Two Bronze Pennies

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Nothing to worry you.’ He took the photograph from his pocket and smoothed it out on the table. It had been taken at a charity ball, a group of men in their tuxedos, with drinks in their hands and smiles on their faces. Phillip May was in there, at the back, his face barely visible. But it was the only picture of him the Post had in their archives. ‘Do you see Alfred in there?’ he asked.

  The prisoner stared at him for a moment, then concentrated.

  ‘That could be him,’ he said grudgingly.

  ‘Who? Show me.’

  A stubby, dirty finger pointed at May’s face. ‘Can’t see enough of him to be sure, though.’

  ‘Right. Take him back to his cell, constable.’

  ‘What’s going on down there?’ Briggs asked. ‘What was all that running and shouting about?’

  ‘I told you, nothing to do with you.’

  Harper wrapped himself in his coat and scarf, put his hat on his head and walked out of the station to the Leylands. The clouds hung so low he couldn’t tell where they stopped and the fog began. Harper covered his nose and mouth as he crossed the road. Under his boots the snow was solid, packed firm by all the feet that had gone before.

  One murderer dead at the hands of his friends. Another killed himself in his cell. The superintendent was right, it was a disaster. He should have thought, he should have ordered a watch on the prisoners. Damn it. He kicked at the snow, his face set. And one more still out there somewhere. At this rate he’d be lucky get one of them to court. Even if he did, Phillip May would probably go scot-free.

  Forsyth stood inside the shop that had once belonged to Mrs Hamilton. He was talking with three or four women, all with their dark, heavy coats and babushkas, shopping bags on their arms. They were jabbering away in Yiddish and he couldn’t make out a word. He waited out in the frigid air until the constable emerged.

  ‘What were they all talking about?’

  ‘I was telling them what happened. That lot are the biggest gossips around here, the whole neighbourhood will know before dinner time. Then they were full of questions.’ He shrugged. ‘I told them I didn’t know.’

  Best not to reveal Hill’s suicide, he decided. Let that wait.

  ‘What about the Golem?’ Harper asked. ‘Were they out last night?’

  ‘Maitland said he saw them, sir. He told them to go home, that we had the killers in custody.’

  ‘Did they?’

  Forsyth ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth before answering. ‘No, sir, they didn’t.’

  ‘Right, carry on. And keep telling people.’

  Harper trudged up the hill to North Street, crossed over to the synagogue and through the unlocked door.

  Feldman was there, deep in conversation with a pair of smartly-dressed men Harper didn’t recognize. The rabbi glanced up, made a motion to wait, and carried on. He was explaining some point, his voice low but insistent.

  The inspector sat, hat in his lap, his eyes searching around the building. It was simple enough, plain white walls and wooden seating. The only decoration was around the Ark of the Covenant in the back wall. That was gilded and brilliant, glittering in the soft gaslight. Behind there, Harper knew, they kept the Torah, their holy book.

  He’d attended a bar mitzvah here once, when Moishe Cohen had turned thirteen. He’d turned up, dressed by his mother in his Sunday best, and not understood a word of it. All he’d been able to do was follow the others, standing and sitting when they did, and hoping the borrowed yarmulke didn’t slip off his head. He’d felt as if he’d walked into another country.

  Finally the men left and Feldman came over to sit next to him.

  ‘From the Board of Guardians,’ the rabbi explained. ‘Important men who don’t like to wait. Now, you’ve come to tell me you have the murderers in the cells. I saw the chief constable last night. He told me.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Harper began. ‘We only have one of them. We found one dead on Saturday. Another hanged himself in his cell last night.’

  Feldman raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘If you want me to say that’s a terrible waste, I will. But he killed my nephew. Forgiveness isn’t easy.’

  ‘He confessed yesterday.’

  ‘So that’s all of them, Inspector?’ The rabbi placed his hands on his knees. Dark age spots, like large freckles, were strewn across his skin.

  ‘There’s still one more,’ he admitted with a sigh, saying nothing about Alfred. ‘I know who he is. He grew up with me in the Leylands. I’ll find him.’

  And he’d manage it sooner rather than later. The Jack Anderson he remembered from childhood hadn’t been clever. He had no imagination or slyness, just brutality. He doubted the man had changed much over the years.

  ‘Then what do you want from me?’ Feldman demanded.

  ‘I need you to tell people we’ve looked after them. We’ve done what we promised. I want you to make them believe that.’

  The rabbi stroked his beard. ‘People have faith or they don’t, Inspector.’

  ‘And I need you to keep the Golem off the streets before anything happens,’ Harper said, in earnest. ‘I don’t want any more bodies round here.’

  Feldman’s mouth twitched with amusement. ‘You think I have the power to do that?’

  ‘I hope you do. You’re their rabbi.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Rabbi Padewski was their rabbi. They loved him, Inspector. They believed him.’ He paused. ‘I can counsel them. I can tell them what I think. But I can’t make them do anything. And if you believe I can, you don’t understand.’

  The inspector squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and opened them again. ‘Convince them, sir. Please. Or someone innocent will end up getting hurt.’

  Feldman sat in silence for a few minutes. The synagogue was quiet. Only a few small sounds penetrated Harper’s good ear.

  ‘I’ll talk to them,’ the rabbi agreed finally. ‘But they want to protect their families, their friends. I can’t blame them for that, Inspector.’ He stared and his face softened. ‘I know you’re trying. I’m grateful for all you’ve done. But there’s only one thing that will make them stop, and that’s when you have the last man.’

  ‘I will,’ he promised. All of them, he thought. Every single bloody one.

  Feldman nodded. ‘Do that and they’ll be gone. Until the next time it happens.’

  ‘There won’t be a next time,’ Harper told him.

  ‘You’re a good man, Inspector, but you can’t tell the future.’ He stood wearily, pushing himself upright with his hands. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘You’re a mensch, Inspector. God go with you.’

  They’d taken Briggs over to the Town Hall, placing heavy chains on his wrists and ankles before they put him in the prison van. The inspector stood by the window and looked out as it left the yard, drawn by a listless horse.

  ‘Anderson,’ Harper said to Ash. ‘We need to find him. His wife and kiddies are in Mabgate. What family he has lives there, too.’

  ‘He’ll either go there, then, or he’ll be careful to avoid it completely,’ the constable replied.

  ‘He’s on his own, he knows we’re after him,’ the inspector said thoughtfully. ‘He can’t have much money left. My guess is that he’ll try to slip in there soon. Talk to Tollman, arrange to have extra men around there today and tomorrow. Make sure they know what he looks like.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘If they see him, have them follow him. But I want to know. I want him for myself.’

  Ash left, and the inspector knocked on Kendall’s door.

  ‘Come in, Tom.’ He sounded weary, as if he was dragging the words from a deep well.

  ‘Did you see Shaw, sir?’

  ‘I hate having to sack a copper.’ He picked up a pocket knife and began to ream out the bowl of his pipe. ‘But he didn’t leave me any choice. Couldn’t even give me an explanation. Just an apology.’ He tapped the bowl in an ashtray and filled it from his tobacco pouch. ‘Did you show Briggs that photograph?’
/>   ‘He said it could be Alfred.’

  ‘But he wasn’t certain?’ The superintendent jumped on the doubt.

  ‘You can only see part of his face. If we had May in court—’

  ‘We won’t.’ Kendall cut him off. ‘I’ve talked to the chief constable. He agrees with me. We can’t risk it, not without something far more solid. Not while the councillor wants to cut the force. His barrister would tear holes a mile wide in everything. If Reed remembers him there at that attack, then you can arrest him.’ He shook his head. ‘What about this other man? Anderson?’

  Harper told him about Mabgate and the superintendent nodded his agreement. ‘Seems plausible, especially if he’s not too bright. God help us if we ever get a clever one, though. I want this closed today if we can. Have you been to the Leylands?’

  ‘This morning. I talked to Rabbi Feldman. The Golem were out again last night. He’s going to have a word with them.’ It was shading the truth, making it sound as if the rabbi could order them around, but it would pass for now. ‘I popped down to see Billy, too. They’re getting him to walk a little more today.’

  ‘Good.’ Kendall blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘I might go down myself later.’

  ‘His fiancée’s there with him.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll leave it until tomorrow, then.’ He sighed. ‘At least we’ll put one of the murderers in court in the morning.’ He looked at Harper and added, ‘Two, when you find Anderson.’

  Alone, the inspector walked the streets around Mabgate. The fog was coming down again, thick as soup in patches, then suddenly opening up for fifty or a hundred yards. A few women hurried along to the corner shops and home again. The noise from Hope Foundry sounded like the hammers of doom ringing, caught and clamped by the fog. He stood at the corner of Green Road and watched the girls leave Mabgate Mills as their shift ended. Heads covered with scarves, shawls tight around their shoulders, old dresses sweeping along the snow on the pavement, they burst by in a swarm of chatter. Then, like a flock of birds, they were gone. None had even given him a second glance.

  The hearing still hadn’t returned in his ear. But this time he wasn’t overwhelmed with the panic that had struck him each time before. Why, he didn’t know. It was out of his control; it would either come back or it wouldn’t, there was nothing he could do about it. He was still here, he was still working.

  Harper wasn’t foolish enough to believe he’d spot Anderson himself. He just needed to imprint the streets in his mind. If he had any sense, the man would wait until night to move around. And if this fog lingered they’d be hard pressed to catch him at all.

  The inspector saw the constables, out and about, keeping their eyes open. He moved away, hands deep in his pockets. There was nothing more he could do here. Before he left Millgarth he’d given orders to send word if anyone saw Anderson. He believed the man would come. He must be getting desperate by now; he’d need money and food and shelter.

  But truthfully, all Harper could do was hope.

  It wasn’t far to the Victoria. Along Mushroom Street and Bristol Street, cutting through by the Rope Walk and the chemical stench of Sheepscar Dye Works. Close to the pub the air was so thick that he couldn’t even see five feet ahead.

  Inside, the warmth of the bar felt welcoming. Men were enjoying a drink or two after work before heading home to their families. He slipped through the noise and up the stairs.

  The parlour was empty, the fire banked in the grate. He pushed a poker into it, releasing the heat and the flames, and added a little coal before he removed his coat. In the kitchen he filled the kettle and settled it on the hob, staring out of the window.

  The fog looked like a dream. Some moments it cleared long enough for him to see the length of the garden. Then, in the next breath, all he could make out was his own reflection in the glass.

  He didn’t hear her come in; he didn’t even sense she was there until she put her arms around his waist and pressed herself against his back.

  ‘You’re away with the fairies.’

  ‘Just thinking.’ He turned and embraced her. The feather on her hat tickled her face. The kettle began to steam. ‘How did you know I was making tea?’

  ‘Sixth sense.’ She grinned then looked at him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Harper lifted a hand to his ear and saw her frown.

  ‘Still?’ she asked and he nodded. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she raised on tiptoe and gently kissed the ear. Then she moved away and busied herself with boiling water and teapot as she winked at him. ‘Typical man, leave a woman to do the real work.’

  ‘Busy day?’

  She shrugged. ‘Burmantofts, then round at the other bakeries. There’s always something, you know that.’ She poured and handed him a cup. ‘Elizabeth’s taking that house. It has a garden for the children and everything, it’s a proper little palace. I saw Ted Lomax earlier. He has that rag and bone business. He’s going down on Middleton on Saturday to bring the furniture and the children. She’ll have time to give the place a good clean. I said I’d help her.’ Annabelle paused and stared at him. ‘The hearing’s been gone a while this time, hasn’t it?’

  ‘I know.’ He spooned sugar into the tea and stirred the liquid. ‘The strange thing is, it doesn’t seem to matter. I don’t know why.’

  She took his hand in hers and kissed it.

  ‘Together,’ she told him fiercely, and he smiled. ‘Whatever happens.’

  ‘Were you collecting the takings?’ He nodded at the bag sitting in the middle of the table.

  ‘Someone has to.’

  ‘You need to be careful—’ he began, but she silenced him with a look.

  ‘I’ve told you before, Tom, no one would dare. Not round here.’

  ‘There’s always one …’ That was all it took. Someone who knew, someone willing to take the chance.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked sharply. ‘Have a bodyguard? This is where I live. Where we live. I’m blowed if I’ll change. The day I don’t feel safe here is the day I move.’

  ‘I just worry about you.’

  She nodded. ‘I know. But I was managing for a long time before we met, Tom. I’ll be fine, don’t worry. Honestly.’

  He couldn’t help it, though. God alone knew how much she had in that bag. Any woman on her own was a target, every copper knew that. It didn’t matter where she was or how many people knew her. Someone could see an opportunity to get rich for a while. Annabelle was his wife; he wanted to look after her.

  The evening passed but he couldn’t settle. They ate and he sat by the fire, trying to read the newspaper. But he couldn’t even finish the front page. He put it aside and paced around the room.

  ‘You’re like a cat on hot bricks, Tom Harper.’ Annabelle was at the desk, coins in piles beside her, entering figures into a ledger. ‘I can’t think with you up and down all the time.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He sat again, but it wasn’t going to work. He was on edge, just waiting and hoping for some word that they’d spotted Anderson. Finally he shrugged on the overcoat.

  ‘I’ll be back later. I need to check something.’

  ‘It must be important, whatever it is. I’ve never seen you like this before.’

  He kissed her and went out into the darkness. With his first breath he coughed as the fog filled his lungs. He could see no more than twenty yards ahead, not even to the street corner. It would be easy to get lost. Easier still for a man to slip around undetected. The constables would need every bit of luck to spot Anderson tonight.

  Harper made sure they saw him, though. The first, on Cromwell Street, saluted as soon as he recognized him. A second, down on Argyle Road, shivered as he stood, with nothing to report. Not a night to be out, not fit for man nor beast.

  Harper spend an hour wandering, his footfall light on the packed snow. He was about to give up and go home when he heard the sound. There was nothing like it; a policeman’s whistle. It cut through everything, so pier
cing it could be heard a full half-mile away. He stood, waiting for a second blast, moving his head quickly, hoping his good ear would be able to pick out the direction.

  It came again and he started to run, sprinting along the street and sliding around corners. Twice he fell, sprawling across the pavement then picking himself up and dashing on. By the time he reached Accommodation Place he was breathless. He stopped, hand on his knees, trying to cough out the taste of soot and smoke.

  The constable was there. Blood from a broken nose covered his mouth and chin and left a dark stain on his uniform. Harper could hear boots pounding along the road, coming closer.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He came running down Farrar Street, sir. I tried to stop him but he just reached out and hit me.’ He spat a tooth into the road.

  ‘Which way did he go?’

  ‘Off along Skinner Lane.’ He pointed.

  ‘Right. Have the others follow me when they come.’

  He took off again, his pace a little slower, breathing through his mouth and trying to listen. After a hundred yards the fog thickened once more, folding around him like a pair of arms. Somewhere, off in the distance, he could hear voices.

  Another quarter of a mile, past the harsh burn of the lime works, at the corner of Regent Street, he stopped, holding on to the brick wall and trying to catch his breath. Then it was there, just at the faintest edge of his hearing, the clump of someone up ahead, running. Harper started to move. His lungs were on fire but he wasn’t going to give up. He wouldn’t let himself.

  A hundred yards and he couldn’t see four feet ahead. The gas lamps were faint, fuzzy balls that glowed above his head. All he could do was pound on and trust.

  The sharp clatter of a metal bin tumbling, somewhere off to his right, spurred him onward. Busfield Street, he thought. Anderson was going into the Leylands. The inspector kept pushing, forcing one foot in front of the other. There was a wall at the top of the road, he remembered that, closing off the school beyond. He reached it and leapt, fingers clawed for a hold to push. Come on, Harper told himself, he’d done this often enough as a boy, up and over like it was nothing. With effort he pulled himself up, panting before jumping off into space and landing on his feet, waiting, listening for something. Anything.