‘You were right about Col. Something’s going on there.’
‘Any idea what it is, sir?’
‘Not yet,’ Harper said with a quick shake of his head. ‘But I want people keeping an eye on him in case he tries to do a flit.’
‘And if he does?’
‘Bring him in.’
The constable nodded, then said, ‘Sounds like this strike’s going to keep us busy for a few days.’
‘Very likely. Just make sure you don’t end up with your head broken.’
Ash laughed. ‘Cast iron skull, that’s what me ma always said. More likely they’ll be the ones who are hurting.’
THREE
In the end he was five minutes late, dashing along Boar Lane, past Holy Trinity Church to meet her in front of the Grand Pygmalion. Sergeant Tollman had wanted a quick word that stretched out to ten minutes, then a detective constable needed a piece of advice. After that he’d been forced to run the whole way.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, gasping for breath. She stood with her back to one of the grand glass windows, the shade of a wide hat hiding her expression.
‘I don’t know, Tom Harper, I’m not sure I can do with a man who’s never on time.’ Her voice seemed serious and he looked at her, suddenly worried. But Annabelle was smiling, her eyes playful. ‘You’re going to have to do better than this,’ she scolded.
‘I …’ he began, and she laughed.
‘Oh give over, you daft ha’porth. It took me eight months to get you to propose. I’m used to you being late, I’m not doing to drop you now.’ She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. ‘If you want to make yourself useful you can carry these.’
‘Six packages?’ Harper asked. ‘What have you been doing, buying half of Leeds?’
‘Just things a girl needs when she’s going to be wed,’ she told him. ‘I could have waited for you before I started shopping, if you’d rather.’
‘No,’ he replied hastily. ‘It’s fine.’ He’d been in the Pygmalion when it opened. Four floors of draperies, parasols and sailor suits. Everything was slick and well-presented, and there were more assistants than he could shake a stick at. A department store, they called it. Nothing to interest him at all. He’d been a member of the Co-op as far back as he could recall. Their big shop on Albion Street had everything he needed and the prices suited his pocket. On a policeman’s pay every penny counted.
‘Come on, then, we’d better get a move on,’ Annabelle said. ‘It’s Saturday and I said I’d help out tonight. We’ll be packed and I want a bite of something first.’ She waited until he had all the packages and set off along the street, her arm through his. Her dress was a pale lemon colour, matching the ribbon that held the hat in place and tied in a bow under her chin. Simple clothes, but she wore them with elegance and style.
He saw men glancing at her. She had that kind of face. Not beautiful, no Jenny Lind or Lily Langtry, but she possessed a quality that drew the eyes. The first time he’d seen her he’d been unable to stop staring. At first it was just for a moment before turning away, then looking again and again until she’d stopped in front of him and boldly asked if he liked what he saw.
She’d been collecting glasses in the Victoria down in Sheepscar, an old apron covering her dress and her sleeves rolled up, talking and laughing with the customers. He thought she must be a serving girl with a brass mouth. Then, as he sat and watched her over another pint, he noticed the rest of the staff defer to the woman. He was still there when she poured herself a glass of gin and sat down next to him.
‘I’m surprised those eyes of yours haven’t popped out on stalks yet,’ she told him. ‘You’ve been looking that hard you must have seen through to me garters.’ She leaned close enough for him to smell her perfume and whispered, ‘They’re blue, by the way.’
For the first time in years, Tom Harper blushed. She laughed.
‘Aye, I thought that’d shut you up. I’m Annabelle. Mrs Atkinson.’ She extended a hand and he shook it, feeling the calluses of hard work on her palms. But there was no ring on her finger. ‘He’s dead, love,’ she explained as she caught his glance. ‘Three year back. Left me this place.’
She’d started as a servant in the pub when she was fifteen, she said, after a spell in the mills. The landlord had taken a shine to her, and she’d liked him. One thing had led to another and they’d married. She was eighteen, he was fifty, already a widower once. After eight years together, he died.
‘Woke up and he were cold,’ she said, toying with the empty glass. ‘Heart gave out in the night, they said. And before you ask, I were happy with him. Everyone thought I’d sell up once he was gone but I couldn’t see the sense. We were making money. So I took it over. Not bad for a lass who grew up on the Bank, is it?’ She gave him a quick smile.
‘I’m impressed,’ he said.
‘So what brings a bobby in here?’ Annabelle asked bluntly. ‘Something I should worry about?’
‘How did you know?’
She gave him a withering look. ‘If I can’t spot a copper by now I might as well give up the keys to this place. You’re not in uniform. Off duty, are you?’
‘I’m a detective. Inspector.’
She pushed her lips together. ‘Right posh, eh? Got a name, Inspector?’
‘Tom. Tom Harper.’
He’d returned the next night, and the next, and soon they started walking out together. Shows at Thornton’s Music Hall and the Grand, walks up to Roundhay Park on a Sunday for the band concerts. Slowly, as the romance began to bloom, he learned more about her. She didn’t just own the pub, she also had a pair of bakeries, one just up Meanwood Road close to the chemical works and the foundry, the other on Skinner Lane for the trade from the building yards. She employed people to do the baking but in the early days she’d been up at four each morning to take care of everything herself.
Annabelle constantly surprised him. She loved an evening out at the halls, laughing at the comedians and singing along with the popular songs. But just a month before she’d dragged him out to the annual exhibition at Leeds Art Gallery.
By the time they’d arrived, catching the omnibus and walking along the Headrow, it was almost dusk.
‘Are you sure they’ll still be open?’ he asked.
‘Positive,’ she said and squeezed his hand. ‘Come on.’
It seemed a strange thing to him. How would they light the pictures? Candles? Lanterns? At the entrance she turned to him.
‘Just close your eyes,’ she said, a smile flickering across her lips. ‘That’s better.’ She guided him into the room at the top of the building. ‘You can open them again now.’
It was bright as day inside, although deep evening showed through the skylights.
‘What?’ he asked, startled and unsure what he was seeing.
‘Electric light,’ she explained. She gazed around, eyes wide. ‘Wonderful, eh?’ She’d taken her time, examining every painting, every piece of sculpture, stopping to glance up at the glowing bulbs. Like everything else there, she was transfixed by the light as much as the art. To him it seemed to beggar belief that anyone can do this. When they finally came out it was full night, the gas lamps soft along the street. ‘You see that, Tom? That’s the future, that is.’
‘You’re off with the fairies again,’ she said, nudging against him.
‘Just thinking.’
‘You’re always doing that.’ But she smiled and shook her head. ‘Be careful, you’ll wear your brain out.’
They were strolling out along North Street, through the Leylands, the afternoon sun pleasant on his back. Omnibuses passed them with the click of hooves and the rhythmic turn of the wheels, a few empty carts heading back to the stables. The area was quiet. There’d be little noise around here before sunset, he thought. All the Jews would be at home for the Sabbath. He’d grown up less than a stone’s throw away from where they were right now, over on Noble Street, all sharp cobbles and grimy brick back-to-backs, like every other road he’d
known; nothing noble about it at all. Back then there’d been no more than a handful of Jewish families around, curiosities all of them, with strange names like Cohen and Zermansky that stuck on the tongue when he tried to pronounce them. The women all had dark, fearful eyes and the men wore their full beards long. Ask a question and they’d come out with torrents of words in a language he didn’t understand. Twenty years on and the Leylands was full of them, working every hour God sent, sewing clothes in their sweatshops. He was willing to bet there was more Yiddish spoken round here these days than English.
‘What do you want to do tomorrow, Tom?’ Annabelle asked.
He shrugged; he hadn’t given the next day a thought yet. ‘The park?’ he suggested. He liked the sense of space, of openness, up at Roundhay. The foul air that filled the city seemed like a strange memory when he was out there.
‘Aye, if it stays like this,’ she agreed. They’d walk to the park gates then wander arm in arm around the big lake and finish up with an ice cream. Maybe they’d carry a picnic along with them.
‘I’m off on Monday, too. Until the evening.’ He hesitated. ‘After that I might not be around for a few days.’
‘The gas?’
‘Yes.’
‘You just make sure you look after yourself.’ She grinned but there was steel behind her expression. ‘I’m not dragging a corpse to the register office next month.’
July the twelfth, he thought. No more than a few breaths away. It was odd, though; the idea didn’t scare him. He trusted her completely. She was the only one he’d ever told about his deafness. ‘I’ll be fine, don’t you worry.’
‘Anyone tries to hurt you they’ll have to deal with me,’ she warned, and he believed her. If that didn’t make him safe, nothing would.
He was back at his lodgings by ten and in bed by half past. Tomorrow he’d have Annabelle to himself. The Sunday before, his sisters had come to inspect the bride, swooping down from Bramley, Holbeck and Morley. Annabelle had entertained them and impressed them with her rooms she had above the Victoria. The women had chattered away at a mile a minute, his sisters as prattling as ever, never quiet until it was time to leave. They’d approved, that was obvious in their envious gazes. Not that it mattered; he was the one marrying her.
The banging woke him from a dream that vanished like smoke as he blinked his eyes open. He struggled into his dressing gown and opened the door. Mrs Gibson, his landlady, stood there, wide-eyed and shocked at the disturbance, a constable with a long face behind her.
‘I let him in, Mr Harper. He says he’s a policeman.’
‘He is, Mrs Gibson. Don’t worry.’ What else would he be, Harper thought irritably, wandering round in uniform in the middle of the night?
She scurried away. He waited until he heard her door close and said, ‘What is it?’
‘You wanted to know about Col Parkinson, sir.’
‘Has he tried to flit?’
‘No,’ the constable answered slowly. ‘He’s dead.’
FOUR
By the time he reached Fidelity Court the early summer dawn had arrived, pale sunlight almost making the place attractive. He took time to shave and dress properly before he left. His suit and waistcoat were brushed, a four-in-hand knot on the tie and the shirt collar carefully studded on. The body wouldn’t be going anywhere and God alone knew when he’d have time to come home and change.
A uniform he didn’t recognize nervously guarded the door to Parkinson’s house. Neighbours had gathered across the yard, clustered around Ginny Dempsey’s door.
‘Is he dead, Mr Harper?’ she called as he passed. She was already dressed, the shawl pulled over her hair and neck.
‘How would I know, Ginny? I’ve only just got here.’
His words set her muttering to the others. Harper stopped to examine the door to Parkinson’s cottage, the wood splintered around the lock. Inside it was still too dark to make out the face of the man standing in the corner, only the glowing dot of his cigarette end.
‘Come on,’ Harper said testily, ‘let’s have some light.’
He heard the sharp rasp as the man struck a match, then the soft, fluttering light of a candle showed Parkinson’s body hanging from a ceiling beam, a chair kicked over on its side close by. Sullivan, the night patrolman for the beat, pulled off his cap in respect.
It was Col, no mistake about that, a puddle of piss on the floor underneath him and the room stinking where he’d soiled himself.
‘Who jemmied the door?’ Harper asked. ‘You?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sullivan replied, trying to keep his gaze away from the corpse. ‘They said you wanted to know if he tried to run so I shone me lantern in the window when I made me rounds. I saw something …’ His words faded away for a moment. ‘It was swinging a little bit. I knocked on the door. When there was no answer I thought I’d best come in.’
‘Good,’ he said with an approving nod. ‘Have you talked to the neighbours yet?’
‘No, sir. As soon as I realized what it was I blew me whistle and waited until young Nicholson showed up. I had him stand outside, just in case, and I went to the station so they could send someone for you.’
‘Right. Half the court’s over outside Ginny’s. See if they heard anything. Who’s been coming and going here, that sort of thing.’ He paused, then added, ‘Send Nicholson down to Millgarth. We’ll need someone to haul Col away.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Alone, he walked slowly around the room. One chair by the hearth, a table pushed against the back wall. A small, dusty mirror over the mantel. No pieces of paper, no books, very little of anything except a jug of beer and a cracked glass by one of the chairs. He pushed through to the kitchen. There were a few days’ worth of dishes on the table, covered with a fur of mould, a trail of ants crawling in and out. A half-empty bucket of water. Nothing useful.
He lifted Parkinson’s right hand, bringing it up to the light. Fresh grazes on the knuckles. They hadn’t been there when he’d seen the man the previous afternoon. More on the left hand. He dragged the other chair over, climbing on it to look at Col’s face. Someone had given him a battering.
Harper was pacing the room again when Sullivan returned.
‘The man next door heard noises here close to midnight, sir. Looked out and saw two men hauling Col in. Thought he was likely dead drunk. Wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Did he recognize them?’
‘No gas lamps back here, sir. Pitch black.’
‘Anything else?’
‘A couple of others heard something but they didn’t bother to look.’ He edged a glance at the body then quickly looked away. ‘I suppose he must have woken up and done it.’
‘Maybe,’ Harper said doubtfully. ‘Where does Col go these days, apart from the Leopard?’
‘The Rose and Crown mostly,’ the man answered after a little thought. ‘He mostly sups at home. Doesn’t stray far, our Col. Didn’t,’ Sullivan corrected himself after a moment.
‘Right. I’ll leave him with you. I’ll want the police surgeon to take a close look at Mr Parkinson.’
He spent two full minutes hammering on the door of the Rose and Crown before a shape appeared on the other side of the glass.
‘Who is it?’ a man’s voice called, still full of sleep.
‘It’s Inspector Harper, Arthur. I want a word.’
He waited as the bolts were strained back and a key turned. The door opened and Arthur Rhodes was looking up at him. The man was still in his nightshirt, grey hair sprouting out wildly from his head, a stout, polished branch in one thick hand.
‘It’d better be important,’ he grumbled. ‘Do you know what time it is?’
Harper pulled out his watch. ‘It’s half past six on a Sunday morning and I’ve been up for three hours. So why don’t you let me in, Arthur, and stick the kettle on?’
The man muttered but moved away, leaving Harper to follow through the bar to a back parlour.
‘Essie,’ he yelled up the
stairs, ‘get yourself out of bed. The police are here.’
Ten minutes later he was sitting with a cup in front of him, waiting as the serving girl poured the tea and left.
‘Right,’ Rhodes said, ‘what is it? Sunday’s the only day I can sleep in for a bit so I hope you haven’t ruined it for nowt.’
‘Col Parkinson.’
‘What about him?’
‘Does he drink in here?’
‘Sometimes,’ Rhodes conceded. ‘I’ve not seen him in a day or two. Why, what’s he done?’
‘He’s dead, Arthur.’
‘Dead?’ the man asked. ‘Col?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Hung himself at home.’ For now it was the safest thing to say.
‘Poor bugger,’ he said slowly. He poured some of the tea into the saucer and slurped it.
‘Who does he drink with?’
Rhodes sat back, thinking. ‘Let me see … you know Dick Smith?’
‘Ginger Dick?’
‘That’s the one. I’ve seen them together a few times. And Bill Corson. Mind you, a week or so back he were with a couple of fellows I’d not seen before. Heads together like they were planning something. Nasty pair, they were.’
‘Nasty?’ Harper asked. ‘How?’
‘Seemed like they’d cause trouble as soon as blink. Well, one of them did. You know the type.’
He did, all too well.
‘Do you remember what they looked like?’
‘One was big, a real bruiser, head all shaved. T’other was smaller. Dark hair, maybe.’ Arthur Rhodes shrugged.
‘When exactly was this?’
‘A week, like I said. No,’ he corrected himself. ‘My Jane were down with her lumbago and we were rushed off our feet. Ten days back, a week ago Friday.’
‘Thank you, Arthur.’
‘Who’s looking after that lass of theirs with Betty in Armley?’
‘She’s gone to his sister’s in Halifax.’
Gods of Gold Page 3
