Skin Like Silver

by Chris Nickson

  ‘You heard about the dead man’s wife?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding slowly, then stirred. ‘How’s the Carr investigation? Be honest.’

  ‘Stalled.’

  ‘I want you on Sugden, then.’ He was quiet for a few seconds. ‘Nothing else matters at the moment. I need to know if any of the victims had anything to do with Sugden. Dig deep. Even if it’s tenuous, I want to know.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It’ll be just you. I need Ash out searching.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Do you still have someone guarding Carr’s house?’

  ‘Since the funeral.’

  ‘Make sure he’s alert. We don’t want a repeat of the mess at the factory.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I think Billy’s right. Sugden’s snapped.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We have to find him. The pressure’s going to be on us now. Can you imagine what the newspapers are going to say in the morning? People will be scared to go out.’

  ‘More bobbies on the streets?’ Harper suggested.

  ‘How?’ The superintendent gave a deep sigh. ‘We’ll have everyone out searching. I can pull in a few men from Bradford and Wakefield, but not for long.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll catch him quickly.’

  ‘We’d better,’ Kendall said darkly.

  The painted sign read M. Samuels, Jeweller, in ornate script. But the window display of the shop had been removed, in its place black funeral crepe and a notice that simply said Closed for Bereavement.

  Harper knocked on the door and waited. People passed along Lower Basinghall Street. Walking over from Millgarth through the early crowds he could feel the tension, thicker than smoke in the air. Boys had been selling the morning editions of the paper, shouting out horror headlines. Two Shot On Street! Madman Kills Two!

  Finally a clerk emerged from the back room of the jeweller’s and opened the door.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir …’ he began but Harper introduced himself and the man nodded quickly. ‘Of course, come in.’

  It seemed unlikely that Sugden could ever have been a customer in a place like this. It felt as sacred as a church. The glass display cases gleamed, the carpet on the floor so thick he felt himself sink into it. Everything resonated with luxury and money.

  The office at the back was sparser, just a desk and battered wooden chairs, the door open to a workshop with vices and tools on the bench.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ the clerk asked. ‘As you can imagine, it will be several days before we reopen.’

  ‘May I offer the condolences of the force?’ Harper began. ‘It’s a terrible thing. But we need to look into it all. I’m sure you’ll understand that.’ He waited as the man nodded. ‘The man who killed Mr Samuel was called Stanley Sugden. Does the name mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He has a very long beard. Not a rich man, by any means.’

  ‘I’m certain he’s never been here. I’d remember a customer like that.’

  ‘How long have you worked here, Mr …?’

  ‘George Wall. I’ve been here for ten years.’

  ‘Who runs the shop with Mr Samuel?’

  ‘His brother-in-law. Mr Payne. It was Mr Samuel who made most of the pieces. He spends most of his time in there.’ He inclined his head towards the workshop then his face dropped. ‘Spent, I mean. Didn’t often see customers unless they wanted something special. Mr Payne and I work the shop.’

  ‘Could Mr Samuel have had an argument with Sugden over something?’

  The man pursed his lips then shook his head.

  ‘Not that I ever heard about.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  William Wright had been a clerk at Tetley’s Brewery, just a few minutes’ walk from his home in Holbeck. As the inspector approached, the thick smell of malt took him back to the years he’d worked at Brunswick’s, rolling barrels of beer. Too many bad memories.

  Wright had been employed there for almost twenty years, rising to senior clerk. But Sugden had never been employed at Tetley’s. There wasn’t even any record that he’d applied for a job at the place.

  There didn’t seem to be any connection between Sugden and his victims. Wright’s wife, sitting behind closed curtains in the small house, had never heard of him. Neighbours and relatives crowded around, offering consolation and food.

  Mrs Wright was distraught. She didn’t understand what had happened. Why it happened. She looked at the inspector for an explanation, but he had none. How could he? How could anyone explain it?

  The Samuel house was in Headingley, standing by itself at the end of a short drive, surrounded by trees whose leaves had fallen into large russet piles. A black wreath hung on the door. It seemed to be surrounded by silence.

  The maid let him into a parlour where John Payne and his wife sat with the three Samuel daughters. A tea tray sat on a low table, all the cups untouched, a plate of sandwiches uneaten.

  Payne led the inspector into another room, away from the women. He had a pinched face with prominent teeth, most of the hair gone from his head, neck bulging against a tight wing collar.

  ‘It’s not a suitable subject for the ladies,’ he announced gravely. ‘They’re upset enough as it is. Poor Michael, and what happened to Hannah. What I want to know is how you explain it, Inspector. How can something like that happen in the middle of Leeds?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir. Do you know of any connection between Mr Samuel and a man called Stanley Sugden? He’s the one who fired the shots.’

  ‘No,’ he answered shortly.

  ‘I have to check, sir.’

  ‘If the police were doing their job, he’d have been caught before any of this could happen,’ he fumed.

  ‘We were already searching for him.’

  ‘Well, you damned well didn’t catch him, did you? And now my brother-in-law is dead and my sister’s lost her husband and an eye.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ It was easier to let him rage than try to calm him. He was lost in his grief, pacing around the room.

  ‘What are you going to do about it? Is he still out there?’

  ‘Yes, sir, he is,’ Harper admitted. ‘And we’ll find him.’

  ‘It’s too late for Michael. And for Hannah.’

  ‘We’ll find him,’ the inspector repeated.

  Payne’s eyes blazed. ‘When you do, you won’t need to pay the hangman. I’ll do the job myself. I just hope you find him before someone else dies.’

  There was nothing to say to that.

  ‘Is there anything else, Inspector?’

  ‘No, sir. Once again, my condolences.’ He shook the man’s hand, feeling the force of his grip, and left.

  Reed stopped and stretched. His legs ached, his feet ached and he could barely think. He’d been awake for a day and a half, and all the fire and the fury of the night before had drained out of him. Darkness was falling; the day had turned chilly, and a fog was beginning to rise.

  He’d been all over Leeds, supervising the teams of coppers searching for Sugden. Nothing, of course. Now he needed to go home, have a hot meal and then to sleep for hours. He was too old to work this long. With the fire brigade you worked your shift and that was it. He lit another cigarette, coughing as he drew down the smoke. Millgarth was in sight, lights shining through the growing mist. He’d see how things stood, then go back to Elizabeth and the children.

  Ash was in the office, talking to a weary Kendall. The superintendent raised an eyebrow in question.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Right. Go home. Get some rest. We’ll start again in the morning.’

  ‘Any news at all?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘As far as we know, there was no connection between Sugden and the victims. The shooting seems absolutely random.’ He ran a hand through his hair and the faint perfume of his pomade floated around the office. ‘What’s going through his mind? Do you have any idea at all?’

  ‘No, sir. I wish I did.’ />
  Kendall gave a tired smile.

  ‘You’re probably wishing you’d gone back to the fire brigade, aren’t you, Sergeant?’

  ‘I’m fine, sir.’ A small lie didn’t hurt.

  ‘Good. God knows, I can use everyone I can get right now. Go home, the pair of you.’

  ‘Sir,’ Reed said, ‘you could use some rest yourself, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  The superintendent nodded. ‘When I can, Sergeant. When I can.’

  Outside, Reed tasted the fog, sharp and sulphurous.

  ‘Where have you been today?’ he asked Ash.

  ‘Hither and yon. Feels like I’ve seen all of Leeds.’

  ‘I know the feeling. Nothing?’

  ‘Not even a sniff, sir. The bugger’s gone well to ground.’

  ‘The problem’s going to be when he comes out again.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there, sir.’ He sighed. ‘I’d better go and see if my missus has forgotten what I look like. Maybe we’ll have more luck in the morning, eh?’

  ‘You look all in,’ Annabelle said.

  Harper flopped into the chair, glad to be off his feet at last.

  ‘I feel it.’

  She stood behind him, slowly kneading his shoulders.

  ‘I read about it in the Post. Was it really this Sudgen fellow?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he replied, feeling his muscles ease under her hands. ‘No doubt about it.’

  ‘Those poor, poor people.’ She stayed silent for a few moments. ‘I had Ellie pop your supper in the oven to keep warm.’

  It wasn’t hot, but there was ample food to take the edge off his appetite. Steak and kidney pie. He set the plate aside, letting the warmth of the fire wash over him. She settled on the chair across from him, gathering her skirt around her legs and folding her hands in her lap.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she began, and he cocked his head, waiting. ‘About your hearing.’

  ‘It’s no worse than it was a few days ago.’ He heard the edge in his voice and regretted it. But he didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. He was bone-weary and not in the mood for raking this over.

  ‘We could go back to that doctor.’

  ‘Why? He told us last time that it’s not going to get any better.’

  ‘See someone else then. London, maybe.’

  ‘Why? It won’t do any bloody good. We’ll just be throwing good money after bad.’ He gave her a wan smile. ‘I’m sorry. Let’s just leave it.’

  ‘If you’re sure that’s what you want.’

  He didn’t know what he wanted. As he’d gone around during the day he’d thought about the superintendent Dr King had mentioned. Deaf, but he’d carried on working as a copper. He’d thought about the other comment, too, that everyone probably knew about his hearing problem. It rubbed at him like a burr under his clothes.

  ‘For now,’ he said finally. ‘I know you’re trying to help.’ He remembered something. ‘It’s tomorrow night you’re speaking again, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ There wasn’t any pleasure in her voice. ‘I still don’t know why I told them I’d do it. I’ve spent all afternoon thinking of what I’m going to say.’

  ‘Just be the way you were last time. Say what you’re thinking.’

  ‘That’s the problem, Tom. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I get an idea, start to follow it, then there’s another and another and I get all tied up.’

  ‘You were fine before.’

  She dismissed it. ‘Beginner’s luck.’

  ‘No,’ he assured her. ‘It was a lot more than that.’ She shook her head, exactly the way he knew she would. ‘A lot more,’ he told her and reached out a hand. ‘I’m jiggered. Come on, let’s go to bed.’

  NINETEEN

  Another fruitless day. By five o’clock, worn and frustrated after tramping around Leeds for hours, Harper sat at his desk. Reed was writing up his report. No more than a few lines: where they’d searched, the fact that they’d found nothing.

  Suddenly the inspector sat upright. ‘The suffragist meeting tonight.’

  ‘What about it, sir?’ Ash asked. He had his hands wrapped around a mug of tea, warming himself.

  ‘Sugden might be there.’

  ‘He could be anywhere,’ Reed said bitterly. He took out a handkerchief and coughed phlegm into it. ‘Bloody fog.’

  ‘His sister was involved, she went to the meetings.’

  ‘You’re clutching at straws,’ the sergeant told him with a shake of his head.

  ‘We don’t have any better ideas. It’s worth a shot.’

  He saw Reed glance at the constable and roll his eyes. But he had their interest. The possibility of finding Sugden.

  Harper stood in the Albert Hall at the Mechanics’ Institute. The crowd was filing in slowly. Women for the most part, one or two accompanied by long-faced men who looked as if they’d rather be anywhere else.

  He’d spotted Annabelle a few minutes before. She’d been pacing around, unable to settle, dressed in a royal blue gown that caught the light, an elaborate bustle at the back, with her hair piled high, topped with a small military hat.

  ‘You look a picture,’ he told her.

  ‘I don’t feel like one.’ She chewed on her bottom lip. ‘What am I going to tell them, Tom? I said my piece last time.’

  ‘Then say it again. Some of them won’t have heard it.’

  She shook her head quickly, hands nervously brushing invisible specks on the front of the gown.

  She looked at him, eyes wide. ‘I’m going to stand up and open my mouth and nothing’s going to come out. I know it. In front of them all.’

  Harper stroked her shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he told her gently. ‘I promise.’

  She shooed him away so she could fret. Harper glanced out of the glass doors at the front of the building. The people standing in the darkness were nothing more than faint shapes.

  Reed and Ash would be out there, and Will Hardaker, the union man, would be looking after things. If Sugden appeared, this time they’d be ready.

  There were just a few stragglers, hurrying along on their way inside, their faces lit for a moment by the gas lamps along the street. A copper stood on the other side of the road, looking bored.

  Reed huddled into his overcoat. The night had turned cold, a sharp breeze coming down Cookridge Street and slicing at the back of his neck. He glanced at Constable Ash, standing twenty yards down the road, hands deep in his pockets, no expression on his face. A few men stood at the edge of the pavement, faces half-hidden by the mist. None of them spoke; they just gazed sullenly at the building.

  But no Sugden. Just the crowd of silent men, standing, looking, the ones they’d seen the time before.

  Reed had spent a little while with Hardaker earlier. They’d shared a cup of tea before the evening began. Now the man looked at him and shook his head. No sign of anyone with a gun.

  They were waiting, hoping and scared that Sugden might appear. The sergeant stamped his feet, glad he’d worn his heavy boots and thick socks. Times like this, all those years on the beat paid off.

  One of the silent men shuffled away, head down. Over the next half hour another two arrived. He stood and watched.

  Annabelle was the first speaker, standing at the front of the podium, hands by her sides, fists clenched. For a few seconds she’d simply stared at the people in front of her, and Harper held his breath, waiting for her to begin.

  Once she started, she was full of passion, the words spilling out of her mouth. And then, suddenly, she stopped and laughed.

  ‘You know what?’ Anabelle looked around the faces. ‘We can talk all we want, but there are only two things that’ll make them down in London get up on their hind legs and give us the vote. Give us, like it’s a special gift. And that’s if they realize it’s in their own interests, or if we scare them enough that they can’t say no.’ She stopped for a moment as they applauded loudly. ‘It won’t happen soon. Not this century. But it will happen. We’ll
make it happen, and so will all those who come after.’

  They stood and roared. She’d given them exactly what they needed. Hope and anger. He clapped along with the rest of them, then turned away. There’d be another hour of speeches yet. Inside the room was safe enough. He needed to see what was going on outside.

  ‘He’s not bloody coming,’ Reed complained. As the temperature started to fall, the fog was thickening. He coughed. ‘You know he’s not, Tom.’ He wanted to be home, sitting with Elizabeth in front of the fire.

  ‘We’ll wait until they’ve all gone,’ Harper said. Better to spend a little longer here and be safe. Ash raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  It was quiet. The mist drifted around, muffling sound. The gas lamps seemed to hang in the air, little blurred spots of light. Time passed slowly. The sergeant’s eyes felt gritty from trying to peer through the murk.

  Finally the doors of the Institute opened and the crowd started to flow out.

  ‘Let’s get down at the bottom of the steps,’ the inspector said. ‘Keep your eyes open.’

  ‘We know what to bloody do, Tom,’ Reed said quietly.

  Harper knew. He trusted both of them. But it was his wife in there and he wanted her safe.

  A few minutes passed, and only one or two were still left inside. Reed walked in small circles, trying to keep warm. The standing men had wandered away, the union guards were standing together, talking. The uniformed constable had vanished into the night.

  ‘Let’s call it a night,’ Harper said, watching Reed and Ash amble away.

  He climbed the stone steps, thanking Hardaker and his friend for keeping watch. Annabelle was still in the hall, talking to Miss Ford. He stood aside as workers cleared away the chairs and swept the floor.

  They were still talking when the gas lights dimmed. Isabella Ford gave a small laugh, took Annabelle by the arm and led her into the vestibule. The inspector followed. The woman’s coach was waiting outside.

  ‘Think about it, please,’ Miss Ford said as she waved goodnight.

  ‘What was that about?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She seemed stunned, out of words. ‘I’ll tell you on the way home.’