Two Bronze Pennies

by Chris Nickson

  Harper felt the pulse pumping in his neck and his heart pounding hard in his chest. There. The creak of rusted metal. Someone was trying to swing the gate open. He took a breath and set off, following the sound.

  The snow was packed solid. He had to tear at the gate, pulling with all his strength to create a gap to slide through. Which way now? There was nothing to hear, the fog too thick for him to see. Back streets, the inspector thought. Anyone wanting to get away would keep to those.

  He’d grown up here. So had Anderson. The area was so deep in them both that every turn, every pace was second nature, even after all this time. Duck down the road and through the ginnel, out into Byron Street, then along past Brunswick Brewery, the high malt smell cutting through the stink of the fog. Past the old board school and off into the little maze of streets that had been home when they were children. For a second the fog lifted and he could make out the faint shape of a man, his figure grey against the blackness, no more than a hundred yards ahead. The inspector set his jaw and kept running. He’d win. He had to.

  His feet pounded along Noble Street, the hobnails punching into the hard snow before going round the corner, knowing he couldn’t last much longer. His lungs were blazing as he made the turn on to Hope Street and started the slow climb past the mill.

  The fog parted again, just for a second. But it was long enough to see the man pulling ahead. Anderson had added another twenty yards to his lead. His legs were moving steadily, head down. If he made it out to North Street, he’d be able to vanish in town.

  Harper forced himself into one last effort. He had to catch him. He kept his eyes fixed in front of him. The mist cleared slightly and he saw Anderson passing under a street lamp. He’d lost his cap somewhere, and the light glistened on fair hair before he turned to shadow again.

  Then he wasn’t alone. Faint shapes came out of the fog, too blurred to make out properly. He couldn’t be sure how many, but for a second they seemed to come together into one large figure. The inspector heard a cry. He tried to go faster, but each pace seemed slower than the one before, like he was running through treacle. He caught the faint glimmer of light on steel. Another cry. And then nothing more.

  He was there in less than four breaths. But the only thing that remained was Anderson, sprawled out on the cobbles, warm blood leaking from his wounds to steam on the snow, the life gone from his face, a pair of bronze pennies over his eyes. No one else, not even the sound of running.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  By five o’clock in the morning the inspector was hoarse. He’d gone through it all three times and drunk more cups of tea than he could count. First he’d filled out his own report, then he’d repeated everything for a sergeant from B Division who’d peppered him with questions, and finally the superintendent. And he still couldn’t hear a damned thing in his right ear.

  Kendall had arrived a little after two. He’d waited in his office until Harper had finished with the sergeant, then waved him in.

  ‘Sit down, Tom. The night sergeant showed me your report.’ He lit his pipe and kept puffing as he leafed through the papers again. ‘You chased him from Mabgate into the Leylands.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And he was set on before you could reach him.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Whoever stabbed him disappeared before you got there.’

  ‘I was less than a hundred yards away,’ Harper said.

  ‘But they’d gone by the time you reached Anderson.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And in a few seconds they’d stabbed him eight times.’

  ‘I didn’t count the wounds.’

  ‘How many attacked him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ They’d been formless, more ghost than human. The fog was too thick for him to count them. He wasn’t about to say that for a moment the attacker seemed like a single large figure. The super would think he’d gone mad. It must have been a trick of the light, but it had shaken him.

  ‘This patrol,’ Kendall said. ‘The Golem.’

  Harper nodded. It was them, it had to be. Yet the story the rabbi had told him, of the figure made to defend the Jews of Prague, kept coming into his mind.

  ‘I didn’t see any faces,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t identify anyone.’

  ‘So there’s no chance of charging anyone with this murder?’ the superintendent asked darkly.

  ‘I honestly don’t see how, sir.’

  Kendall sat back in his chair, staring at the inspector. ‘Right, Tom, now tell me the things you didn’t put in the report.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Come on,’ the superintendent told him. ‘I trained you, remember? I taught you how to think for this job. I know you. There are always things a copper doesn’t put down on paper. How did you know where he’d go?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Harper answered honestly. ‘I just followed.’

  He tapped the page. ‘You wrote here that the fog was too thick to see him.’

  ‘It was. But he made noises, and there were places it all lifted and I could get a glimpse for a moment.’

  ‘Why do you think he went into the Leylands?’ Kendall pushed. ‘For god’s sake, Tom, he’d killed two people there. It’s not the sort of place he’d go back to.’

  ‘He grew up there, sir. He knew it, knew his way around, the same as me. We both went to school there.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he thought he’d be fine.’

  ‘You know I’m going to have to explain this to the chief.’ The superintendent gritted his teeth. ‘He wanted to parade the three of them, to show everyone we’re really doing something. Instead we’ve only got one, another dead, a third who killed himself and the fourth murdered by people we can’t identify. And nothing to help us take Phillip May. It makes us look stupid.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  The superintendent puffed at the pipe. ‘Too late for recriminations, I suppose. It’s happened. I’ll tell you something, Tom.’

  ‘What, sir?’

  Kendall gave a small smile. ‘You did a good job following him.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And perhaps it’s a good job you weren’t closer.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘They might not have cared who they were stabbing.’

  No, Harper thought as he sat at his desk. They wouldn’t have attacked him. They got what they wanted. An eye for an eye. The Golem had given the Jews of Leeds their revenge.

  He could have gone home, washed, shaved and eaten breakfast before returning to work. Instead he crossed through the open square behind the covered market. The first traders were already setting out their wares, scraps of vegetables and apples left over from the autumn.

  The café on the far side was doing a roaring trade in cups of tea and hot food for the early arrivals. Open at four, most of its business was done by eight, and it closed after dinner.

  Eggs and bacon filled his belly, with a doorstep of bread to wipe up the last of the yolk and grease from the plate. He took his time with the tea. There was too much to consider.

  Harper couldn’t have caught Jack Anderson. He hadn’t put that in his report and he hadn’t told the super. He’d been losing ground all along Hope Street. He was flagging, he couldn’t have lasted for another minute. But Anderson still had plenty of stamina. But for the Golem, he’d have escaped.

  A boy came around selling copies of the Post. He bought one. The headline was still the children in Wortley. Anderson’s death, long after dark, made a small Stop Press item. By the next edition all that would have changed. Fresh news to fill the front page.

  He folded the newspaper and returned to Millgarth. The fog had lightened a little, but still hung low and acrid.

  ‘I heard what happened, sir,’ Sergeant Tollman said. ‘Good riddance, if you ask me.’

  The inspector nodded and walked through to the office. Ash was seated at the desk, reading through the report.

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘Mo
rning.’

  ‘It looks like we’re all done with this, then. Sounds like you did well to keep track of him.’

  ‘No, we’re not finished yet,’ Harper told him and the constable’s expression turned quizzical.

  ‘But we got all of them.’

  ‘We don’t have Alfred. Not yet.’

  As the hands on the clock turned to six, he stood. ‘Come on,’ he said, putting on his overcoat and hat.

  ‘Where are we going, sir?

  ‘The infirmary.’ They woke the patients at six each morning. By the time they arrived Billy would be alert. There’d be time to talk before Elizabeth came.

  The hospital was alive with the sound of footsteps, all the coughing and moaning of illness. The sound of someone crying out floated down from upstairs. As they reached Reed’s room the inspector said, ‘Wait out here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  All the noise had woken him. Voices as they passed, the rusty trundle of a trolley in the corridor. A nurse brought tea and helped him sit up. The cup felt awkward as he tried to clasp it in his bandaged hands. Every bruise on his body hurt, tender patches starting to flower from purple into green and yellows. The door opened and Harper entered. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept. The sergeant held up the cup.

  ‘You’re too late, Tom, they served it five minutes ago.’

  The inspector shook his head and sighed. ‘I’ve been drinking it all night. My back teeth are floating.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Anderson.’ He sank wearily into the chair and told the tale. No gloss or varnish, he just recounted what had happened.

  ‘And you didn’t see the ones who killed him?’

  ‘I’m not even sure how bloody many there were.’ He rubbed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. ‘You’re not going to believe this, Billy, but I swear that for a second there was just one of them, a giant. My mind must have been playing tricks.’

  Reed looked at him. There were deep shadows under Harper’s eyes. He looked gaunt, weary far beyond sleep, his gaze intense and wild.

  ‘Look at it this way,’ the sergeant offered. ‘He’d have hanged, anyway. This was faster than a trial.’

  ‘I know.’ Harper clenched his fists, looked down at his hands and opened them again. ‘But I wanted him for myself.’ He glanced at the sergeant. ‘Childhood debts.’

  ‘It’s done now. You can’t change it.’

  Harper shook his head. ‘It’s not over. There’s still Alfred.’ There was an edge to his voice, somewhere close to manic. His gaze was fierce.

  ‘But I saw him. I found out his name,’ Reed objected.

  ‘I know.’ He ran a hand across his mouth. ‘The chief and the super won’t do anything about it.’

  ‘Why not?’ The sergeant could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘For God’s sake, Tom …’

  ‘They said his barrister would take you apart in court.’

  ‘What?’ He didn’t understand.

  ‘You’ve had a head injury, you didn’t remember what had happened, you just saw the back of his head.’

  ‘But it was him. I know it was.’

  ‘It was. I got a photograph from the Post and showed it to Briggs. All he’d say was that it could be Alfred, but I know he recognized him.’

  Reed frowned. ‘Then what’s the problem? Why won’t they arrest May?’

  ‘Because his father’s head of the bloody Watch Committee and he can afford the best lawyer money can buy. And who’s going to take the word of someone who’s admitted two murders, arson, and attacking a policeman?’

  ‘But what about the Cross Keys? I saw him there. I talked to him.’

  ‘You didn’t hear him give any orders, Billy,’ the inspector pointed out. ‘He’s been very bloody clever.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ the sergeant asked bleakly.

  ‘There’s one thing …’ Harper began.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you remembered what happened that night and he was there. Any jury would take that.’

  ‘I’ve told you, Tom. There’s nothing.’

  ‘Try to remember. Please, Billy. Just try. Please. It’s got to be in there.’

  Reed closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see the pleading in the inspector’s gaze. How many times had Harper covered for him when he was drunk and lied for him when the sergeant’s temper had flared and he’d become violent? Tom was the closest friend he had in the world. Without him, Reed would have been drummed out of the force long ago.

  He stayed silent for a long time, breathing slowly. It hurt. The pain of it was tearing at him. He knew the debt he owed. And now it was being called in. Whatever the truth might be, he had no choice but to pay.

  ‘I remember,’ he said finally. ‘Alfred was there.’ It came out as little more than a whisper. He didn’t open his eyes again until the inspector had gone.

  Ash was standing in the corridor, waiting patiently. Harper came out of the room and began walking.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There’s somewhere we need to go.’

  There was purpose in his stride, fire in his eyes. All the tiredness had fallen away.

  ‘Where, sir?’ the constable asked.

  ‘Meanwood. It’s time to finish this.’

  The omnibus moved too slowly. He tapped his foot and drummed his fingers on his thigh while Ash sat quietly next to him, staring out at the street. Harper kept pulling out his watch to check the time. Finally he stood, impatient.

  ‘We’ll walk,’ he said. ‘It’ll be faster.’

  Out here the air was cleaner. The smell still came from the factories that lined Meanwood Road, but it was fainter. Hardly any fog; there was even the merest hint of blue sky behind thin clouds.

  Councillor May’s house sat back from the road. It was solid, built of heavy Yorkshire stone, weathered by the years. One corner was rounded, climbing into a tower, the slates on the roof rising to a point, crowned with a weathervane, not turning in the still air. The building looked as if it had stood for a century or more. Footprints and the tracks of carriage wheels marked the snow on the long drive.

  ‘If you don’t want to come in with me, I’ll understand,’ he told Ash. ‘You can just go back to the station.’

  ‘Are you certain the councillor’s son is guilty, sir?’

  ‘Positive.’ He didn’t hesitate before answering.

  ‘Then I’m with you.’

  Harper pressed the bell push. This house was going to come tumbling down.

  A maid answered, looking down her nose at their appearance. They were a ragtag pair and he knew it. On foot, no expensive clothes; they could have been tradesmen.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked haughtily.

  ‘I’m looking for Phillip May,’ Harper told her.

  ‘He’s not up yet.’

  ‘Then you’d better go and wake him,’ he told her curtly. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Harper with Leeds Police.’

  The rank flustered the girl. Before she could say anything he stepped past her, into the large hall, Ash right behind him. Finally she dashed off.

  It gave him chance to look around. Portraits lined the stairway, all those grand faces peering out of history. The floorboards were heavily polished. An umbrella stand sat in one corner, and a small, delicate table was pushed against the wall. He turned and saw himself in the mirror. Like death warmed over, he thought. Pale, gaunt, his eyes haunted. Quickly, he turned away. It wasn’t something he wanted to see.

  The heavy footsteps didn’t come from upstairs. A door slammed and the councillor himself appeared. He was dressed for the day, an old-fashioned suit with the jacket almost to his knees, belly bulging against his waistcoat, thin hair parted in the centre, the sideboards white and bushy over his cheeks. May’s face was florid, blazing with fury, jowls shaking as he walked.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing here?’

  Harper stood his ground. ‘I’m Detective Inspector—’


  ‘I know who you are,’ he barked. ‘I asked what you’re doing here.’

  ‘I’m here to arrest your son, sir. For conspiracy to murder and assault with intent to commit murder.’ He looked May directly in the eye.

  ‘I’m giving you to the count of three to turn around and get out of here.’

  ‘No, sir,’ the inspector told him. ‘I’m not going anywhere without your son.’

  May’s face turned a darker colour. ‘Do you know who I am? I’m in charge of the Watch Committee. I can telephone to your chief constable and have him give you the order to stop. You’d best use your brain right now.’

  ‘When you talk to him you can say that Sergeant Reed has identified your son as one of his attackers, sir.’ He gave it a heartbeat for the words to sink in. ‘That’s the word of a police officer.’ He kept his gaze on the councillor. ‘Sir.’

  ‘You really don’t know what you’re doing, Inspector.’

  ‘But I do, sir,’ Harper told him. ‘I’m doing my job.’

  ‘Walk away. Now.’ He glanced over at Ash and lowered his voice. ‘The pair of you. We’ll say it never happened.’

  ‘Thank you, but we’ll wait for young Mr May, if it’s all the same to you, sir,’ Ash told him with a friendly smile. ‘Since we’ve come all this way.’

  ‘I’ll have him out in an hour,’ May said, and Harper knew he’d won. No one was going to be given bail for murder and trying to kill a copper. Not even a councillor’s son.

  A figure appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked as if he’d dressed in a rush, his tie uneven, hair hardly brushed. But he still had the rich burnish of money about him, the best anyone could buy. And his eyes burned with a dark fire.

  ‘Philip May,’ the inspector announced, ‘also known as Alfred. I’m arresting you for assault of a police officer with intent to murder.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The last Monday in January and the snow had finally gone. Only a few dirty patches remained, scattered in deep shade across the parks and waste ground. The cobbles still shone from the early rain. The clouds had skittered away to leave blue skies and a sun that held precious little warmth.