ‘If you could have seen your face when you walked in. Then the two of you saluting each other. I’m going to remember that as long as I live.’

  ‘I will, too,’ the girl said, squirming down from his grip and running off to her bedroom.

  ‘Did you really like it?’ Annabelle asked.

  ‘Yes.’ He kissed her. ‘How did you come up with it?’

  ‘Blame your daughter, it was her idea. All I did was show her how to salute properly.’ She winked. ‘One thing about having the barracks nearby. Those soldier boys are always ready to show a girl a real salute.’ A chuckle, then she said, ‘You look all in.’

  ‘Trying to do too much,’ he told her.

  ‘Never mind. You’ll get used to it.’

  ELEVEN

  Nine o’clock on Sunday morning and Harper was back at Millgarth, wading through a pile of papers as a mug of tea turned cold by his hand. The sun played hide and seek with the clouds, light flooding in through the window.

  He was in his black suit, ready for Maguire’s funeral at noon. He’d arranged to meet Annabelle at Mount St Mary’s church. A service with full mass, then a procession up to Beckett Street cemetery for the burial.

  But there was time to do some work before all that, to keep his head above water with all the tasks.

  He’d been busy for an hour when Ash arrived, tapping on the door before entering.

  ‘Any luck with that key?’

  The sergeant raised an eyebrow. ‘It was Saturday, sir. None of the banks were open.’

  Of course. Harper shook his head. Stupid; he should have remembered that.

  ‘You’ve got a smile, though. You must have found something.’

  ‘Another link between White and Calder, sir. Do you remember Christian Simms?’

  With a name like that it was impossible to forget the man. Especially when he was the most irreligious, foul-mouthed man Harper had ever met.

  ‘You wouldn’t call him a reliable witness.’

  ‘He was able tell me exactly where and when he was with them both, sir.’

  ‘Exactly?’ That was unlike Simms. He was never clearer than vague.

  ‘Turns out it was Boxing Day, two years ago. He was in the Green Dragon and saw them talking to each other. One o’clock, he says. He’s certain about it because he had to leave right after and go home for his dinner.’

  ‘That’s something.’ Another small strand in the web. ‘First thing tomorrow we need to go round the banks. I want to know where Henry had that box and what’s in it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Talk to Inspector Reed, too. You heard about the explosion off York Road?’

  ‘I think I felt it, sir,’ Ash replied.

  ‘He was there when it happened, talking to Crabtree. Neither of them injured, thank God, but he needs to look into the cause of the blast.’

  ‘Naturally, sir. That’s his job.’

  ‘Have a word with him and get the details on where everything stands.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He gave a small cough. ‘I happened to run into Mark Conway last night, sir. The detective constable from D Division,’ he explained when Harper looked baffled.

  ‘Yes?’ He wondered just how accidental the meeting had really been. Did it even matter?

  ‘He’d be very interested in a promotion and a transfer, sir.’

  ‘I’ll get everything rolling this week.’

  ‘I’ll let him know.’ He nodded at the suit. ‘I hope everything goes well for the funeral. I hear there’s likely to be a crowd.’

  ‘There certainly will be. That’s why it’s on a Sunday, so people can go.’

  The Famine Church. That’s what everyone called it when he was a boy. Back then he’d never understood why. Now he knew about the history, the fact that Mount St Mary’s had been built during the years the Irish were starving and leaving their homes, some of them ending up in Leeds.

  The incense caught the back of his throat. Mary sat on the pew beside him, clutching his hand tightly. This was her first funeral and she seemed as overawed by it as he was. Annabelle was sitting off to the side with the others who’d deliver the eulogies. She was all in black, a long crinoline gown gathered high at the neck, broad black hat and veil, polished black button boots. The clothes of grief.

  It was a large church, full of statues and icons, and it was packed with people. Maguire’s family, distant relatives and neighbours. Friends. Admirers: many, many more of those. The coffin lay in front of the altar on a plain bier, ready to be carried out once all the words had been spoken.

  Harper didn’t know the Catholic service. It was safer to follow everyone’s lead, to stand and sit when they did and mutter his responses. He listened to the sermon, the priest droning on and on, then some of the other speakers. Finally Mary turned on the pew and loudly hissed,

  ‘That’s me mam.’

  Annabelle stood at the lectern, as poised as he’d ever seen her. Her face was calm as she looked around the congregation. She raised her head and without trying, her voice seemed to carry to every nook and cranny in the building.

  ‘I knew Tommy Maguire when we were little. He was younger than me, trailing around after the rest of us, the lad with the dewdrop on his nose and the confused look in his eye. Happen he was in love with me back then. That’s what people said, but I don’t know if it’s true. If he was, at least he had the good sense to grow out of it.’ She smiled for a moment, then her face became sombre again. ‘He knew what life was like round here. He wasn’t one of those who had to read about it, he’d already lived it. And all those books he looked a
t later on the working class? He could have written them. He’d experienced it himself. You’ve heard everyone tell you what he did for the labourers, the gas workers, starting the party. If you really want to see the people he helped, just turn your head and look at the person beside you. It’s every one of us in here and all those who’ll be waiting outside for the hearse.’ She let them think for a moment. ‘He gave more to Leeds than any of us have managed to do. He helped me. When I began searching around and putting into words the things I’d always known inside, he was there to show me and encourage me. If he looked up to me when we were little, the tables had turned.

  ‘He saw sadness and he saw beauty, sometimes in the same thing. There are plenty in the unions and in the Independent Labour Party who don’t believe that women need a voice. Tommy was never one of those. He knew what the vote could mean to everyone. He believed that this was our country, where all of us belong, and that we should all have our say in it.’ She paused and her face softened as she smiled. ‘And he wrote poems, but I’m sure you know that. Published in the Labour Leader. He might have been able to speak out loudly in public, he might have been able to persuade. But inside, his soul cried, and the poems are what came out. For love, against injustice. He was proud of them. He had every right to be, too.’ She stood a little straighter and began to read from the piece of paper in her hand.

  ‘Here in the heart of the cloud-wrapt town,

  Where strong men thrive upon weak men down,

  Where trade prepares its rank soul for hell—

  Oh here, along with the damned I dwell!

  And maidens are brought from near and far

  To sate the lust of the Minotaur!

  I prey on your budding womanhood,

  And drain the colour of life from her blood;

  I scale her skin till ’tis yellow and dry;

  And dim the lustre that lighted her eyes;

  The marrow out of her bones I draw,

  Her breasts I grip with a cancerous claw,

  Her husk, in the end, to the dogs I fling—

  A bloodless, soulless, sexless thing.’