On Copper Street

by Chris Nickson

  ‘I am, sir.’ He looked the fireman in the eye. ‘But you already know that about me and my family.’

  ‘Tell the truth and shame the devil?’ He dredged the phrase from a distant childhood memory, words his mother said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Reed stared at Crabtree, his voice low and level. ‘Then why are you lying to me?’

  For a few seconds the man was quiet. His body was tense, fingers moving slowly over the material of his trousers.

  ‘I was worried about the boiler,’ he admitted finally. ‘It’s acting up a bit. That’s why I told young Charlie to keep an eye on things.’

  ‘What was wrong with it?’ He was getting to the heart of the matter now. Crabtree had begun; soon he’d have it all. From there, perhaps, he could lead into the acid attack, while the man was still so open and raw.

  The pressure in the boiler kept dipping, Crabtree said. Never by much, and it came back quickly enough. But something was wrong and he didn’t know what; probably a valve that was sticking. It had been that way most of the shift, and he’d intended to ask permission to shut the boiler down and strip it fully.

  ‘You see,’ he said, ‘that’s why I wanted Charlie watching it, in case the pressure dipped too low.’

  ‘Is that what happened?’ Reed asked. ‘Did that cause the explosion?’

  ‘I think so.’ He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘As best as I see things, the pressure must have dropped then come back, but it kept rising because the valve didn’t open. Ewart should have seen that. He could have opened the valve by hand, there was a safety handle right there.’

  ‘Then why didn’t he?’

  Crabtree stared, looking very lost. ‘I wish I knew, Inspector. I really do.’

  It could have been some sudden surge that took him by surprise. He might not have been watching properly. Any number of things. Whatever the reason, Crabtree insisted that the lad should have been able to open the valve.

  ‘Could it have stuck? Jammed?’

  The man shook his head. ‘I only had it apart a week ago. It was fine.’

  The error had been human. So often the case. A fire started by a cigarette or tobacco from a pipe. Carelessness, someone not paying attention.

  ‘I’ll put all that in my report.’

  ‘It won’t bring him back, will it?’ Crabtree said. His voice was dull.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was a good lad, too. Serious about his work.’

  ‘It’s a bad thing to happen, so soon after your son.’

  He saw the man stiffen, sensed the rise of his defences.

  ‘That’s different. Completely different.’

  Crabtree was hiding something; Reed was positive of that now. But how could he pry out the secrets?

  ‘I know that Arthur’s alive,’ the inspector said, ‘but he’s going to have to live with his injuries for the rest of his days. Every time he looks in the mirror—’

  Crabtree spat on the ground. ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’

  ‘And you don’t have any idea why it happened?’

  The man shook his head. Whatever had been in the air had vanished, broken.

  ‘Thank you,’ Reed said and walked away.

  ‘Why don’t you just ask Willie Calder who this J.D. is, sir?’ Ash placed the papers on the desk. ‘I’ve been through all that and I don’t have a clue. I’ve thought and thought and I can’t come up with anyone who fits the bill.’

  The man from Henry White’s pages was a shadow. Dangerous, with a temper, and violent, from the way he was described. And there was the real problem: if he was that bad, the police should have known about him. But they should have had an eye on so many things. How had Calder managed to go free and unnoticed, for so long?

  Harper prided himself on what he knew about the job. But the more he saw, the more he realized that he understood nothing. He barely skimmed the surface. Maybe that was something to bring up at the meeting. How could they learn more about all the criminals in Leeds?

  ‘Perhaps I will.’ He stood and stretched his back. Too many hours sitting in a chair; he wasn’t used to it. At least he’d get a little fresh air walking to the meeting at the Town Hall. The rain had stopped. Just enough time for a cup of tea in a café first.

  As he shrugged into his overcoat, Harper said, ‘Come with me, and you can tell me about Detective Constable Conway, since you think he’s so good.’

  THIRTEEN

  ‘He’s hiding something,’ Reed said, lighting a cigarette. ‘As soon as I brought up the subject of his son, it was like a window closed.’ He studied Ash’s face. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘All too well, sir,’ the sergeant said with a nod. He had tea and a bun in front of him, leftover stock that Elizabeth had brought home that afternoon from the shop. She’d left the pair of them in the kitchen to talk. ‘Did you find your answers about the explosion?’

  ‘Yes.’ Much good it did him, though.

  ‘Any ideas about what Crabtree’s not telling us, sir?’

  ‘No. How about you? Did you talk to his wife?’

  ‘She wasn’t there. But I had an interesting conversation or two in the end.’ He explained what he’d learned. ‘Thank you for the time, sir.’

  ‘I hear you’re going to be an inspector yourself soon.’

  The sergeant shrugged. ‘Maybe. I’m not about to jinx it.’

  At the front door they shook hands. Reed watched as Ash vanished into the evening.

  ‘You look dead to the world,’ Annabelle said. ‘Sit yourself down. Have you eaten yet?’

  He was exhausted. The meeting had dragged on until six, then he’d returned to Millgarth to finish the day’s work. Now, as he sat in the parlour, the grandfather clock began to strike nine.

  Harper felt numb from meetings and dealing with forms and reports. How had Kendall stood it for so long? He stirred as she put a cold slice of meat and potato pie on the table.

  ‘Is Mary asleep?’ Harper asked. Even as he spoke, he knew it was a stupid question.

  ‘She wondered where you were.’

  ‘Tell me something good,’ he said with a weary sigh.

  ‘I’m speaking on Saturday evening.’ She fidgeted with a notebook, glancing through the pages. ‘I’ve been trying to work out what to say. I thought I had it, then Maguire’s funeral made me think again.’ Annabelle gave a deep shrug. ‘So I’m back to square one. I’ll get there.’

  ‘It made me think, too, seeing all those people waiting for his coffin to pass.’ He stirred his tea and took a sip. ‘He did more good than he could ever know.’ Harper reached out and took her hand. ‘Maybe you will, too.’

  She chuckled and shook her head. ‘I’m just a woman with a big gob. The only thing I’m likely to do is make enemies because I speak out.’

  He knew all about the insults and the threats she’d received. No worse than many other women who were in favour of the vote, she said. But they weren’t his wife … Twice he’d gone to visit men who’d been foolish enough to put their addresses on the damning letters they sent. Timid, frightened men when he knocked on their doors. He hadn’t needed to say much to send them scurrying.

  ‘People round here look up to you, you know,’ he said.

  ‘Give over.’ But the words made her blush, her face reddening in the light from the gas mantles. ‘They’ve got more sense than that. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  But he did, Harper thought later as they lay in bed. People came to talk to her as if she knew things they didn’t. For advice, to be pointed in the right direction. Annabelle gave a small snore and turned over, away from him. He smiled in the darkness.

  ‘Good morning, Superintendent.’

  Harper looked around, expecting to see Kendall enter. But there was no one else, only him. The new rank hadn’t sunk in yet. It wasn’t real, it wasn’t attainable.

  Yet there it was. Superintendent T. Harper, the black letters fresh on the door of his office.


  More work waiting for him. A glance told him it was all routine, nothing urgent among all the papers. He’d made a decision as he sat on the tram: most things could wait until he found Henry White’s killer. Only then would he be ready for this new job.

  ‘Well, Willie?’

  Calder sat and stared at the envelope on the table. All around them the sounds of the jail echoed.

  Harper had brought him a packet of Woodbines. They’d vanished into Calder’s pocket with barely a nod. The dapper man they’d arrested was long gone. He was dirty now, as feral the rest of them. He could have been here a few years, not just a few days.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Go on. Open it,’ Harper said. Reluctantly, the man obeyed, tipping out the papers and the silver. His eyes widened at the flask and the cigarette case. He picked them up, stroked and caressed them before taking out his spectacles and inspecting them closely.

  ‘Beautiful work,’ he said admiringly. ‘So smooth.’

  ‘Where are they from?’

  ‘No idea.’ Calder’s voice was dreamy, lost in the objects, turning them over and over before finally setting them down and glancing at the papers. ‘What’s all this, anyway?’

  ‘Your legacy,’ Harper told him. ‘Everything Henry left you.’

  ‘It’s not going to do me much good in here.’

  ‘Read those. If you can identify J.D., and you’re right, I might have a word with the judge.’ He sniffed the air; old sweat, vomit, desperation. ‘Less time in here for you.’ He saw hope start to flicker in the man’s eyes. After a few days in Armley, an offer like that would be a big temptation. ‘I’ll come back in the morning. See if you have any answers for me.’ He slid the silver into his pocket, noticing the way Calder’s eyes followed the items. ‘Who knows, Willie, if you help me enough perhaps I’ll let you keep these when you get out.’

  White had left the papers for a reason. He’d expected Calder to understand them. Wait and see, he told himself. It was only one day. Wait and see. At least he’d done something worthwhile today. Now he could go back to his desk with a clear conscience.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ Sergeant Tollman said as he knocked on the office door, ‘but there’s a telephone call for you.’

  Harper hated the instrument. He knew how useful it could be, but it never felt right to him. More than that, his hearing made it awkward to follow a voice on the crackling, faint line. And it never brought good news.

  ‘Who is it?’ Harper asked. He glanced at the clock. Almost six. A little while longer and he’d go home.

  ‘The governor at Armley jail, sir. Says it’s urgent.’

  He felt fear, cold, clammy, creeping up his spine.

  ‘Hello?’ He shouted into the instrument, the receiver pressed hard against his good ear.

  ‘Superintendent? You were out here today to visit one of the prisoners.’

  ‘That’s right. Calder. What’s happened?’

  There was only one reason Governor Hobson would be doing this. He gripped the telephone so hard his knuckles turned white and felt the fear rise in his belly.

  A small hesitation. ‘Someone’s murdered him, Mr Harper. One of the guards found him in his cell an hour ago.’

  Too many thoughts in his head. A roar, a tangle of them.

  ‘How?’

  ‘He was stabbed.’ He could hear the tremor in Hobson’s voice.

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  The hackney jounced and rattled along the cobbles on the way to Armley. He stared out at the endless streets that stretched into the distance. An ocean of them, more than he could ever count.

  How could it have happened? Cell doors were locked. Calder should have been safe enough. He knew the jail was like any other place. It was violent, it had a pecking order. But Willie hadn’t been in long enough to make enemies. Something else was going on.

  There’d be an inquiry once the investigation was done. The governor would be blamed, of course.

  Too late for poor Willie, though.

  Hobson was terrified, his face pale and empty. His hands were shaking and he seemed to shrink into his suit as he led the way down the corridor. Behind their doors, the prisoners shouted, baying like they could scent death. The air was so thick with tension he felt he could slice it.

  The guards stood, grim-faced and alert, holding on to their cudgels. One was posted outside a thick metal door, pushing it open as the governor approached.

  Calder lay on his back, sightless eyes gazing up to the ceiling. His mouth was pulled back in a rictus grin; none of the peace of death for him. When Harper touched his skin there was still a little warmth and give in it. Blood pooled on the bunk under the body, soaked into the ticking of the mattress. A single wound, above and from the front.

  ‘Right. Tell me what you know,’ he said as he looked around the cell.

  ‘I came to check on him, sir.’ The guard stood to attention as he spoke. ‘We keep them locked away most of the time.’

  ‘How long ago was all this?’ He looked on the table, knelt on the floor to examine under the bunk.

  ‘About an hour and a half, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘The door wasn’t locked. I found the prisoner like this and rang the alarm.’

  ‘Who’s in this wing? What kind of prisoners?’

  ‘It’s mostly men on remand along this corridor,’ the governor replied. ‘Every cell door should have been locked.’

  Harper stood, eyes moving around the room. No papers. The only places they could be were under the body or beneath the mattress.

  ‘Give me a hand to roll him,’ he ordered the guard. Plenty of blood, but no notes. Not folded away in the dead man’s pockets either. His mind was racing as he asked questions. Had Willie been killed for some scribbling on scraps of paper? Who would even know he had them?

  ‘Who could have arranged for this door to be unlocked?’ Harper said.

  ‘The only one was the guard on duty,’ Hobson replied. ‘His shift ended at three. I’ve sent someone to fetch him.’

  ‘Right. I want to question the other prisoners along this corridor and I want every cell in the wing searched. Some papers are missing.’

  A procession of men came in and out of the room he’d commandeered. Every single one of them had been deaf, dumb, blind while the killing happened. Of course. No one was going to grass.

  Hobson knocked on the door. Another man stood behind him: young, with a thick head of dark hair and heavy whiskers, an intent expression on a thin face.

  ‘The guard wasn’t at his lodgings,’ the governor said quietly. ‘The landlady said he’d packed a bag and left.’ He looked like someone whose world had collapsed.

  ‘I took a rummage through his room, sir.’ The young man took over. ‘Nothing to say where he might be going. Not much of anything. I’ve sent a message to the railway station with a description. They’ll keep an eye out for him if he hasn’t already left.’

  Impressive, he thought. Someone who didn’t need to be prompted into action.

  ‘Very good, Mr …’

  ‘Conway, sir. Detective Constable Conway, D Division. The jail is part of our manor.’ He gave a smile.

  Conway? It took him a second; the man Ash had recommended for the sergeant’s job. Definitely a good choice.

  ‘Let me bring you up to speed.’ He told Conway everything he knew. The man listened carefully, asking a few thoughtful questions.

  ‘What’s so important about these papers, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was hoping Willie could tell me. I told him I’d come back in the morning after he’d read everything.’

  It hit him. The whole thing was an echo of Henry White. Harper had given him a day, too. And both men stabbed to death before they could tell him what he needed to know.

  ‘… after they put the body in the mortuary.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Thinking, or his ear was tired. Whatever the cause, he’d missed what Conway said.

  ‘I’ll search the cell thoroughly
once the body’s gone, sir.’

  The young man’s manner reminded him of the way he’d once been. Full of energy, eager, with something to prove. Only ten minutes together and he was already certain the lad had a good future at Millgarth.

  ‘You get on with it. Report on my desk in the morning. Find out everything about this guard.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Still want to work for me, Conway?’

  The man grinned. ‘I think it would be good, sir.’

  ‘So do I. I’ll be glad to have you.’

  He knew he’d gone home and slept, but he scarcely recalled it. By seven he was back in his office, gazing out of the window at the city awakening.

  Conway had been as good as his word. The report was waiting. The man must have worked all hours to complete it. But there was nothing hopeful inside.

  The guard’s name was Claude Talbot. He’d only worked at the jail for a few months, kept himself to himself, no real friends at work. Lodged at the far end of Armley, and his landlady barely seemed to recall him. Only two weeks in the house; she didn’t know where he’d lived before that. He’d returned home from his shift, packed a bag and left. No word, simply vanished.

  A flurry of questions came to mind. Had anyone come to the jail to see Talbot or visited him before work? Had anyone sent him a note? Harper scrawled in the margins of the pages and wondered if they’d find any answers.

  ‘I have a job for you,’ he told Ash when the sergeant arrived.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He unfolded the newspaper. Calder’s murder was the headline, of course. A killing in jail was meat and drink to journalists. They’d cobbled together a story. Two facts, bolstered by plenty of fantasy and speculation. Harper shook his head in disgust.

  ‘Talk to Calder’s wife. She’s locked up in the women’s wing. By now she’s probably frantic. Give her some assurance. I already told the governor, I want her well guarded all the time. See if she can give you any reason for someone taking a knife to her husband.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I’ll be up there later myself. Your friend Conway’s working on it, too.’

  Ash beamed. ‘He’s a good lad, isn’t he, sir?’