‘No, the young one, Padewski. We already have Alfred’s men in jail, so it can’t be them.’ Harper tapped his fist against his chin. ‘We’re back to square bloody one.’
The sergeant swore. ‘What can we do now?’
‘Think. And look.’ He ran his hands down his face. ‘And we’d better start praying for some good bloody luck. Go over all the statements again, Billy. See if there’s anything at all we missed before.’
Harper heard the sound of the day shift coming on duty at six, and an hour later Kendall swept in. They’d found nothing.
‘My office,’ he said. ‘The pair of you.’
They waited as he removed his winter clothing and rested his shiny top hat on its hook.
‘Right. What have you learned so far?’
It didn’t take long.
‘Maybe there’ll be more when Maitland’s taken the statements,’ the inspector finished. ‘We’re going to search Copenhagen Street once it’s light enough.’
‘Ideas?’ Kendall asked, staring from one face to the other. ‘I need to know what you’re going to do, Tom. The chief’s going to ask me.’
‘We’re going back to the beginning.’ He’d gambled, put the sergeant in with the men at the Cork and Bottle and Alfred’s troop. And he’d lost.
‘You can have Ash with you,’ Kendall told him. ‘See how he does in plain clothes. That’s all, gentlemen. Tom …’ he added as Harper was leaving.
‘I know, sir.’ Time. The one thing they didn’t have. And it was vanishing quickly.
He pulled out his pocket watch. Half past seven. A few more minutes and they could leave. He pulled across another pile of statements. Before he could start reading, though, he heard the clump of boots across the floor.
‘Ash, sir, reporting for duty.’ There was a huge smile under the bushy moustache. He looked awkward, squeezed into his suit, the collar so tight that his face was red. His hand was extended, holding out a letter. ‘Sergeant Tollman said to give you that, sir. It’s addressed to that French copper who was here.’
Muyrère, Harper thought in surprise. Why would anyone write to him here? A Leeds postmark and flowing, feminine handwriting. He ripped open the envelope. There was a single sheet with the address printed at the top: Oakwood Grange.
Capitaine,
I thank you for your visit and the knowledge you will do all you can to find my husband. However, I have new information. My son arrived yesterday, back from America. He has talked to people in New York who claim that Mr Thomas Edison contracted two men to see that my husband’s patent did not arrive before he had the opportunity to file his own.
I understand that you may already have left for America, but perhaps an officer from Leeds Constabulary can talk to my son and forward the information.
Yours sincerely,
Elizabeth Le Prince
Later. He’d go and see her later, once he had a spare hour. There were more important things on his plate than the disappearance of Louis Le Prince. He took out his watch once more.
‘Right,’ he announced. ‘Let’s get moving.’
As they walked he briefed Ash. The constable stood taller and broader than the others, a bowler hat perched awkwardly on his large head. He listened carefully, asking a few thoughtful questions, ready to work as soon as they reached Copenhagen Street.
FIFTEEN
‘I hope you’re ready to get mucky,’ Reed said. They were standing by the privy on Copenhagen Street, cold to their bones. The air still stank.
‘If I’d known, I’d have brought me apron,’ Ash replied with a chuckle. ‘At least it’s frozen, eh, sarge?’
‘Be grateful for small mercies. You wouldn’t be able to breathe back here in summer.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘A knife, if we’re lucky. More likely we’ll see patches of blood if the rabbi was killed here.’
It didn’t take long to find a lake of blood, dried and cold on the ground. But no knife. They used sticks to poke and move piles of rubbish, all of it in vain.
‘There’s nothing else to find here, Sergeant,’ Ash said finally.
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Reed agreed thoughtfully. The last time the killer had abandoned the blade. Why not now? ‘We’d better widen the search a bit.’
They were thorough, another half hour in the area around the lavatory and down in the pans. But still no knife. Finally Reed stood with a long, weary sigh.
‘It’s not here.’
‘We’ve found where he was killed, though,’ Ash said.
‘For whatever that’s worth. It doesn’t give us any clues.’
‘What now, sarge?’
‘We go up the road.’ He saw the inspector standing there, checking with the constable who’d been on the house-to-house.
Reed followed Ash’s long stride, eyes moving around, searching for anything they’d missed, any place where a knife could be hidden. The first time, the killers had stolen a knife and left it. Why would they take it with them now? The thought niggled at him.
They were halfway along the street when he stopped suddenly. ‘Come with me,’ he told the constable, turning back to the privy. He looked at the building again. It was solid brick, taller than a man, topped with a corrugated tin roof. ‘Boost me up.’
Ash made a stirrup with his hands. Reed placed his foot in it and reached for the edge of the roof, holding on to the metal as he struggled to pull himself higher. He could see the top now. There. A knife with a long, thin blade, along with a hat and a broken pair of spectacles. He stretched out his arm, straining, but he couldn’t come close enough; he was still a few inches away.
‘More,’ he said, gritting his teeth. He heard Ash grunt, then he could stretch a little further, enough to touch the handle of the knife. But he still couldn’t grip it. His fingertips teased against the surface, tapping at it, trying to pull it closer. He held his breath. Half an inch at first, then another until he could grip it firmly. He used the tip of the blade to drag the hat and spectacles close and topple them on to the ground. ‘Down now,’ he ordered.
With both feet on the ground he brushed off the front of his overcoat and straightened his hat.
‘Well done, sarge,’ Ash said with real admiration. ‘I’d never have thought of that.’
Reed held up the knife, studying it. The blade was long, the best part of twelve inches, blood dried on the steel, the handle made from bone. With the hat and glasses there was no doubt at all. The rabbi had died here.
‘Take a look at the knife,’ the sergeant said. ‘Tell me what you see.’
Ash stared, frowning, bring his head close to peer at the blade. ‘It’s been used a lot,’ he began slowly. ‘And that bone handle won’t be cheap.’
‘Good.’ Reed gave an approving nod. ‘The knife that was used last time belonged to a butcher.’
‘I’d say as this does, too.’
‘Yes.’ It felt good to be doing proper police work again. He’d enjoyed the assignment infiltrating Alfred’s men. It had made his blood run faster, like the excitement he’d felt in the army before he went into a skirmish. But it was real, being a detective, and this was solid; it gave them the first step to finding the killers. ‘Let’s see what Mr Harper says.’
The inspector was still talking to Maitland; the young copper looked dead on his feet.
‘Right,’ Harper said as they approached. ‘You’ve done a good job. Let Forsyth take over. Go home and get some sleep.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Maitland replied with relief. As he marched away, the inspector turned.
‘What did you find?’
‘That was the killing ground, right enough,’ Reed confirmed. ‘Plenty of blood, and these were on the roof of the privy.’
Harper took the knife, weighing it in his hand. ‘You know what I think, Billy?’
‘Same as me, I dare say.’ He smiled.
‘The last one was stolen from a man at Leadenhall. I’d start there if I were you.’
‘I don’t suppose anyone saw or heard anything?’
‘It was New Year.’ Harper shook his head. ‘Too much noise around, a scuffle or three. No one seemed to notice anything unusual. It’s the mood round here that worries me.’
‘On the edge, is it, sir?’ Ash asked.
‘It will be, once the funeral’s over this afternoon. I’m going to see Feldman, then I’ll have a word with the super about having more coppers around here later.’
‘Come on,’ the sergeant told Ash. ‘Let’s go and earn our pay.’
Leeds was a wall of noise and movement. The roads were filled with omnibuses, carts and carriages, all the overwhelming noise of wheels and hooves, and men shouting as they worked. Reed watched them as they walked.
‘Do you prefer this detecting to walking a beat?’ Ash’s question interrupted his thoughts.
‘I do,’ Reed answered. He’d done his stint in uniform. Every one of them had begun that way, all the way up to the chief constable. They all knew what it was like. His patch had been around Marsh Lane, the roughest part of Leeds. The coppers had to patrol in pairs there. It was the only way to stay safe. The streets were unpaved, mud that turned into bogs after the rain. Families crammed into cellar rooms with no water, no heat, damp running down the walls. After Afghanistan, the sergeant thought he’d seen how primitive and brutal life could be, but Marsh Lane had shocked him. As soon as the chance came to put on plain clothes, he’d grabbed it.
‘Looks like there’s plenty of thinking involved,’ Ash said doubtfully.
‘You have to use your brain,’ the sergeant agreed. ‘That’s part of the pleasure.’
‘I don’t know, I’m used to my beat. All the problems, keeping everything in order.’
‘You’ll find this different.’
‘I can see that.’ He paused. ‘You’re not a married man, are you, Sergeant?’
‘No, I’m not.’ They passed by Lockwood’s Hotel on Vicar Lane, the smell of beer wafting out as the door opened. ‘Are you?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Ash beamed. ‘Met her when we were at school, as happy as you please. We adopted that lass as went missing from Fidelity Court back in the summer. Bright as a button, she is.’
The arch led from the street into Leadenhall Carcass Market. They stood as a butcher took his cleaver to a carcass, opening it in deft strokes. Steam rose from the inside as he pulled out the guts and used another knife to cut them away.
The foreman bustled over, his face dark and suspicious. ‘Who are you?’
‘Leeds Police,’ the sergeant told him.
The man spat. ‘We had one of your lot here a few days ago.’
‘Do you know this?’ He held up the knife.
‘That’s what the other fellow asked. Different knife.’ He frowned. ‘This one kill someone, too?’
‘It did.’
The man shook his head. ‘It’s not from here, I can tell you that. None of my lads has one of those bone handles.’
‘Have you ever seen it?’
‘No,’ he answered brusquely. ‘Try the butchers’ shops.’
Back on the street, Reed could breathe more easily, away from the stench of meat and blood. ‘How many butcher’s shops in Leeds, do you think?’
Ash raised an eyebrow. ‘No idea, sir. Fifty? A hundred? There are four on my beat and two close to where I live.’
Too bloody many to visit, the sergeant thought. They’d need to have the bobbies go round and ask. He stood, thinking.
‘There’s the fish market,’ Ash suggested. ‘They use knives, too.’
It was a good idea.
‘Come on, then.’ Reed began to walk. ‘You might have the makings of a detective.’
The fish market stood no more than two hundred yards from Millgarth, a wide hall with light coming through a glass roof. The floor was slick, sparkling with scales, and the smell was overwhelming. But the men wearing leather gauntlets, tall rubber boots and big aprons didn’t seem to notice. They worked at tables, slicing and gutting then tossing the fish into baskets.
Reed gazed around. Hardly anyone gave him a glance, all of them absorbed in their labours. Finally he’d had enough. He raised the knife and yelled, ‘Anyone know this?’
It brought their attention. Heads turned quickly and peered.
‘Anyone?’ he asked again.
‘That’s Clem’s,’ one of the workers answered. ‘Looks like his, any road.’
Two or three heads nodded.
‘Where’s Clem?’ Reed asked.
‘Didn’t come in today,’ the man replied with a chuckle. ‘Probably still drunk. Not that he’s worth owt when he shows up.’ He blinked behind thick spectacles. ‘Why, who are you, anyway?’
‘Police. Where does Clem live?’
‘Nay, lad,’ he said, ‘you want the office for that.’
‘Where is it?’ Ash asked.
‘Down the end of the block. But that clerk’s neither use nor ornament.’
They strode off. The office was a tumbledown wooden structure. An iron chimney belched smoke. The sign on the door had faded to nothing, words all gone. Reed turned the handle and entered. A man sat by himself behind a battered desk, a pile of invoices in front of him, scribbling away, fingerless gloves warming his hands.
Before he could open his mouth, Reed began to speak.
‘We’re with Leeds Police. You have someone called Clem working in the shed?’
‘We do,’ the man replied after some hesitation. ‘Why?’
‘I need his address.’
‘What’s he done?’ The man sat dumbly, ink dripping from the nib of his pen.
‘Just his address please, sir.’ The sergeant was polite enough, but his voice was firm.
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ He picked up a ledger and searched through it, copying the address on to a piece of paper. ‘What’s he done?’ he repeated.
‘Maybe nothing, sir,’ Reed answered. ‘We just need to talk to him.’
‘That was a good thought,’ the sergeant said to Ash as they walked away. He glanced at the paper. ‘Manor Street. Do you know it?’
‘Sheepscar, I think, sarge. Close to that pub where the inspector lives.’
The tram, Reed thought. A few minutes inside, out of the numbing cold. It wasn’t warm, but any respite helped. By the time they alighted at the bottom of Roundhay Road, across from the Victoria, he felt a little better.
Ash led the way through the blocks of back-to-backs. Manor Street was all red brick, cobbles and empty dreams. Rubbish was scattered in the gutters and a thin, sharp wind blew against their backs.
They knocked and waited. A woman’s face appeared at the window for a moment, then a bolt was drawn back and a key turned. She was short, no bigger than five feet, cheeks sunk where her teeth had gone, the skin taut over her bones.
‘We’re with Leeds Police,’ Reed told her. ‘Does Clem Fields live here?’
‘Mebbe,’ she replied cautiously. ‘Why?’
‘We’re looking for him.’
She folded twig arms across her chest and raised her chin. ‘He’s not here.’
‘Do you know where he is, luv?’ Ash asked. He smiled at her. ‘We’d like a word with him.’
‘He’s only ever here to sleep and have his supper,’ she answered grudgingly. ‘And he didn’t come home last night.’
‘Do you know where he was going?’
The sergeant was happy to let Ash take over. He had the touch to draw people out, an easy manner that made them trust him.
‘Didn’t say. Probably found himself a lass. New Year, he might have got lucky.’
Ash produced the knife. ‘Is this his?’
‘Might be,’ she allowed. ‘He has knives for his work.’
The constable smiled patiently. ‘Do you know who he sees, luv? His friends?’
The woman shifted from foot to foot. ‘I don’t, and no point asking me, neither.’ She sniffed. ‘I told you, all he does is eat and sleep here.’
‘He’s not
much of a talker?’
‘Hands over his money every week and that’s it. He doesn’t like to speak a lot. Has a bit of stammer.’
Reed listened as Ash teased out the rest of the description. He took his time, asking the woman about herself, her other lodgers, until her suspicions vanished.
At least the man should be easy to spot. Hair so fair it was almost white, very pale skin and blue eyes with spectacles. Medium height and thin. And a smell of fish that wouldn’t leave, no matter how much he scrubbed.
‘It’s in his skin,’ the woman confided. ‘He’ll never shift it.’
It took a quarter of an hour, standing as the wind whipped around, to discover everything, but Ash seemed satisfied, barely feeling the cold.
‘We need to get a bulletin out to all the divisions,’ Reed said as they walked back towards town.
The constable nodded his agreement, then said, ‘What do you think, sarge? Did he do it? Kill the rabbi, I mean?’
‘Maybe. Someone could have stolen his knife.’ He shook his head. ‘Too early to tell for certain yet.’
‘Do you think it’s worth going back to Copenhagen Street?’ Ash asked after a little while.
‘Why?’
‘Well,’ he began, ‘Fields works at the fish market. All those men there, they have scales all over them.’
‘You think he might have left some at the scene?’
‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘It might let us know it was him. Worth a look, do you reckon?’
‘Definitely.’ The constable was a natural detective, Reed thought. He could think, he made connections and saw the possibilities. It would be a waste to send him back to the beat. A single morning and he’d already proved his worth.
Reed increased his pace, marching as if he was back in the army. Moving quickly had helped keep them warm in the Afghan winters. Over there the cold had been so raw they thought it would tug out their lungs. Ash was taller, with longer legs, and matched him stride for stride.
The air was thick, chimneys belching out their smoke all over Leeds. The sergeant coughed and spat. The streets were quiet in the Leylands, with only the sounds of sewing machines from all the sweatshops making clothes.
Behind the privy on Copenhagen Street they stood back a little, studying the ground again, watching the light play on it. At first they didn’t see anything, then something changed; a shadow shifted or a cloud moved, and Reed could make out the tiny sparkles scattered across the dirt.
Two Bronze Pennies Page 13
