Harper grinned. ‘That should keep him occupied, anyway. Thank you.’
Crossley was still chewing the cake, standing and studying the map on the wall.
‘It’s a very bad business, isn’t it?’
‘A pity we can’t find out who really owns these properties,’ Harper said.
‘That’s the law, Tom. We’re never going to win that battle.’ He put the plate down on the desk. ‘I read the report on that body in Hyde Park.’
‘It was the worst I’ve ever seen, sir. I thought Jeb Pearce was bad, but this …’
‘Do you have any line on them?’
‘No. We don’t. Not a single clue. Everyone on the beat has their pictures, but …’
‘Put the word out to the newspapers,’ Crossley told him. ‘Let’s see what that brings us.’
A flurry of useless tips, the same as always. The chief knew it as well as he did. But Harper understood. They were desperate.
‘I’ll write something this morning.’
‘Very good. Now, what about the burglaries? What progress have we made on that?’
‘We’ve identified a suspect. Married. We searched their lodgings when they were out, but we didn’t find anything. He and his wife are both rock climbers.’
‘Perfect candidates.’
‘The new detective constable is spending his evenings watching them. We’re ready. As soon as they try something, we’ll have them.’
‘Make sure you do.’ Crossley frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Councillor May and two of his disciples came to see me yesterday. They’re trying to put pressure on me about you.’
‘You saw my note about Councillor May coming here?’ He’d never mention the threat to Crossley. No point, when it was his word against May’s. And he wasn’t about to say a word about the file in his drawer. Not until he was good and ready.
‘I did. For what it’s worth, I told him to get out of my office.’ His mouth hardened. ‘I won’t be cowed by a man like him.’
‘I hope you didn’t tell him that, sir.’
Crossley smiled. ‘I’m not that foolish yet, Tom. If you can wrap up the burglary case, that should shut them up for a while.’
‘We will, sir. It’s probably the first time I’ve ever wanted someone to go out and commit a crime.’
‘And on these Smith brothers … if there’s anything you need, let me know and you’ll have it.’
‘Thank you, sir. After we find them, we’re still going to need solid evidence against them.’
‘Get them behind bars and we’ll find that.’ He stood. ‘The first intake of special constables starts training on Monday. You’ll be getting your share once they’re ready.’
‘Yes, sir.’
At the door Crossley turned back, glancing at the plate. ‘Do you feed that cake to all your guests?’
‘Only the special ones, sir.’
‘You should try it on your suspects. It might increase your confession rate.’
Walsh was grinning as he hung up his hat and settled on his chair with a sigh of relief.
‘I found that link between Jeb and the Smiths, sir.’
‘Then tell me about it. I need some good news today.’ He ran a hand through his hair. The hours had passed too slowly, every minute taking an age to go by.
Walsh opened his notebook. ‘I finally managed to track down a friend of Jeb’s. He’s been working down in Sheffield. Came back two days ago. Seems Jeb had been doing one or two jobs for the Smiths. Keeping an eye on people, that sort of thing. He had the bright idea that he could blackmail them and make some real money.’
‘Poor bloody Jeb. He was the eternal optimist, wasn’t he? He should have known better than to try anything with that pair. Did your man have any other information?’
‘One little nugget, sir. Jeb used to meet the brothers at Beckett Street Cemetery. There was a grave the Smiths would visit.’
That meant something. Harper placed his elbows on the desk and leaned forward.
‘I don’t suppose he knows which one?’
Walsh smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, sir, he does. Jeb was curious and they went up there one day. Eight people mentioned on the headstone. Most of them are called Johnson, all died the best part of thirty years ago.’
Around the time the brothers were born. Who was in that grave? Parents? Grandparents? The cemetery stood across the street from the workhouse …
‘Let’s go and see,’ Harper said. ‘There should be someone around to go through the records.’
It took an hour of searching before they stood on a patch of dried brown grass and staring at the carving on the stone. Johnson, Emmeline and Charles. Both died in 1873. Five more with the same surname, their dates of death earlier, all of them children gone before they were two years old. Finally, someone named Christine Bonner, whoever she might be.
‘Doesn’t give us any explanation, does it, sir?’ Walsh said.
‘I’m not so sure.’ Harper looked over his shoulder. Across the street, the workhouse loomed large and forbidding. ‘You go back to work.’
A police superintendent and the husband of a Guardian; they did everything but have a brass band playing for him. The workhouse master brought out the ledgers for 1873. The entry was there, neatly written: Admitted November 14, two orphaned boys, John and Jack Johnson, aged four years. Uncle a widower with children, unable to take them.
‘Can we trace their time here?’
Sometimes all the records and attention to paperwork was a blessing. The brothers had been a handful. Aggressive, often beaten by the teachers, bullying other boys. At the age of nine, they’d been recommended for emigration to Canada. The rough life out there might hammer some discipline into them.
One final note was clipped to the page, the ink fading to brown. On the way to the ship in Liverpool, John and Jack escaped. The police were alerted, but they were never found. Gone, forgotten among all the other children who passed through the place. But this pair had come back to Leeds.
It wasn’t much, but for the first time he felt he really knew them. He had a proper taste of them.
TWENTY-THREE
‘We spent most of the day in Harehills,’ Fowler said as he returned with Sissons. ‘Visited the shops this Harehills Development Company owns. The Smiths haven’t been round collecting rent. People are wondering what’s going on.’
‘They’re trying to keep their heads down.’ Harper rubbed his chin, feeling the bristles. He needed a shave. ‘That’s good. Let’s keep them running.’ A moment’s thought. ‘I’d like you out with Sissons tonight, keeping watch on our burglars. They must be about due to strike again.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If they set foot outside with a bag, telephone me at home. I’d like to be there when you catch them.’
He hadn’t forgotten May’s threat. He couldn’t. Only words, maybe, but they still lurked inside him. To have him killed. As he climbed down from the tram in Sheepscar, Harper’s eyes darted around, alert for anyone. He crossed the street quickly, then through the doors of the Victoria as he realized his heart was thumping. He was going to feel this way until the case was done.
He didn’t carry a truncheon, but he had one weapon in his pocket, a woven leather cosh filled with lead shot that he’d confiscated from a street robber. Easily hidden, and handily dangerous. If they came for him, he’d give them a fight.
Annabelle was staring at her face in the mirror, adding a little more powder around her eye. The bruise was fading, the rainbow of colours growing dull.
‘I had an appointment at the workhouse this afternoon,’ she said. ‘I swear, half the women looked at me and assumed you’d done it.’
‘I hope you set them straight.’
‘I told them you beat me black and blue on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and red and green on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, with Sundays off for good behaviour.’ She saw his face fall and turned. ‘Course I said what happened, you daft ha’porth. It ga
ve them a good laugh. I hear you were up there yourself. Digging into records or something.’
‘Mam,’ Mary called out, ‘why do they call it a shiner?’
‘Because it glows in the dark.’
‘Does it?’ Her eyes sparkled with interest. ‘Does it really?’
‘No, it’s just a word. Where did you hear it, anyway?’
‘Billy Westow. He says his dad gives his mam shiners all the time.’
Annabelle looked at him.
‘You tell Billy that his da shouldn’t do that, and he’d better not do it, either,’ Harper said.
‘I already did,’ Mary answered. ‘I told him if he tried it with me, I’d punch him on the nose.’
Annabelle rolled her eyes.
Home. A complete madhouse. But nowhere else he’d rather be.
Later, in bed with his arm around his wife, Harper asked, ‘What about your meeting with the Liberal on the Guardians?’
‘I’ve put it off till next week. Better if I look normal again. There’s a third man I’d like to talk to, as well. But he’s Temperance, so you can imagine how he feels about me owning a pub.’
‘You’ll convince them.’
She snuggled closer. ‘Probably not. But if I can persuade them to go for one thing, that’ll help. Something for Annie and Ada. Just one thing, Tom. I’ve asked the chairman to convene a meeting of the board so I can put my ideas forward. That’s not a lot, is it?’
No, he thought. It wasn’t, and sometimes small victories were the only ones possible. But he needed something bigger.
‘Mr and Mrs Dunn took a stroll again last night,’ Sissons said. Just a few days on the squad and he was already looking more comfortable, starting to belong there. ‘The same route as the night before. He was still limping a little.’
‘They kept stopping to look at houses,’ Fowler added. ‘Interesting, though. They were always ones with no lights burning.’
‘Were they carrying anything?’ Harper asked.
‘No, sir. Looked like they were selecting their next job,’ Sissons said. He glanced at the sergeant. ‘We’re sure of it. They took more time over everything than the night before. Probably just waiting until he’s healed.’
‘Or he might think someone’s watching and he’s putting it on for effect. We’ll have the pair of you out again tonight. I’ll join you.’ He could feel the prickle of excitement. And if it wasn’t tonight, it would be the one after. Just a matter of time until the Dunns were in custody. ‘In the meantime, I have another job for you. You’re both good with records and details. Find out about a family named Johnson. The parents died back in seventy-three. Surviving twin boys called Jack and John. They were put in the workhouse. I want to discover what happened with the family. We already know where the brothers ended up.’
‘Glad to, sir,’ Sissons replied, smiling.
‘Where do you want me, sir?’ Walsh asked. He seemed relieved to have escaped a day sorting through papers and fusty documents.
‘We’ve cut the Smiths off from their account at the bank and we know they haven’t been showing their faces to collect rents. Where’s their money coming from? Find me the answer to that.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘The chief was here yesterday,’ he told Ash after the others had left.
‘Tollman mentioned it, sir.’ For a moment, there was mischief in his eyes. ‘Said he gave him some cake.’
‘Mr Crossley’s probably still chewing. May went to see him again. The chief more or less threw him out.’
‘What do you want me to do, sir?’
‘We need more ammunition against them.’
‘We’ve gathered a fair bit already, sir.’
‘But still no link between them and the Smiths.’
‘If it exists.’
‘It’s there,’ Harper said. He was convinced. ‘It makes sense, it fits. I can feel it. If we could find out who runs the North Leeds Company …’
‘You know we’re hammering our heads against a brick wall there, sir. Their lawyer will never tell us.’
‘I know, I know.’ He exhaled loudly. ‘Sometimes I think the best thing we could do for justice is get rid of all the attorneys.’
‘I doubt there’s a copper alive who’d disagree, sir.’ He gave a small cough. ‘By the way, I’m hoping to meet a friend who has a position in the Clerk of Works office. He has a few stories to tell.’
‘We need evidence.’
‘We have it in the file. Enough to give to the chief, sir. That should keep Mr May off your back.’
He’d love to believe that. But he knew about men like May. If they couldn’t find revenge one way, they’d have it another.
Harper had a stop of his own to make. Over to the brand-new Metropole Hotel, a stone’s throw from the railway station. Another sign of the money in Leeds. But all the elaborate facings on the brickwork and the cupola from the old Cloth Hall couldn’t stop soot from turning the brickwork black. Just a year old and already it looked like it had been planted there for decades.
Seth Myers was sitting in the restaurant, an empty plate and a jug of coffee in front of him. He was a ponderous man, straining at the seams, cheeks hanging in jowls, chins merging with his thick neck. Every movement seemed to make him break out in a sweat as he waddled his way around Leeds. This was as much of an office as he had.
He looked ridiculous, but his mind was sharp and precise. Myers made a living selling information, everything he heard tucked away in his head and ready to be passed on if the price was right.
‘Rare to see you in here, Mr Harper,’ Myers said. He had a soft, high voice, more like a woman than a man, coy and striking.
‘That’s because I don’t often need to speak to you.’ He sat across from the man, took an empty cup and poured himself some coffee. A few years before, Myers had found himself in trouble, owing money he didn’t have. For once, someone had been too clever for him. Harper had helped. A visit from a policeman and all the worry dispersed like smoke. It left Myers with another debt, but this was one he’d be able to repay.
He was the man who could shine a light on the shadows, the one who knew all the darker secrets. Harper had saved the best for last.
‘You look like a man with something on your mind, Superintendent.’
‘Two things, if you want to know. Councillor May and Councillor Howe.’
‘I see.’ He brought out a packet of cigarettes, lit one and began to cough, spitting into a handkerchief. ‘They’re powerful men in this city.’
‘For God’s sake, Seth, don’t waste my time with the bloody obvious. If you can’t do better than that, I might as well leave now.’
Myers kept a steady gaze. ‘Give me an idea of what you want, Mr Harper.’
‘The stuff hardly anyone knows. With proof, or tell me where to find it.’
Myers smoked, then rubbed his hand across his mouth. ‘Can you come back tomorrow?’
‘Yes. And if you can find a link between them and some brothers called Smith, everything between us will be square. I need facts, though, not rumours.’
Fowler and Sissons were collating their papers, a small stack of them, putting everything in order. Harper leaned against the desk, waiting.
‘We’ve managed to find a few things, sir,’ the sergeant said as he pushed the spectacles up his nose. ‘Would you like to take a guess where Mr and Mrs Johnson lived?’
‘Harehills.’ It didn’t need a genius to think of that.
‘The father was a cobbler. Not a very good one, from all reports, he never had much business. Liked to drink what he earned. His wife took in washing.’ Fowler shrugged. They’d all heard the story a thousand times. Children in those families were lucky to survive. Judging by the gravestone, most of them hadn’t.
‘The death certificates on both parents say pneumonia, sir,’ Sissons told him. ‘It was October, so they probably couldn’t afford to heat the house.’
So common. So mundane. And a pair of killers
had grown out of that. When the brothers were small, they were the type of children Annabelle would have been fighting to protect. Now her husband was going to put them on the gallows. Life playing its cruel jokes.
‘We went up to their old neighbourhood,’ Fowler said. ‘A few people still remember them. The father was surly, drunk half the time. Pawned some of the boots people brought in for him to mend. Not very popular.’
‘Have the brothers been seen up there?’
‘I showed the photographs around. Nobody recognized them.’
One point bothered him. ‘If they didn’t have any money, how did they afford a headstone?’
‘Mrs Johnson had burial insurance, sir,’ Sissons said. ‘Paid it every week, on the nose, always made sure there was a penny set aside. Doted on her children. Fed them before she’d take a bite herself. That other woman on the gravestone was her sister.’
It was common enough. People wanted some memorial, something to say that they’d lived and died and spent some time on this earth.
‘Good work.’
The information filled out the image, added colour and shade to what he’d learned. Jack and John, a pair of boys who still idolized and mourned their mother, not seeing that they’d grown into the kind of men she’d despise.
‘Any leads on where they’re finding money, Mr Walsh?’
‘It’s definitely not the shopkeepers, sir. I visited more of them, and nobody’s seen hide nor hair of the Smiths. No robberies that could be them. All I can think is that they have some squirrelled away.’
‘They have another place,’ Harper said. ‘A bolt hole we don’t know about yet. Sissons and Fowler, you’re going back to the planning office tomorrow.’
The sergeant grinned. ‘The clerk will be sick of the sight of coppers.’
‘He loves the company.’ Harper smiled. ‘You’ve all done an excellent day’s work.’
‘What did your pal in the Works office have to say?’
The chop house was busy, alive with the constant low hum of voices as men dined after work. Prosperous people with content faces, tucking into their food.
Ash chewed a piece of lamb, picked out some gristle, then said: ‘He’s promised me some information on Monday, sir.’
The Leaden Heart Page 19
