But all the curtains were still closed at number twelve.
‘If I thought someone really lived there, I’d say he’d worked the night shift,’ Fowler said.
‘We need to make sure. Don’t want to be barging in on an innocent man.’
‘You don’t believe that any more than I do, sir.’
‘No,’ Harper agreed. ‘I don’t suppose I do.’
His eyes were fixed on the house and the ground around it. Waste ground to one side and behind, a heavy tangle of chest-high weeds that ran down to Low Fold Mills. But walls ran around it all; from all he could see, there was no other way out.
‘I’m going down to the mill,’ Harper said. ‘Keep watching.’
Atlas Street, Grand Street, then across more empty ground. The mill was overwhelmingly loud, row after row of looms booming like thunder in the huge room. The women still seemed to talk to each other, mouthing words and reading lips as their hands moved without thinking. Even up the stairs in the office, with the door closed tight, he could hear the machines and feel the thrum of machinery through his body. What would it be like for someone with proper hearing?
‘Anything to see from here?’
‘Nothing at all, sir,’ Walsh told him. ‘Curtains closed at the back of the house, no one’s been out in the yard. Sissons said there was no movement last night, but he did spot lights inside.’
‘Good.’ Someone was definitely there. Now he just had to hope they hadn’t vanished in the darkness. But how could they know anyone was watching?
‘Is there any other way out for them?’
‘Just that gap next to the house we’re watching, sir.’
They could be bottled in.
‘Is there a back door to the mill? A way to get to that ground?’
‘No idea, sir. You’ll have to ask the manager.’
He couldn’t hear a word as the man led him through the factory and into a store room. The noise buffeted him, pushing and pulling as he walked carefully between the looms. How could anyone stand it day after day? The women here must be stone deaf.
But the manager chattered away, seemingly oblivious to the sound. Finally, he closed the wooden door. Shelves lined the walls, all filled with bolts of finished cloth from floor to ceiling. It smelled dusty, catching in his nostrils and at the back of his throat and making him cough.
‘You get used to it.’ The man laughed. He had a thick, ruddy face, the back of his hands covered with wiry ginger hair. ‘Get used to anything in a place like this. This is what you’re looking for.’
A heavy door made of metal, two locks and a bar to hold it in place.
‘Needs to be solid so no bloody thieves can get in. Them lasses out there are bad enough, they’ll take owt that’s not nailed down.’ He produced two keys, worked them and lifted the bar. The door opened with a rusty shriek. Was everything so loud in this place, Harper wondered. ‘There you are.’
A mess of high weeds. A collection of rubbish near the door. Old machine parts, empty boxes. Anyone coming out of here would be hidden.
‘Is there another way through to this ground?’
‘Just here and that little bit of ground next to the houses up there. There’s a tiny little passage over there, but you’d need to be a kiddie to get through.’
So there was one more way. ‘Very good. Thank you. I need someone to be here with the keys to this door at half past eight tonight.’
‘I go home before then,’ the manager said.
‘Then leave them with someone else.’
‘I—’ He started to demur, then saw Harper’s expression. ‘Yes. Of course.’
A climb back up to the top floor.
‘We’ll go in this evening.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Walsh said. ‘Sissons will be here, too.’
‘If they try to make a break for it before then—’
‘I know what to do.’
‘I need six men from the night patrol,’ Harper said to Tollman as he walked into Millgarth. The sense of anticipation was rising. A few more hours and this would finally be over. He’d have the Smiths and wring them for every drop of information before he handed them over to the courts. As soon as the word spread that they were in the cells, it would be Councillor May’s turn to feel terrified.
‘I’m sure we can arrange that, sir. It’ll stretch us thin, though.’
‘Can’t be helped. Give me the biggest ones you have. But with brains.’
The sergeant grinned. ‘You have to make it difficult for me, don’t you, sir? I might be able to scrape enough together who meet those qualifications.’
‘Here at eight tonight.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The sun seemed especially bright today. A clear diamond sky. Reed had to squint in order to see properly as he walked around Whitby. He’d covered West Cliff, going all the way to the bridge, shimmering splinters of light rising from the Esk as it flowed out towards the sea.
The streets were crowded. Elizabeth’s tea shop would be doing a brisk trade in lemonade and cakes. Everyone looked happy, heartened by the weather, one of the best days he’d known since he moved here. Close to perfect.
Except for the arsonist. He was still on the loose. A check behind the buildings on Grape Lane, then along Church Street, working his way up the estuary. Reed strode through the arch into the courtyard of the Merchant’s Seamen’s Hospital.
And suddenly there was something. A hint of smoke in the air. Not coal; a different smell, paper and wood. Reed sniffed again, wanting to be certain. Very cautiously, he edged through a tiny stone passage to the back of the building, where the hillside rose sharply.
The fire had only just started to catch. Tiny yellow flames licked up and shimmered in the air as a figure vanished round the far corner at a run. Chase or stay? The years of being a fireman took over. He stamped out the blaze before it had any chance of taking hold, grinding down the embers until he was sure they were out. A few seconds earlier and he’d have caught the firestarter with matches in hand.
Nothing left but the burnt paper and charred wood. No damage done. Reed gave a satisfied smile. The arsonist was long gone, but that didn’t matter. He’d caught enough of a glimpse to know who it was. He’d take care of that later. Billy Reed took out his pocket watch: time to eat dinner. Maybe he’d stop at Custom House and see if Harry Pepper the excise officer was around. Suddenly he felt ready to enjoy the weather.
‘I thought I’d walk you home,’ Reed said. He’d waited in the market square until Elizabeth came out, Catherine Bush beside her.
‘That’s lovely of you, Billy.’ She stood on tiptoe and pecked his cheek. ‘You don’t mind Catherine coming with us, do you?’
‘Of course not. How are you liking the work?’ he asked the girl.
‘I enjoy it, sir.’ She had a meek voice, staring ahead as she walked quickly to keep up with them, not looking at him. ‘And Mrs Reed lets me keep the tips people leave for me.’
‘It feels good to be earning, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’ This time there was some warmth in her voice.
‘She’s such a hard grafter, too, Billy,’ Elizabeth said. ‘She does everything I need, doesn’t matter whether it’s clearing the tables or peeling potatoes.’
‘Are you starting to feel settled here, Catherine?’
The girl’s face lit up with a smile. ‘Very much, sir. I still can’t believe there’s so much sea and sand. And it always smells so clean, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He had to laugh. ‘Better than Leeds?’
‘Oh yes, sir. I’d like to live here for the rest of my life.’
They started up the twists of the hill at the bottom of Flowergate.
‘What does your sister do with herself now you’re working?’
‘She plays, sir. Mostly by herself. But school will start again next month.’ A pause. ‘I think she misses having me around.’
‘She used to get into trouble at the workhouse, didn’t she?’ He
could feel Elizabeth’s eyes on him, but he didn’t turn towards her.
‘Yes, sir, she did,’ Catherine answered. ‘She was only tiny when we went in there, you see. I’m all the family she has, and I don’t think she’s ever really understood what happened. Not when she sees other girls with their mothers and fathers.’
At the corner of Silver Street, Reed stopped and patted his pockets.
‘There’s something I’ve forgotten. I need to pop back to the police station for it. I’ll see you at home.’
‘All right, Billy love.’ Elizabeth sounded doubtful.
He raised his hat. ‘A pleasure to talk to you, Catherine.’
‘How are you, Billy?’ Annabelle’s voice sounded faint on the other end of the line, as if he was an entire continent away.
‘I’m fine,’ he answered, ‘and Elizabeth’s well. Very busy, though, but that’s good news.’
‘If you’re looking for Tom, he’s not here. Have you tried Millgarth?’
‘Actually …’ He took a breath. ‘I need to talk to you.’
The constables were waiting in the yard behind Millgarth. Tollman had done his job well; every one of the coppers was built like a battleship. They made him feel puny as he led them through the streets, the rhythmic tread of boots on paving stone behind him.
He left two of them with Walsh at the factory, taking Sissons and the rest of the coppers round to the Methodist chapel.
‘Anything?’ he asked Fowler.
‘Curtains closed all day, sir. Impossible to tell.’
Harper gathered the men around, Ash, Fowler, and the bobbies. They must look like an odd group, he thought, coppers in a church, sitting on the pews while he stood in front of them like a vicar.
‘I want you to listen very carefully.’ His voice boomed off the high ceiling. ‘This pair are dangerous. They beat one man to death, then cut him open. Another, they broke half his bones and tossed him into a quarry.’ He paused to let the words sink home. ‘They’re brutal and they’re killers. When you get them, you don’t show any mercy until they’re cuffed and helpless. Understood?’
Muttering. Disbelief. They’d learn quickly enough.
The Smiths were in there. He knew it as certain as breathing. They were waiting. But they’d have a plan. They weren’t the type to simply wait around to be arrested.
‘Four of you on the corner,’ he ordered. ‘As soon as you hear my whistle, take that front door down. Two of you cover that open area next to the house. Everything clear?’
This time there were nods and serious faces.
‘And make sure you’re careful,’ he added. ‘I don’t want any of you hurt.’
The mill manager was right. Only a child could fit comfortably in the passageway. Harper had to move sideways, shuffling and praying to God he didn’t end up stuck halfway. Rough brick brushed against his face and he felt a trickle of blood down his cheek. Then he was out into the waste ground, drawing in breath and knowing how stupid he’d been to try squeezing through.
The sky was growing darker, dusk coming on. But still enough light to see. Harper pulled the watch from his waistcoat. Twenty-nine minutes past eight. A little while longer to make sure everyone was in place.
The seconds ticked away. He had his whistle ready. On the stroke of half past he raised it to his lips and blew two long blasts.
The door to the mill burst open and his men came out, truncheons drawn, forming up in a line and advancing through the weeds. Up on the street they’d be running over the cobbles, big men putting their shoulders against the front door.
The passage was the ace. It had to be. Through there, out on to the street and away. But the Smiths would have a surprise if they tried.
The men moved forward at a steady pace, eyes fixed on the back of the house. Come on, he thought, get that door broken down.
And then he heard the dull boom of a shotgun.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Christ. Without thinking, he took a pace forward, then stopped himself. Ash was there, he’d handle things. The Smiths wanted confusion, they wanted blood. Anything to give them time to escape.
The police kept marching steadily across the waste ground.
The brothers would have shot to kill.
Two men ran out from the back door of the house. Finally, after all this time imagining them, they were right there. They were real. But so ordinary, so nondescript. A pair he might pass on the street without a second glance. Yet these two were deadly. They both carried shotguns.
Together, without a word, they halted and raised their weapons.
‘Down!’ Harper called, just before they could pull the triggers. He saw tiny fragments of brick fly off the building and heard the splintering crack of a breaking window.
‘Now,’ he shouted. ‘Go.’
The Smiths were running, raising their weapons again. Next to the house, coppers were running full tilt round the corner, the blood lust high in their eyes.
The brothers were cutting across the ground, sprinting towards the corner where he was waiting. A pause, firing off the remaining barrels as the police ducked, then running again. Straight for him. Just fifteen yards away. His men were rising, following.
Harper took the cosh from his pocket, feeling the weight in his hand. Two pairs of eyes stared at him with hatred, mouths set in bitter snarls. If he could stand his ground until the coppers were on them …
One of the Smiths lifted his shotgun like a club, putting all his strength behind the blow. Harper ducked, feeling it fly just over his head. But he couldn’t move fast enough to block the other side, and the metal barrel hammered against his ribs, ripping the breath out of him.
Pain shot through his body, white hot. Another blow on his shoulder and his arm went numb. The man was trying to push and kick him out of the way. He wanted to get to the passageway. Every nerve was screaming, he was on fire. But he knew he couldn’t move. He dared not or the bastards would escape.
Suddenly there was space around him. Men were shouting. Someone screamed. It took more effort than he could believe to raise his head. The police had them. One of the Smiths was kicking, his yelling muffled under a scrum of bodies. The other had a knife in his hand.
Slowly, Harper sank to the ground. He tried to catch his breath, but it wouldn’t come. He rested his back against the brick wall, hurting too much to speak. He clutched at his ribs. Drawing in air took all his strength.
He could only watch. One of the brothers was face down in the dirt, hands cuffed behind him, the biggest of the uniforms sitting on his back. The other was still dangerous. There was blood on his knife, one copper down in the dirt, moaning and clutching at his belly.
The man lashed out as a truncheon came down and caught him on the wrist. That was enough to stop him, all the bobbies needed to start raining down blows. Head, body, it didn’t matter. Just pummel him into submission, Harper thought.
Moments later the second Smith brother lay unconscious, wrists bound.
A hand reached out and Harper forced himself to look up. Ash, of course. Hat gone, dust and earth on his suit. Dependable, always there.
‘How bad is it?’ His words came out like a wheeze, thin and reedy.
‘The first blast came through the door. Caught McRae full on, sir. He’s dead. And they knifed Pickford in the belly.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Doesn’t look good. I’ve sent someone off for an ambulance.’
He extended his hand. Harper grasped the wrist and felt himself being slowly pulled upright. Christ, he hurt.
‘We got them,’ he said.
But was the prize worth the cost? He knew McRae. On the beat for fifteen years, a good, solid man, married with four children. Dead for doing his duty. Two of the others were kneeling by Pickford, trying to help him.
‘I want Fowler and Sissons to go through that house. Top to bottom.’ He had to pause after every word.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You and Walsh down to Millgarth with the Smiths.’
‘
Don’t you worry. We’ll get everything from them.’
Harper nodded. ‘Why don’t you help me out of here? I don’t think I can walk as far as the street.’
The coppers wanted revenge for their friends. He could see it on their faces. They deserved it. But they daren’t take it when a senior officer was around.
It seemed to take forever, a trek that exhausted him. Three times he needed to halt. The effort was just too much. Finally he was sitting on someone’s front step, watching as a constable guarded the body lying on the pavement outside number twelve. Someone had put a coat over the head. A crowd had gathered, keeping a safe distance.
‘We’ll have you off to the infirmary in no time, sir,’ Ash told him.
‘Pickford first,’ Harper ordered.
‘There’ll be room enough for two.’
He tried to smile, but it wouldn’t come. One man dead, another seriously wounded. The goods weren’t worth the expense.
The nurse finished winding the bandage tight around his chest before pinning it in place. Harper winced; this must be what a corset felt like.
‘You heard what the doctor said, Superintendent.’ She stood with her arms folded, staring at him with a forbidding expression. ‘Three broken ribs, and they’ll take time to heal. You’re lucky not to have a punctured lung.’
His chest had taken a battering, and he felt as if the stuffing had been knocked out of him. At least breathing was easier bound up this way. Not as painful.
‘What about the man who came in with me?’
‘The last I heard, he was still in surgery. You’d better look to yourself, though. You’re going to have some very bad bruises for a few days. They’ll be sore. And try not to cough or laugh.’
There was no danger of laughter. Not for a long time. Not after Cross Green. He needed to be out of here, to know what was happening.
‘You can put your shirt on now,’ the nurse told him. ‘The doctor wants you back in a week. Any problems, come in immediately.’
‘I will.’
He found Ash in the waiting room. No need for a question, just raising his eyebrows.
‘Nothing yet, sir. But I do have some bad news.’
The Leaden Heart Page 23
