Gods of Gold

by Chris Nickson

  The discipline of the police helped. It kept him busy, his mind occupied. Yet in the evenings he’d be in the Hyde Park, reluctant to go home to his lodgings. He didn’t want to close his eyes and see it all again. For a few hours, at least, the drink could keep it all at bay.

  Tom Harper had been good to him. He’d covered on the days he arrived bleary-eyed and weary from the nightmares and stopped him when his anger rose. Reed knew he was good at his job, that he solved crimes. But ever since spring he’d felt the longing for Whitby growing again, for somewhere he could sleep a whole night and wake without remembering a single bad dream. He pushed his lips together and walked back to Millgarth.

  The inspector cut through the courts and alleys, up by Swan Street. He knew every paving stone around here. There were plenty of good memories and one bad. Three years before, just by the entrance to the music hall, he’d tried to subdue a thief and taken a heavy blow on his right ear. The next morning he’d barely been able to hear on that side. Every sound was muted and distant.

  The day after it was no better. He was scared, but he didn’t dare see the police surgeon. It would go on his record. Instead, he paid to see a doctor. He needed to keep everything private. He sweated through the examination, then sat, waiting for the verdict. The blow had burst his eardrum, the physician said. But as it healed, his hearing would probably return.

  Over the next two months some of it had returned. Not all. Not even near. He’d learned to lean a little as he talked to someone, to walk on their right, even to read lips a little to understand everything. He’d said nothing about it. He never would. No one in the police could ever know; something like that could see him invalided from the force and he loved the job too much to lose it. He hid it well; he watched faces. But he was always careful when he talked to people. He had to be.

  Harper found Ash outside the Theatre Royal near the top of Lands Lane, gently moving on a match girl. Once he’d watched her go reluctantly down the street, the constable turned to him. He was big, a good handspan over six feet, taller still with the cap. His uniform was crisp and pressed, buttons shining, everything regulation. His hair gleamed with pomade, and the moustache was rich and bushy above his lip.

  ‘You were looking for me?’ Harper said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He looked around. ‘Maybe we’d better talk somewhere else. Always better out of the way,’ he said gravely and led the way up the street and ducking into a court. The few people outside their doors melted away at the sight of the police.

  ‘What is it?’ Harper was curious now, wondering why Ash needed to talk out of sight of prying eyes.

  The man chewed his lip for a moment before answering, his face dark and serious in the shadow.

  ‘It might be summat or nowt, really, but I thought I’d better pass it on, sir. Do you remember Col Parkinson?’

  Harper nodded. Parkinson had never done a day’s work more than he was forced to. He always had some little scheme going on that usually paid out to nothing. He had a thin, ferrety face, most of the teeth gone from his mouth, those left in shades of black and brown. His wife was almost as bad as him; the only good thing he could say about Betty Parkinson was that she doted on their daughter. Martha must be about eight now, the inspector guessed. Soon enough she’d be done with school and out earning money if Col had anything to say about it.

  ‘What’s he done now? It shouldn’t be anything you need me for.’

  ‘It’s not him, sir.’ Ash hesitated. ‘Well, not quite. It’s that little lass of his. She’s not been around for a week. He says she’s gone to stay with his sister in Halifax.’

  ‘Does he have a sister there?’ He couldn’t recall.

  ‘The neighbours say that the first time he mentioned her was after the girl was gone.’

  ‘What about Betty? What did she tell you?’

  ‘She’s in Armley jail, sir. Three months for receiving. Not out until the end of July.’

  Harper snorted. It was hardly a surprise. If one of them wasn’t in jail, usually the other was. ‘You want me to talk to him?’

  Ash nodded. ‘He’s sticking to his tale, but there’s summat in there I just don’t believe. And I don’t want anything happening to Martha. She’s a grand little girl, always happy. You wouldn’t credit it with parents like hers. I just didn’t want everyone knowing.’

  ‘I’ll go and have a word. Where does he drink these days?’

  ‘At home with a jug unless he has a bob or two. That’s the other thing, sir. He seems to have a little money lately.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’ Ash frowned. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  Around here he didn’t even need to think of the way. He’d walked it for so long that he knew every ginnel and gap. At one time he could have said how many lived behind each door, what they did and whether he needed to watch them. Many would be new now, strangers, but there would still be plenty of people he’d recognize.

  He slipped through to Fidelity Court. The place was even worse than he remembered. The cobbles were broken, half the flagstones pulled up, the windows of the cottages so grimy they barely let through any light. A dog barked as he passed one of the houses. A sign painted on the glass advertised Smiley’s Barber Shop, the dirty red and white pole hanging at an angle. But the chair inside was empty and the door locked. He smiled. Johnny Smiley would probably be out at the Rose and Crown, supping whatever money he’d earned during the morning.

  Harper climbed a short flight of worn stone steps and stopped outside a black door with the paint peeling away from the wood in long strips. This wasn’t a place where the houses needed numbers; no one back here received letters. He brought his fist down hard, knocking long and loud then rattling the door handle.

  ‘You can stop now. He’s not there.’

  The woman’s voice made him turn.

  ‘You know where he is, Mrs Dempsey?’

  She had to blink twice until she placed him, then stood with arms folded across her broad chest. Virginia Dempsey was sixteen stone if she weighed an ounce and not much more than five feet tall. If anything, she was bigger than he remembered. Her fleshy arms were bare, a thin shawl covering her hair even in the June warmth.

  ‘Well, if it in’t Mr Harper. Looking flash these days, you are, Constable.’

  ‘You’d better get it right, Ginny,’ he told her with a wink. ‘It’s Inspector Harper now. And the suit’s one of Mr Barran’s specials, five bob discount to a bobby. Nowt flash about it, love. Do you know where I can find Col?’

  ‘Got business with him, do you?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘What do you think? It’s not like he’s on my social list.’

  She sniffed. ‘Happen you’ll find him at the Leopard Hotel. He’s spent a lot of time there these last few days, what with his missus in Armley and Martha up in Halifax.’

  ‘Halifax?’ he asked as if he’d heard nothing about it. ‘What’s she doing up there?’

  ‘Gone to stay with his sister.’

  ‘I didn’t even know Col had a sister.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ She lowered her voice. ‘That’s what he says, leastways. I’ve never seen her meself.’

  ‘Martha was just a nipper when I saw her last.’

  ‘I bet she’d still know you, Mr Harper. Dun’t forget anything, that lass. Sharp as owt and twice as bright. Betty even had a picture took of her when they were flush. Up on their wall, it is.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘He’s often at the Leopard, you said?’

  ‘Right enough.’ Her laugh came out like a cackle. ‘Don’t know who he’s been robbing but he’s not been short lately. But mebbe you’d know more about that.’

  He smiled. ‘Aye, maybe I would, Ginny.’ Let her think that for now. If he needed more from her he could always come back.

  Hotel was a grand word for it. He wouldn’t have stayed at the Leopard for love nor money. He passed under the archway that led to a cobbled yard and pushed open th
e door to the saloon bar. The wood was ancient and dark, the white ceiling stained shades of brown and yellow by smoke.

  A few of the men looked up as he entered. They had beaten-down faces, creased and tired, the look of the weary and the worn. Harper spotted Parkinson in the corner, an empty gin glass in front of him.

  He sat down noisily, dragging the chair over the flagstone floor. Parkinson raised his eyes, squinting at him questioningly.

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’ His gaze was blurry. Not drunk yet, Harper decided, but on his way. He’d still be able to think. And lie.

  ‘Aye, you do, Col.’ He knew Parkinson was hardly older than him but he already looked faded, cheeks sunk, the hair thinned away to nothing on his scalp. ‘It’s Inspector Harper. Constable Harper as was.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ Recognition dawned on his face. Harper stared around the bar, not surprised to see it had quietly emptied. It always happened. Some would have known him already, the rest would have smelled him for a rozzer.

  ‘You been staying out of trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘Course I have.’

  ‘I hear your Betty’s in Armley again. What do they do, keep a cell specially for her up there?’

  ‘Not her fault,’ Parkinson told him. The inspector almost chuckled. It was never their fault. If he had a penny for everyone time someone had said that, he’d be a rich man.

  ‘And how’s Martha? She was no more than a bairn when I saw her last.’

  ‘A good lass,’ Col said, nodding his head for emphasis. ‘A very good lass.’ He patted the pockets of his tattered old jacket. ‘Do you have a cigarette?’

  Harper pulled out the packet of Woodbines and Parkinson’s gaze followed his movements. He handed one to the man and lit it.

  ‘Martha,’ he prompted.

  ‘She’s with me sister.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had one, Col. I never heard you talk about her.’

  ‘In Halifax.’

  ‘Oh aye? How long’s Martha up there for?’

  ‘Till …’ He hesitated. ‘Till my Betty’s out. Better that way.’

  She should have been at school but he doubted Parkinson would worry about something as trivial as that.

  ‘Better for you, you mean. If she’s not here you don’t have to look after her. So what’s your sister’s name, Col?’ Harper asked idly.

  For a few seconds Harper didn’t answer.

  ‘Sarah,’ he said finally. ‘She’s married, got little ’uns of her own, too.’ He took a deep draw on the cigarette.

  ‘Where does she live in Halifax, then?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You don’t, Col? Your own kin? You sent Martha up there and don’t even know where she’s going?’

  ‘I put her on the train. Sarah was meeting her at the station.’

  ‘How would she know what train? Good at guessing is she, this sister of yours?’

  ‘I sent her a letter.’

  Harper laughed. ‘Come on, Col. You can’t write and you don’t know where she lives. How are you going to send her a letter?’

  ‘I had her address at home, on a piece of paper up on the mantel. And my Martha writes a right good hand. I had her do it.’

  ‘How long’s she been gone?’

  ‘A week.’ Parkinson shrugged. ‘Day or two longer, mebbe. I don’t know.’ He started to rise. ‘I need to go.’

  Harper clamped his hand tight around the man’s wrist. ‘Not yet, Col,’ he said quietly. ‘Not when we’re having a good little natter.’

  Parkinson sat down again, shoulders slumping.

  ‘What does Betty think about all this?’

  ‘I’ve not told her yet. I will.’

  Ash had been right, Harper thought. There was definitely something going on here.

  ‘I think you’d best give me your sister’s address. Just so I can get in touch and make sure everything’s all right.’

  Parkinson shook his head. ‘In’t got it, do I? I threw it out after we sent the letter. Don’t need bits of paper cluttering up the place.’ Harper kept hold of the man’s arm, fingers digging hard into the flesh. Parkinson’s eyes were starting to water, his eyes pleading.

  ‘I’m off to Armley on Monday to see Betty, so you’d better be telling me the truth.’ He squeezed a little harder then let go, feeling the man flinch. ‘You understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ He let go. Parkinson cradled his wrist, rubbing it lightly, his look a mix of wounded pride and anger.

  ‘You’ve got money for a drink, too,’ Harper noted. ‘That’s not like you.’

  ‘I won it. A bet on the rugby.’

  ‘First time for everything, eh, Col?’ He waited a heartbeat. ‘If you have something to tell me, you can find me at the station.’ Harper stood slowly then bent down, his mouth close to the man’s ear. ‘I hope you haven’t been lying to me, Col. If anything’s happened to Martha I’ll make you wish you were dead.’

  Parkinson was hiding something. That was obvious. But as he strolled back to Millgarth in the sunshine he couldn’t imagine what. Col might send his daughter somewhere so he didn’t have to look after her, but the tale of a sister was all lies. Why, Harper wondered? What was he hiding?

  As soon as he entered the station he could hear the buzz of talk and the dark undercurrent of complaints. Something had happened. In the office he looked at Reed.

  ‘The superintendent wants you,’ the sergeant said, glancing up from a report.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘All leave cancelled from Monday.’

  ‘The gas strike?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He knocked on the door and Superintendent Kendall waved him in.

  ‘Sit down, Tom,’ he said.

  Kendall was in his fifties, grey hair cut short, with a long, patient face and a measured temper. He wore his jacket cut long, always black, with striped trousers, a style long out of fashion, and the top hat that used to mark out detectives hanging on a stand in the corner. When Harper became a detective constable Kendall was already an inspector; he’d taken the young man in hand and passed on what he knew. Now he was in charge of A Division, a solid policeman, utterly honest and loyal to the force. The only thing he lacked was imagination.

  ‘When did you get back?’ he asked.

  ‘About two minutes ago.’

  ‘Long enough to have heard, I suppose.’ He picked his pipe out of the ashtray, tamped down the tobacco with a nicotine-stained fingertip and struck a match. ‘There was trouble at the Wortley works last night.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Nothing too bad. Not yet, anyway. That’s going to start on Monday. They’re bringing in the replacement workers then.’

  ‘The blacklegs, you mean, sir,’ Harper said coldly.

  Kendall frowned but ignored the words. ‘We’re not playing at politics with this, Tom. It’s our job to keep everyone safe. We’re going to make sure no one breaks the law.’

  ‘And if they do?’

  ‘We arrest them.’ He paused for a brief moment. ‘Whoever they are.’

  Harper nodded.

  ‘The train with the replacements is coming on Monday night. And I expect you to keep that quiet,’ Kendall said pointedly. ‘They’re bringing them into the Midland goods station so we can just march the men over to the Meadow Lane works.’

  It made sense, he thought. The gasworks was across the road, no more than a hundred yards away.

  ‘What do you want me to do, sir?’

  ‘I want you down there when they arrive.’

  ‘In uniform?’ He hoped not; he’d been grateful to leave the blue suit behind. He had no wish to wear it again.

  Kendall shook his head. ‘You and Reed will stay in plain clothes. There’ll be a crowd waiting. Bound to be. Mingle with them. You know what to do if there’s a problem.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The superintendent sighed. ‘It’s going to be an ugly business. Probably violent.’

  ‘Probably?’ Harper could feel
himself start to bristle. ‘There’ll be ructions, sir. Certain to be. The gas committee’s getting rid of men just to save a few pennies. Of course they’re angry.’

  He’d seen it before. A man worked himself down to his bones to look after his family, then the bosses threw the bones aside. He thought of his own father, living with one of his sisters now. After years on the railways he was just a husk of a man, his body no more than a memory of what it had been. When his illness started, the loss of strength, the loss of memory, the company hadn’t paid for a doctor; instead, they’d sacked him for not reporting to work.

  ‘I know where your sympathies lie,’ Kendall said with an awkward smile. ‘You’ve never made a secret of them. But I’m relying on you to do your job properly.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘After Monday night everyone will be on duty until all this is over. I’ll have some camp beds set up.’ He chuckled. ‘With luck it’ll all be over before your big day.’

  ‘It’d better be. Annabelle won’t forgive any of them if she has to postpone the wedding.’

  ‘You’ll be there all right, even if we have to drag you. Getting married might be the best thing to happen to you, Tom. It steadies a man. I’ve been married almost thirty years now and I’ve never regretted a day.’ He grinned. ‘Well, not many, anyway.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Are you working on anything special at the moment?’

  Harper thought about Martha Parkinson. ‘Something odd,’ he replied. ‘I’m not sure what it is yet.’

  ‘Whatever it is, you’ll need to put it aside until all this is over.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You spend some time with that fiancée of yours, Tom. No need to report before Monday evening.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Just make sure she knows she won’t see you for a while after that.’

  Back in the office he pulled the watch from his waistcoat pocket. Half past four. Plenty of time yet. Reed had already left, his desk neat, the small piles of paper carefully squared off, the pens lined up. That’s what happens when you hire a military man, he thought. Everything in order.

  He looked over at his own desk. Documents everywhere, scrawled notes, a nib that had dripped ink on some paper. But then he’d never had army discipline. He found Ash in the changing room, sitting on a bench, painstakingly updating his notebook.