On Copper Street

by Chris Nickson

  Annabelle bowed her head, crossed herself and returned to her seat.

  Mary behaved perfectly, as if she understood the solemnity of the occasion. At her age he’d have been squirming around, bored. But she seemed entranced by the ceremony, watching quietly even during the long minutes of the mass.

  Finally the pallbearers raised the coffin to their shoulders and carried it down the aisle to the hearse, the congregation filing slowly out behind. Harper held his daughter’s hand and waited near the church door until Annabelle appeared, gazing at the procession as it started towards York Road.

  ‘You did him justice,’ he told her.

  ‘I hope so.’ She sounded worried. ‘It’s the last chance I’ll ever have.’

  They joined the people following the coffin, moving slowly and quietly, with everyone else. He could see men standing on the pavement, caps in their hands, heads bowed in respect. One or two here, a dozen or more there.

  Up ahead, only the sharp sound of hooves on the cobbles and the quiet rumble of the hearse’s wheels. Nobody talking, nobody breaking the moment.

  Turning on to Beckett Street, the slow, shallow climb toward the cemetery. Suddenly the entire road was lined with men and women. All in their Sunday best, standing still, waiting for the body to pass by.

  Hundreds of them, Harper thought. He’d never seen anything like it. What would Maguire have made of it all? Chuckled to himself, probably, pleased as punch but astonished by it all. Too late now, too late for him to see how they all felt.

  Yet no one had done anything to save him. He was as bad as everyone else. He was horrified when he saw the way Maguire had lived. But he’d never given it a thought until he looked at the corpse.

  Harper was still lost in his thoughts when they reached the cemetery. The coffin was carried slowly to the grave, and the crowd was so thick that they had to stand close to the iron gate leading into the place. Policemen had stopped traffic along the road.

  His ears couldn’t make out the short service, but Annabelle was listening intently, a single tear rolling slowly down her cheek until she wiped it away. And finally it was all done, the gravediggers piling earth on wood as people milled around in groups, talking, smiling as if the last two hours had never happened.

  ‘I need to get back to the Victoria and make sure everything’s ready,’ Annabelle said. ‘Dan and Ellen were setting it all up when I left.’

  The big meal. Fifty or so invited. He’d forgotten all about it.

  ‘Do you need me there?’ It was more like begging than a question. There was still work waiting at Millgarth.

  ‘You go on.’ She smiled. ‘You wouldn’t know most of them, anyway.’

  On the street a constable was directing all the traffic. He was older, hair white, almost too big for his uniform. He saluted quickly as he saw Harper.

  ‘Right old mess, sir.’

  ‘Yes.’ He watched the crowd dispersing. ‘A grand turnout, though.’

  The bobby clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Peyton, Harper thought suddenly; that was the man’s name. ‘I know you were there, sir, and with respect, but he was no more than a rabble rouser.’

  ‘There are plenty here who’d disagree with you.’

  ‘I daresay. More’n a thousand, that’s what the sergeant reckoned. But I’ve as much right to my opinion as any of ’em, sir.’

  ‘You do.’ But he didn’t want to hear it, not today.

  Groups of people were walking away. A few were talking animatedly, but most stayed silent. He needed the quiet. That was the way funerals always affected him. They made him reflect, and this one more than most; it wouldn’t be too long before he’d be attending Kendall’s. Was this what life became, he wondered: seeing the people you liked slowly vanish? Attending a series of funerals?

  He strode out, down towards Millgarth. Work. It was a good way to clear the head.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Reed began. ‘I had a feeling Crabtree was about to tell me something when the explosion happened.’

  ‘What do you think he was going to say?’ Ash asked. They were sitting in the parlour. Off in the kitchen, Elizabeth was preparing a late Sunday dinner, and the smell of roasting meat filled the air.

  He looked at the sergeant and shook his head.

  ‘That’s the thing – I really don’t know. I’m going to talk to him tomorrow about the blast.’ He recalled the man’s expression in the boiler shed and the way he’d tapped the dial. ‘He looked worried.’

  ‘How would you feel if I came along with you when you talked to him, sir?’

  The question took him aback. It was intruding on his work.

  ‘Why?’ Reed asked suspiciously.

  ‘I thought we could kill two birds with one stone. Ask him about both things.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  The sergeant dipped his head. ‘Your choice, sir.’

  Reed looked at him. There was a rumour running around that Ash was going to be promoted; a bobby he’d seen had mentioned it that morning.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ Reed told him.

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Ash stood, a big man who seemed to fill the room. At the front door he said goodbye, then, ‘I could go and see Mrs Crabtree.’

  ‘You can, but I don’t think it’ll do you any good.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s not likely to say a word against her husband.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ the sergeant agreed. ‘but she’ll know him better than anyone.’

  ‘Try it, then. You never know.’ He liked Ash. The man was a natural copper. Even when he was smiling the wheels still seemed to be turning, as if his mind never stopped. Perhaps it didn’t. Perhaps that was what made him so good.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll drop by and have a word with her in the morning. Do you think the husband will be at work?’

  Reed didn’t even need to consider his answer. ‘I’m certain of it.’

  ‘It looks like a swarm of locusts have been through the place,’ Harper said.

  Annabelle was gathering up the plates and empty glasses. Ellen was helping, while Mary sat at a table with a pencil and a piece of paper, quietly drawing.

  ‘What did you expect? It was an Irish funeral.’ She placed another pile on the bar for Dan to wash and smiled with satisfaction. ‘Mind you, we gave him a good farewell. I think he might have enjoyed that. Even his mam wasn’t too sad by the end.’

  ‘I’m sorry I missed it.’

  She chuckled. ‘No, you’re not. You’d have felt like a spare part, not knowing what to do with yourself. It was like the Saturday nights when I was her age.’ She nodded at Mary. ‘Everyone would get together for music and a laugh. Talk about Ireland.’ She shook her head at the memory, silent for a moment, gazing at something only she could see. ‘I’ll miss him, you know. I meant what I said. Every word of it.’

  ‘You have us,’ Harper said and Annabelle started to smile, a grin that reached all the way to her eyes.

  ‘I do, and that’s all anyone could want. Why don’t you take Mary upstairs? See if she’s ready for some supper.’

  ‘I had some of the food down here,’ a small voice said. She didn’t look up from her drawing.

  Annabelle rolled her eyes. ‘Just make a cuppa, then. I’ll be up by the time it’s mashed.’

  ‘Da,’ Mary asked when they were alone, ‘what happens when someone dies? Do they really go to heaven?’

  He’d been dreading the question; he’d half-expected it straight after the funeral. And he didn’t have an answer for her. The best he could offer was something vague, even when she pinned him with the same direct stare her mother used. God help the men when she grew up, he thought. They won’t stand a chance against her.

  TWELVE

  He couldn’t leave Ash to do all the work himself, and the detective constables they had all needed more experience before he’d trust them with anything important. Harper filled out the requests for the sergeant’s promotion to inspector and for Conway to move from D Division. It felt strange to
sign himself as superintendent. That rank still belonged to someone else. How long before it fitted him?

  He had the key to the deposit box. He only needed to visit the banks until he found the right one. That should be easy enough, at least to start. The real work would come later.

  It began when he sat down with the manager of Beckett’s Bank on Park Row. The building was as hushed and reverent as a church. The man sitting on the other side of the desk was examining the key.

  ‘This is one of ours,’ he said as he nodded his head. ‘Might I ask how it ended up with the police, Superintendent Harper?’

  ‘It’s part of our enquiries, sir.’ Make it official, he thought. ‘I’d like to see inside the box that key opens.’

  The manager pursed his lips. He had a thin face. His side whiskers were white, neatly trimmed, his hair short and fading from his forehead. Full, dark frock coat, a starched high collar and a back as straight as a ramrod.

  ‘You have to understand that we’d normally only give access to the holder of the box.’ His voice was formal.

  ‘He won’t be coming back,’ Harper said with a dark expression. ‘Mr White is dead. You probably saw it in the papers.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Then I’m sure you can understand why I need access to that box, sir. Mr White was murdered. He left that key to another man in his will. I have reason to believe there’s important evidence in it.’

  ‘By rights the person named in the will should be here, with a copy of the document,’ the bank manager said primly.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s a little indisposed at the moment.’ He saw the man swallow nervously. ‘In Armley jail, awaiting trial for receiving stolen goods. Now, Mr—’

  ‘Raymond.’

  ‘Mr Raymond. I’d like to see inside that box.’ It wasn’t a request any longer. It was a demand.

  The man waved an arm and a young man appeared, looking awkward and out of place in formal clothes that were a size too large.

  ‘He’ll take you to the deposit area. You have to understand that this is very unusual.’

  ‘Murder often is,’ Harper began. Then he added, ‘I’m grateful for your help.’ Catch more flies with honey than vinegar, he thought. He might need co-operation from the bank again.

  The room was underground, airless, hidden behind a heavy steel door. It was sterile, with no smell to it. The young man found the box, number 415, took a key from his waistcoat and stuck it in one of the locks.

  ‘You’ll need to put your key in the other one, sir.’ His voice wavered, barely broken. Harper did as he was told. In a moment the lad had pulled the box out from the wall with a practised movement and placed it on the table. ‘Just let me know when you’ve finished, sir.’

  Then he was alone. His mouth was dry and he felt a ripple of anticipation through his body, the quick beat of his heart. Maybe now he’d find out why Henry had been murdered. Slowly, holding his breath, he raised the metal lid.

  Inside there was a heavy, bulging envelope. Harper eased it out and pushed the box away.

  The envelope was dusty under his fingertips, as if it had lain there for years. A heavy red wax seal held it closed. Strange, he thought. Such an old-fashioned method, he thought. He pushed his thumbnail underneath, breaking it then gently peeling it back.

  Harper worked the flap open and jammed his fingers inside, no idea what he’d find. Papers, a stack of them from the feel, and two smooth pieces of metal, cold and slick.

  Very gently, he tipped everything on to the table. A sheaf of notes, closely written in fading ink, tied together with twine. A small silver flask, absolutely plain, nothing engraved on the sides. A silver cigarette case. Nothing on that, either. He turned them both in his hands. Heavy, good quality. But what did it all mean? Henry White had never been one to write things down. He’d watched the man sign a statement and that had been a drawn-out affair.

  And this was all intended for Willie Calder. What was it?

  He scooped it all up and carried it with him. Plenty of time to examine everything properly at Millgarth.

  Reed had looked at himself in the mirror before he left for the fire station on Park Row. The night before he’d polished the brass buttons of his uniform jacket and his cap badge. Now they winked in the morning light. He was proud to be a member of the fire brigade, but after two weeks in civilian clothes it felt strange to see himself like this again.

  Elizabeth had long since gone to work; always an early start at the bakeries, before dawn arrived.

  The tram journey was so familiar that he felt himself falling straight back into the rhythm of the job. There’d be plenty to do, of course. But he knew the first task: off to the factory where Crabtree worked to discover the cause of the explosion.

  He walked into the yard at little after nine. Men must have worked hard all Sunday. The cobbles were swept clean, piles of debris neatly gathered here and there. A couple of courses of bricks and twisted metal were all that remained of the boiler shed.

  At the office he introduced himself, sitting with the manager he’d yelled orders at on Saturday. The man didn’t even recognize him at first. Things were calm. But silent. No power to run the machines, and it would be a month before that would return. In the meantime the men were idle and unpaid.

  ‘Jack Crabtree,’ Reed said.

  ‘I’ve got him checking all the machinery. We might as well use the time to make sure they’ll work properly once we’re up and running again. He was lucky when it happened. You, too,’ the man added.

  ‘Not everyone was.’

  ‘I know.’ His face fell. ‘Charlie Clay. He’d only been here three years, too. Nice lad.’

  ‘Crabtree was looking at the dials on the boiler before we went to talk. He called Clay over to keep an eye on things.’

  ‘What?’ Suddenly the manager was completely attentive. ‘He never told me any of that. Are you sure?’

  ‘He was probably in shock. He looked dazed after the blast.’ Reed was willing to give Crabtree the benefit of the doubt, at least in public.

  ‘Maybe so.’ The man looked doubtful.

  ‘I need to talk to him about it all.’

  ‘Whenever you want. I think I’ll be wanting a word when you’re done, too. I’ve put in an order for the new boiler and they’re going to start building the new shed in a few days. If you have any recommendations to make things safer …’

  ‘I’ll tell you as soon as I can.’

  Crabtree was by himself in the vast emptiness of the factory. His tools were laid out on a piece of oilcloth and he had part of a machine disassembled.

  ‘Complicated business,’ Reed said.

  ‘Everything is unless you know what you’re doing.’ Crabtree stood upright, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘The explosion.’

  ‘What about it? You were there.’

  ‘I know,’ Reed told him. ‘That’s why I have some questions. The way you were tapping those dials and looking worried, for instance. What was the problem?’

  ‘J.D.,’ Harper said.

  ‘Sir?’ Ash looked at him quizzically. ‘Is that supposed to mean something?’

  He tossed the packet of papers across the desk.

  ‘Henry White’s deposit box. His writing. It’s a diary. Something like that, anyway. A confession, maybe. He says he did a lot of work for someone called J.D. And these were in there.’ He pointed at the flask and cigarette case. ‘What I can’t see is why he’d pay good money to keep them hidden away or why he’d leave them to Willie Calder. I’ve been racking my brains; I’ve no idea who J.D. is.’

  ‘There must be a few, sir. Common initials.’

  ‘I must be missing something. Read it through and see if anyone comes to mind.’ He frowned. ‘Have you made any progress on the acid attack?’

  ‘I did come across something curious.’ The smile came and disappeared under the heavy moustache in an instant. ‘Mrs Crabtree wasn’t at home, so I took a wander to t
he chapel the family attends.’ He glanced up.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The preacher was there, sweeping out the room they use for meetings. The Crabtrees go every week. They have done since it opened ten years ago. Mrs Crabtree runs something for the wives, going out and doing good deeds, that sort of thing. The father takes the Sunday school.’

  ‘We already knew most of that.’

  ‘Bear with me a moment, sir. When we were chatting it came up that a couple of families have withdrawn their children from the Sunday school in the last few months. One of them even stopped going to the chapel. The preacher went to see them and they wouldn’t tell him why.’

  ‘What are you trying to say? How does that tie to the acid?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. It just struck me as odd. I thought it might be an idea to have a word with those families later.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll leave it with you.’ Any lead at all was worth pursuing, no matter how obscure. ‘In the meantime, see if you can make more of Henry’s scribblings than I did.’

  Ash glanced out of the window. Drizzle was beginning to fall. A fire was burning steadily in the office hearth.

  ‘I’ll be glad to, sir.’

  Harper sat, watching rain trickle down the window. He’d barely begun in his new job and already he felt cut off from real policing. Kendall had warned him that things would change and there would be limits. He just hadn’t expected life to alter so quickly.

  The other times he’d done the job it had only been for a day or two, juggling tasks to carry out his own work as well. All he’d had to do as acting superintendent was to keep things bobbing along. Now it was different. A stack of reports to read. How could people generate so much paper, he wondered? At four o’clock he was expected at a meeting with the Chief Constable and all the other division heads.

  He was already debating whether he’d done the right thing in accepting the promotion. God help him.

  ‘I always tap the dials,’ Crabtree said. ‘It’s habit. Sometimes they stick. Tapping gives an accurate reading.’ But he looked away as he spoke.

  ‘Tell me something,’ Reed asked. ‘Are you a God-fearing man?’