Rhodes shook his head. ‘I never had Col down to do owt as daft as kill himself.’
‘Neither did I,’ Harper told him, keeping his voice bland.
‘Was he in last night?’ Harper asked the landlord of the Leopard Hotel.
John Murphy looked him up and down. ‘You’re the one who came in to talk to him yesterday afternoon, aren’t you?’
‘I did.’
‘Cleared out me custom for an hour.’ With his name and red hair there might have been Irish in Murphy’s past, but his voice was pure Leeds. He’d taken over the place since Harper had walked the beat here.
‘So was Col here last night?’
‘Aye,’ the man acknowledged. ‘Came in around eight and stayed until I closed.’
‘When was that?’
‘A little before midnight. Not enough of them left to keep me from a warm bed.’
‘Who was he with?’
‘No one, most of the time.’ He rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Why are you looking for him, any road?’
‘I’m not,’ Harper said and watched the man’s eyebrows rise. ‘I know exactly where Col is. He’s on his way to the mortuary right now.’
‘Dead?’ With an unconscious gesture, Murphy crossed himself, his face suddenly pale. ‘Sweet God, what happened?’
‘Looks as if he killed himself. So you understand why I wanted to know what he was doing last night.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Murphy nodded quickly. ‘He must have come up not long after eight. That’s when Mary called me for me supper, and he was here when I came back down.’
‘And on his own the whole time?’
‘Like I said.’
‘How much was he drinking?’
‘No more than usual. He had a word with people here and there. Then these two fellows came in and sat with him until I kicked everyone out.’
‘What fellows?’ Harper asked with interest.
‘Hard types, you know what I mean, Inspector? One of them looked like a prizefighter. Big man, shaved his head, broken nose, scars on his face and hands.’ He saw the inspector staring at him, surprised at the detail. ‘I used to follow the fights,’ he explained.
‘Did you know them?’
Murphy shook his head. ‘Not seen them before. But they were talking away and poor Col was listening and nodding his head. They all left together.’
‘What was the other man like?’
‘Smaller.’ Murphy shrugged. ‘Not someone you’d notice in a crowd. Dark hair, clean shaven.’ He paused. ‘But he kept touching his lip as if he’d had a moustache there lately.’
‘Was Col drunk or staggering when he left?’
Murphy pursed his lips and thought. ‘No,’ he answered slowly. ‘He was up on his own two feet.’
‘Did he look as if he’d been in a fight?’
‘He did not,’ the landlord responded firmly. ‘Was he that way when you found him?’
‘Yes.’
Murphy shook his head again. ‘Poor man. May the Lord look after him.’
‘Had he been in often lately?’
‘Most nights in the last week. A few of the days, too,’ he added.
‘With money to spend?’
‘Enough for what he wanted. He wasn’t buying rounds, if that’s what you mean.’
Harper thought quickly, then asked, ‘Did Col look as if he was expecting the two men?’
‘I’ve no idea, Inspector. I was bringing up a new barrel when they arrived.’
‘Is there anything else you can think of?’
‘Not really, Mr Harper. I’ll let you know if I do. Col.’ Murphy glanced up, his eyes filled with sadness. ‘He wasn’t the best man but I doubt he was the worst, either.’
Outside, he felt the sun warm on his face, lit a Woodbine and smoked as he decided what to do next. He could go back to Millgarth and write up an initial report on Parkinson’s death. Or he could go to Armley Jail and talk to Betty Parkinson.
She needed to know her husband was dead. She could also tell him more about Martha. It seemed to revolve around the girl. Two men appear, Martha vanishes to visit the mysterious sister and Col has a little money. Then, as soon as the police come around asking questions the two men reappear and Col stretches his neck.
Except that he didn’t believe for a moment that Parkinson had killed himself. The bruising on the man’s face and Murphy’s story put paid to that little tale. He needed answers and Betty might be able to provide a few of them. And she deserved to hear the news from someone other than a prison guard.
Armley it was. It was little more than a mile each way and fine weather for a walk. He made his way out along Wellington Street and climbed the slow gradient of the hill. In the distance he could make out the Wortley gasometers, both of them so low they seemed almost empty, then the huge bulk of the Mills, standing tall and dirty between the river and the canal. For once there was no smoke pouring from the chimneys to hang over Leeds and hide the sun.
From November to March soot lingered around town in clinging, harsh palls of dark fog. It made men cough and spit black phlegm, the stink of industry the price of the town’s success. The snow was grey before it even touched the ground.
The Sabbath was about the only time the air began to feel clean in Leeds, he thought, the one day working men could enjoy a rest and all the factories were shut.
The jail stood right at the summit of Armley. With its tower and high walls it was meant to look like a castle, powerful and intimidating. But no one was ever going to find adventure or romance once the big gate shut. There was nothing more than misery inside.
It was almost half an hour before a guard escorted Betty Parkinson through to the interview room. Light filtered in through a high, barred window, a shaft of sun catching dust motes as they rose. There was a wooden table, its top scarred and dull, one leg shorter than the others, and a pair of plain chairs.
She looked at him with empty eyes and sat meekly on the chair, hands folded in her lap.
‘Come to try and charge me with summat else, Mr Harper?’
‘Not today, Betty,’ he told her, and his tone made her look sharply at him.
He remembered the first time he’d seen her. It was a week or so after he’d started on the beat. She’d been fourteen or fifteen then, a real bobby dazzler all the lads wanted, full of fun and mischief and free with her favours until she met Col. He always thought they were an unlikely couple, Col so quiet and Betty loud, always ready for something. But they’d married and found a life of little crimes that suited them both, even after Martha was born.
‘What is it?’ she asked urgently. ‘Has something happened to Martha?’
‘It’s Col,’ he said gently. ‘I’m sorry, Betty, he’s dead.’
Her mouth opened wide, one of her hands flying up to cover it as the moan of pain came out. She began to cry and he passed her his handkerchief, watching as she pawed at the tears that ran down her cheeks. Her body convulsed hard with each sob.
Harper waited until she’d calmed a little, the handkerchief clutched tight between her fingers.
‘How?’ she began, her voice thick and stumbling, ‘I mean …’
‘It looks as if he hung himself, Betty.’
He watched as she forced herself to sit still and control her expression. Her mouth was shut tight, eyes empty with loss. Then the thought came, just as he knew it would.
‘Martha? Where’s Martha? Is she all right?’
He waited a moment before answering.
‘Col had sent her to his sister in Halifax.’
At first she looked confused, as if she hadn’t understood a word he’d said. Then the panic rose in her eyes. ‘Sister? What do you mean? What sister? Col dun’t have a sister. What are you talking about?’
He tried to explain, to ask more questions, but she was up and pacing quickly around the room. She fell to her knees and started screaming, ‘Where is she?’ over and over until the guards helped her away, her pleading echoing
down the hall.
He knocked on Superintendent Kendall’s door and the man waved him in. Sundays, holidays, Kendall was always at the station. Maybe that was why his marriage was so happy, Harper thought; he was never there for it.
‘I heard you were called out early,’ Kendall said.
‘Yes, sir. Col Parkinson. I’d asked the beat to keep an eye on him.’
He explained it all, laying it out step by step. The super listened carefully, filling his pipe and lighting it, his face creased into a deep frown.
‘So the girl’s been missing for a week and her father’s death is suspicious,’ Kendall said finally.
‘It’s murder, sir. I’d bet my pay on it.’
‘Let’s not say what it is until the surgeon’s examined him.’ Harper understood the superintendent’s reluctance. He required evidence.
‘Yes, sir. But the girl …’
‘The girl we start looking for now,’ Kendall said. ‘We need to find her as soon as we can. What about these two men Parkinson was seen with? How do they fit in with her disappearance, do you think?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
Kendall dipped his nib in the inkwell and started scribbling notes.
‘Go back to Fidelity Yard,’ he ordered quickly. ‘Question everyone there, and I mean everyone. I saw Reed in the office, take him with you. I’ll send over some constables to help you.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘You have today and tomorrow. After that I’m going to need you both for duty on this gas business.’
‘Sir—’ Harper started to protest. Kendall cut him off.
‘That’s an order from the chief, Tom. We’re going to be stretched thin enough as it is, especially if it becomes violent.’
‘I can guarantee you it will if they bring in a bunch of blacklegs.’
‘And if they don’t, Leeds won’t have any gas,’ Kendall pointed out. ‘That’s no lights, no cooking for those who have gas stoves, no power for any of the factories. This is an emergency, Tom, the council’s pressing the chief constable and he’s pushing hard on all of us. I don’t have any choice in the matter. Not even for a missing girl.’ He sighed. The inspector could see just how much the man was torn. Kendall knew that finding Martha Parkinson was the work the police should be doing. The right things; that was what he’d drummed into Harper a few years before. But his masters had other ideas and like a good man he had no choice but to obey. The superintendent ran a hand through his hair and said, ‘Do as much as you can. I’ll give you all the help I can find.’
‘What about after Monday night?’ Harper asked bluntly. ‘Do we just forget about her then?’ He hesitated, then added, ‘If she was an alderman’s daughter there’d be no question of forgetting her.’
‘Tom,’ he warned then shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s out of my hands. I’ll do all I can to keep you away from it and give you some time.’
‘Let me keep Billy Reed, then,’ he asked. ‘I’m not going to be able to do everything myself.’
‘All right,’ Kendall agreed. ‘But he’s your responsibility.’
‘Yes, sir.’ If that dark mood took him at the wrong time, Billy could become dangerous.
‘Come back at six and tell me what you’ve found. If there’s anything you need in the meantime, send word. Anything at all.’ He looked up. ‘And we’ll just have to pray nothing bad has happened to her.’
‘You think he was murdered?’ Reed asked as they strode up the Headrow.
‘I’m certain of it.’ Harper had his hands bunched deep in his trouser pockets, the fingers balled into tight fists. ‘Don’t worry about Col for now. We need to find Martha.’
‘What do you think he did with her?’
Harper waited. He hadn’t said it, didn’t want to say it, but he knew it needed to be out in the open.
‘I think he sold her.’
FIVE
‘You can’t be serious,’ Reed said incredulously. ‘No one would do that. Not to his own daughter.’
‘Of course they would. I’ve seen that and worse before. Why were you in on a Sunday, anyway?’
‘I had to finish a report. That Kinnear burglary. I didn’t have anything better to do, anyway.’
‘Right,’ Harper told him with a decisive nod. ‘When we get there, I’ll talk to the neighbours, most of them know me. I want you to look at the house again. There’s supposed to be a photograph of Martha but I didn’t see one when I was there.’
‘You really think she’s been sold?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Harper answered with sadness and anger as they edged through the passageway that led to Fidelity Court. A young constable still stood outside Parkinson’s tumbledown house, ready to challenge the new visitors. ‘Whatever you can find in there, Billy.’
The body had gone but the smell remained. The stink of death seemed to creep into every corner. Reed began his search in the main room. It was simply a matter of time and method, going through every little thing. You never knew what could be important; that was what the inspector had taught him.
He found the photograph quickly enough, down at the side of a chair. That seemed odd; it should have been out somewhere, on display. The grate was empty, all the ashes cleared with no need for a fire in the summer. He felt under the chairs, then tested the floorboards in case one was loose and made into a hiding place.
There wasn’t much in the place. Parkinson owned very little. Anything worth money would have long since gone to the pawnshop. But he still went through everything before moving into the kitchen. He held his breath, trying not to retch. There was no tap in the house, just an old bucket, half empty, for carrying water from the pump. The larder was almost bare, only part of a loaf covered with green mould and some cheese that had become food for mice and rats. On the table he separated the plates, brushing away the insects, then looked in the empty oven before feeling to the back of the cupboard. Everything he touched had a thin coating of grease and grime, as if none of it had been cleaned in years. An empty beer jug and three cracked glasses sat on the table.
Who could live like this, he wondered? At least the army had taught him the value of neatness, the need to keep things in good order. Your rifle needed to be stripped regularly. It had to treated with loving care to stop it jamming when you needed it most. And there’d been pride in a spotless uniform. He didn’t have many clothes now, but he still made sure they were clean, his boots always bulled to a high shine.
The ancient stairs creaked under his weight. At the top there was just a single room, cobwebs in the corners, a chamber pot almost overflowing with piss. He opened the window, pushing hard on the sash to release it, letting in air that seemed sweet after the close stench of decay inside. The bedstead was iron, rusted in patches; it had probably stood here for half a century. He flipped the pad that sat on top of it, tore off the sheet and felt the dirty pillows. Nothing. The girl’s bed lay against the wall. It was nothing more than a pallet, straw covered with a sheet, but it was tidy, everything folded, a small old doll placed on the pillow. He picked it up, cradling it close as he continued to search.
A few ragged clothes hung from nails hammered at angles into the plaster. There was a man’s shirt, the white faded to dull ivory and worn through at the elbows. A woman’s dress, second- or third-hand, worn and stained, was next to it, then a dress and apron for the girl. Those had been cared for, tears and snags mended by awkward fingers, the apron washed clean.
But there was nothing in the house even to give the names of the people who lived here. So little remained of them that they might never have existed. He heard footsteps on the boards below. Harper was back. There was nothing more to find, anyway.
The inspector knocked on the Dempseys’ door and heard the rush of children running to answer it. He’d known all the family by name at one time, given three or four of them a cuff round the ear when they’d misbehaved.
‘I need to talk to your mam,’ he told the upturned faces. At least two of them hadn’t been born when
he last patrolled here.
‘Ma,’ one of them shouted in a voice older than his years, ‘there’s a rozzer wants you.’
She came lumbering through from the kitchen, pushing them aside until she was filling the doorway in front of him, the old shawl gathered around her shoulders.
‘How many of them now, Ginny?’ he asked.
‘Eight,’ she replied with a chuckle. ‘I told me husband, you try and give me another and I’m taking a knife to that thing.’ She stared into his face. ‘What is it, then, Mr Harper? They’d not have you lot asking questions about someone killing hissen.’
‘It’s Martha.’
‘Gone to his sister in Halifax. I tell’t you that yesterday – for whatever it’s worth.’
‘I went to see Betty this morning. Col doesn’t have a sister in Halifax.’
Ginny’s expression didn’t change. ‘How did she take it?’
‘How do you think? She’s lost her husband and her daughter’s gone missing.’ He could still hear the screams as the guards led her away. ‘I need to know everything folk back here can tell me. No mucking about, none of this not helping the bobbies business.’
‘They’ll help,’ she assured him. ‘Wait a minute.’ She closed the door and he heard her speaking, her voice too low to make out the words. Then her children streamed out like a flood, one after the other. ‘They’ll pass the word, don’t you worry. Anyone gives you a problem, come and see me.’
He nodded his thanks. ‘Now, what do you know about Martha?’
She thought for a second, folding her hands in front of her large body, fingers playing with the fringe of her shawl.
‘You remember what Betty was like when she was young?’
‘Yes.’ The image of her slid into his mind.
‘Martha’s going to look the spit of her mam.’ She tapped her head with a finger. ‘But smart, not wild like Betty. She’s a good lass, do owt for anyone. Always happy, a smile on her face.’ Her eyes moved around the poor court. ‘You find that lass, Mr Harper.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘A week ago Friday. She’d just come back from school and she was playing with our Eliza.’
Gods of Gold Page 4
