The Leaden Heart

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Yes, sir. One other thing. About the burglaries. You asked if George Hope had anything to do with Yorkshire College.’

  Hope, the first of the burglar’s victims. ‘I remember.’

  ‘He’s on the board there.’

  ‘I see. Leave it with me.’

  A quick word with Sergeant Tollman, then a walk to Woodhouse Lane to catch the tram, and out to Far Headingley, leaving the bustle of the city for wide streets, cleaner air and big houses. The address they wanted lay behind a low stone wall, oaks and elms hanging over the drive to offer cool, beautiful shade.

  ‘Must be good money in stone,’ Ash said.

  ‘There’s brass in plenty of things,’ Harper said. ‘Just not policing. What happened to the previous owner of the quarry?’

  ‘Died of old age.’

  Stained glass in the front door, a sunrise shining in reds and yellows. The superintendent pulled the bell, hearing it ring inside, and waited for the slap of shoes on the tile. A maid looked up at them quizzically. Harper removed his hat and produced his card.

  ‘We’re looking for Mr Nicholson.’

  ‘Is this about the death at the quarry?’ she asked. ‘Only I read about it in the papers.’ She was middle-aged, wide-eyed and nervous, alarmed at finding two policemen on the doorstep.

  ‘It is, miss,’ Ash said. His voice was warm and friendly. ‘Don’t you worry, these are only routine enquiries. Is he in?’

  ‘He’s not here. He and the missus have gone away.’

  ‘When did they go?’ Harper asked sharply.

  ‘A week ago Sunday. They do it every year. Take a house up in Staithes. They say the sea air does them good.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Fat chance I get to see it.’

  ‘Has he been in touch since the … incident?’ Ash asked gently.

  She shook her head. ‘Not with me.’

  ‘When are they due back?’

  ‘Another week yet.’

  Staithes, Harper thought; that was in Billy’s area. The maid gave them the Nicholsons’ address up there. And Reed had a vested interest in discovering the truth behind all this. Definitely worth a telephone call once they were back at Millgarth.

  ‘What do you reckon, sir?’ Ash interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Honestly? I don’t know.’ He kicked at a stone, sending it skittering down the street. ‘I keep wondering how the Smiths even knew about the quarry.’

  ‘I read the post-mortem on Jeb Pearce. Not much mercy in his death.’

  ‘None at all. Done for the sheer pleasure of it.’

  ‘Why, though? Any ideas, sir?’

  ‘I wish to God I did.’ He shook his head. No answers at all. ‘We’ll ask them when we catch up with them. I’m sure they’ll be happy to tell us.’

  ‘I daresay they’ll be quite eager to explain after a while in the cells.’ He sighed. ‘Do you know what worries me about all this, sir? If crimes like this are the future, all business and money, people like you and me are going to be left behind.’

  ‘I’m sure there’ll always be a place for the old school.’ But where would it be?

  It was a fine afternoon for a trip up to Staithes, Reed thought, as he guided the horse and trap along the road. A gentle breeze off the sea, barely a cloud in the sky. And finally, some proper police work to do.

  Staithes seemed an odd place to choose for a holiday. Not even a village, just a tiny fishing hamlet that barely survived. Picturesque, clinging to the hillside, and a good, small harbour. But still … he’d never heard of anyone going there just for the fun of it.

  His notebook held the words he’d scrawled as he talked to Tom on the telephone. Questions he needed answered.

  ‘If he can tell you, we’ll be one step closer to finding the men who killed Hester and Jeb Pearce,’ Harper had said. He hadn’t needed to add the rest – they’d be nearer to finding the men responsible for Charlie taking his own life.

  The house was at the bottom of the hill, not one of the grand buildings perched at the top with their wide views of the North Sea. Nicholson was down among the life of the village. A good enough place, though, built for the gentry a hundred years or more ago. His hand came down on the knocker.

  ‘I’m Inspector Reed, Whitby Police,’ he told the flustered maid who answered the door. ‘Is Mr Nicholson here?’

  ‘He’s not,’ she answered, then her eyes narrowed. ‘Is this about that death at the quarry?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘He got the letter this morning. Went white as a ghost. Picked up his easel and painting things and left. Didn’t even have breakfast.’

  ‘Do you know where he’s gone, miss?’

  ‘Harbour, like as not,’ she told him. ‘That’s where he goes to paint. He’s been over on Car Bar Bank a lot this year. The other side of the beck,’ she explained.

  ‘What about Mrs Nicholson?’ he asked.

  ‘Not been well since we got the news,’ she replied, and her eyes flashed a warning: don’t disturb the woman. That was fine. It was the man he wanted to see.

  Two cobles sat in the low water, ready to head out to sea in the morning. Six or seven more anchored in the harbour behind the breakwater. He picked out a figure sitting in the sun near the lifeboat station, easel and canvas set up in front of him. But the man appeared to be staring, not painting.

  That wasn’t quite true, he saw as he approached. He’d made a start on things, the colours of a dark, threatening sky, so different from what was in front of him. The man had talent; it looked very real.

  ‘Mr Nicholson,’ he said, and the man’s head jerked round, snapped out of his daydream. He was in his fifties, a full head of grey hair, wearing a pale summer suit of good linen, a shirt and tie, the straw boater lying on the ground beside his bag. Soft blue eyes and an expression of sadness on his face, a man whose world had been shaken. Reed introduced himself and said: ‘It’s a terrible thing that happened.’

  ‘That it is, Inspector. That it is.’

  ‘The man who died was called Jeb Pearce.’ No mention of murder yet. Start out easy, Tom had suggested. ‘Did you know him at all?’

  ‘No. I don’t believe I’d ever heard the name until I received a letter from the foreman this morning. I – we were shocked. Nothing like that has ever happened before.’

  ‘How long have you owned the quarry, sir?’

  ‘A year.’ His gaze shifted, looking out to the water.

  The story was straightforward. Nicholson was an engineer. He’d owned a small works in Hunslet, built up his business and finally sold out to a larger company. But retirement didn’t sit well with him, and he’d looked around for something new. He’d always been fascinated by stone, he said: the texture, the shades, the way it was cut and shaped. When he heard that the quarry was for sale, he’d put in a bid. But the price was too high. He tried the bank for a loan. They weren’t interested, so he began casting around for money.

  ‘A loan?’ Reed asked. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise. ‘Who lent you the money in the end?’

  ‘Someone I’d done business with before. He’s a sleeping partner. But I’d tried several others first.’

  ‘Do the names Jack and John Smith mean anything to you, sir? Two brothers.’

  Nicholson looked startled, and Reed’s heart began to pound.

  ‘I talked to them about a loan to buy the quarry. Nothing came of it in the end.’ He looked up curiously. ‘Why?’

  Reed ignored the question. ‘Why didn’t it happen, sir?’

  ‘Honestly, I’m not sure.’ He produced a cigarette case from his jacket, took one out and lit it, watching the smoke curl into the blue sky. ‘It was no secret that I was looking. They approached me, but we couldn’t agree terms.’ He cocked his head. ‘Why would they be important?’

  ‘Just asking, sir.’ He made sure his voice was bland, giving nothing away. ‘Did they ever come out to the quarry?’

  ‘Of course. That’s normal. Why do they interest you?’


  ‘Background, sir, that’s all.’ Reed smiled. ‘And you’re absolutely sure you’ve never heard of Jeb Pearce?’

  ‘Positive. I told you. The first time was my foreman’s letter.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘Here. Take a look if you like.’

  It was simple, just the facts. Nothing Tom wouldn’t already have seen for himself.

  ‘Thank you.’ He handed it back. Nicholson’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for it. ‘Have you had any other dealings with the Smiths, sir?’

  ‘None.’ He breathed slowly. ‘Do you suspect them in this man’s death?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, sir.’ Reed chose his words carefully. ‘All I have is what the people in Leeds wanted me to ask you.’

  ‘I see.’ A moment of silence, then a quick nod. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Did you ever go to the Smiths’ office?’

  ‘No.’ Nicholson’s voice was firm. ‘They came to me or we communicated by letter.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember an address for them?’

  The man smiled and gave a brief shake of his head. ‘As a matter of fact, I do. It was all a little strange, that’s why it stuck in my head. Do you know Leeds at all?’

  ‘I do, sir. I worked there before I transferred up here.’

  ‘It’s in Harehills.’

  ‘A grocer’s shop, perhaps?’

  Nicholson looked astonished. ‘Yes. I pass it most days on my way to the quarry. How did you know?’

  ‘It’s related to some other enquiries, as I said.’

  Five more minutes of questions, but he’d already learned everything useful. John and Jack Smith remained as anonymous as they’d been before.

  ‘The Leeds Police are looking into things,’ he said. ‘They’ll get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘I hope so, Inspector.’ Nicholson’s voice sounded weary. ‘I really hope so. And soon.’

  Before he left, there was one more question Reed wanted to ask.

  ‘I’m curious, sir. Why Staithes for a holiday? There’s nothing here.’

  For the first time, Nicholson smiled. ‘We’ve been coming for a few years.’ He gestured at the easel. ‘I like to paint. I’ve never seen anything quite like the light here. I like to try and capture it.’

  As he walked back to the cart, Reed felt his breathing ease. He had information to pass on. A connection. Tom would be able to use that.

  At the top of the hill, he let the horse rest. He turned back, glancing over the sea. The light? It was the same here as everywhere else, wasn’t it?

  THIRTEEN

  Harper stared at the map of Leeds on the wall, pins showing all the properties owned by the Harehills Development Company. But that didn’t bring him one inch closer to the Smiths.

  He stepped back. Only two common factors: the Smith brothers, and the grocer in Harehills where the company received its post.

  Nicholson was innocent. Billy had sounded certain of it when he telephoned the evening before. The quarry owner was genuinely shocked by the death, he said. Still, they’d learned something. At least they knew why the Smiths were familiar with the place. Now they needed to find out why they murdered Jeb Pearce.

  Sitting at his desk, he took a pencil and a clean sheet of paper and began to write down questions. Perhaps having everything in stark black and white might make things clearer.

  Who was behind all this? With the law blocking the way, he couldn’t know. But it had to be someone with access to the planning system, who understood how it worked. Councillors would know, and that brought one or two names to mind. A start. Why do it? That was simpler. The increased rents would bring in a good profit over the years. That meant that someone was looking to the long term with this. Why use the Smiths? They were a pair of clever, persuasive, brutal thugs; they made an ideal front for the operation. Had the pair moved out of control with the killings? He hesitated. Maybe so. In the end, he left that blank. He didn’t know enough to give an answer yet. How to catch them? Another empty space. None of his ideas so far had worked.

  He was still staring at the page when Fowler came in, a broad smile on his face.

  ‘You look happy,’ Harper said.

  With a magician’s flourish, the sergeant produced a thin stack of letters.

  ‘Correspondence for the Harehills Development Company, sir.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘I went to talk to Cameron like you wanted, sir. Told him I was interested in having my post delivered there. I’m a financial company, by the way.’ He winked.

  ‘Then I wish you large profits.’

  ‘From your lips to God’s ears. He was only too pleased to show me everything. Where he keeps the letters in pigeonholes behind the counter.’

  ‘How did you manage to grab them?’

  Another smile. ‘I went not long before he was closing. While he was outside dragging in those sacks of potatoes, I had a chance to be light-fingered. I didn’t think you’d mind a little theft, since it’s in a good cause.’

  ‘What theft?’ Harper asked. ‘I don’t see a thing, Sergeant. Go through them, then visit whoever wrote them. There might be something juicy.’

  Ash arrived with a quick report on Nicholson. It seemed to confirm what Reed had said: the man was clean.

  ‘What about Jeb?’ He turned to Walsh. ‘What was he up to in his last week?’

  ‘Not a great deal, sir. That’s what his friends told me, anyway. They can’t believe he’s dead. All of them were horrified when I told them how it happened, so I’m sure it was true. He was scuffling for pennies most of the time. Had a few quid a week or so ago, but he ran through it quickly.’

  ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘He never said. Kept hinting to people there might be more of it soon.’

  Easy to guess at the source of the money. But what had he done to earn it, and how had he displeased his masters so quickly?

  ‘What have the snouts given you on the Smiths?’ His eyes moved from one face to the next.

  ‘Blank looks,’ Walsh replied. ‘They don’t go in the pubs, don’t seem to go anywhere that I can find. They keep their noses clean.’

  ‘Suffocation and beating someone to death is hardly clean.’

  ‘Nobody knows them. I mean, not at all. They don’t spend any of their time with criminals.’

  ‘It’s exactly like I was saying yesterday, sir: this is a different type of crime,’ Ash said quietly.

  Harper sighed and rubbed his temples. ‘Keep pressing. Something has to give. I want enquiries sent to every force in the country. They came from somewhere. They have a past. Meanwhile, Walsh and Fowler have their work for the day. Ash, you’re coming with me. I think we’ll go and see our grocer friend.’

  The inspector laughed. ‘Right you are, sir. I’ll bring my shopping bag.’

  First, though, he needed an hour going through the papers waiting on his desk. The duties of rank. What he wanted was to be out there, doing something worthwhile. But the pile here wouldn’t vanish if he ignored it.

  He was grateful when Sergeant Tollman tapped on the door.

  ‘I’ve got Sissons here, sir. Exactly the kind of bobby you wanted.’

  ‘Send him in.’

  Harper had asked the desk sergeant to find him an intelligent copper in his early twenties, someone who didn’t look like he was on the force. With a grin, he’d said he knew the perfect candidate. And the young man who stood to attention in his stiff uniform seemed the part. Ungainly, still growing into his body. An innocent face with big brown eyes. Tall, with long limbs and scrawny arms. Nothing like a copper at all. Perfect.

  ‘Did the sergeant explain why I wanted to see you?’

  ‘No, sir. I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong,’ he blurted out.

  Harper laughed. ‘You haven’t. Take a seat.’

  He perched on the edge of the chair, keeping his back perfectly straight.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-t
wo, sir.’

  ‘And how long have you been with us?’

  ‘I joined when I was eighteen, sir.’

  He had experience, he’d have seen a few things. ‘Any ambitions? To work in plain clothes, maybe?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sissons’s face lit up and Harper had to hide his smile. Exactly the way he’d been at that age.

  ‘You might just have your chance.’ Time to see how clever the lad was. ‘Sergeant Tollman says you’re bright. Ever studied anything?’

  Sissons blushed. ‘I know it’ll sound daft, sir …’

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I like to read Latin and Greek. My mam thinks I’m cracked.’

  Hardly what he’d expected, but it could work well.

  ‘Where did you learn?’ Someone like Sissons wouldn’t have been in school long enough to be taught any of that.

  ‘From a book, sir.’ He blushed again, the colour rising all the way to his forehead. ‘And, well, night classes at the Mechanics’ Institute. I like it, sir. Don’t know why.’

  Harper sat back in his chair. ‘How would you fancy spending a couple of days at Yorkshire College?’

  ‘Sir?’ He sounded confused. ‘I’d love it, sir. But why?’

  The superintendent explained about the burglar and the connection to the college.

  ‘I need you to go there and be sharp, keep your eyes and ears open. Look like you’re part of the place. Poke around, ask a few questions. But do it carefully. Stay especially alert for any Geordies. We’ve no idea if our man is a student or works there. And for God’s sake, don’t let anyone know you’re a copper. Can you manage that?’

  Sissons nodded. His face was serious now, thinking about the possibilities.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’d be glad to. How often do you want me to report in?’

  ‘Every day. Sooner if you find something. We need to catch this man. It’ll give you a taste of detective work. I’ll make sure the college chancellor knows about you, so there won’t be any problems.’