Gods of Gold

by Chris Nickson

  By six, Harper was waiting at the tram stop at the corner of Roundhay Road and North Street. He’d bought a Post from the newsboy and thumbed through it as he waited. The front page was all about the gas problems. Editors and politicians were predicting chaos, no power for business and anarchy ruling the streets. Martha Parkinson only rated a tiny item on page three, a missing girl, the police searching for her. No mention that her father was dead and her mother in jail. But as soon as most people saw that she lived in Fidelity Court they’d move on to the next item, anyway.

  He found a seat upstairs, the air fresh, the early sun almost the colour of lemon. He paid his threepence as the conductor came round, and the slow clop of the horses’ hooves and the rhythm of the wheels rumbling in the iron tracks lulled him on the journey into town.

  Annabelle had seen him off at the front door of the pub. Inside the smells of baking were coming from the kitchen. She held him close for a moment.

  ‘Letting a man out first thing in the morning,’ he said with a grin. ‘Folk’ll talk.’

  ‘Let ’em.’ She kissed him again. ‘If they’ve nowt better to gossip about, what with all that’s going on, they need their bumps felt. You make sure you look after yourself tonight,’ she instructed him.

  ‘I will. No one’s going to crack my skull.’

  ‘They’d better not,’ she said fiercely, ‘or I’ll come looking for them.’

  He folded the newspaper and stuck it in his pocket as he alighted outside the market. The voices of the traders followed him as he strode down George Street to Millgarth. Tollman was already at the station desk.

  ‘Anything?’ Harper asked hopefully.

  The older man shook his big head. ‘Had a team out all night, Inspector. Nothing so far.’

  It was what he’d expected. How did you find a small girl in a place as big as Leeds?

  Reed was sleeping at his desk, his head cradled on his arms. But he woke as soon as Harper scraped his chair back, and sat upright, instantly alert. His eyes looked hunted and a line of spittle dripped from his mouth.

  ‘It’s only me, no need to panic.’

  Reed shook his head to wake himself, then ran a hand over his hair.

  ‘Sorry, I fell asleep,’ he said sheepishly, wiping a hand across his lips.

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Nothing much. I came across someone who’d seen those two men talking to Ben East and another man who said they’d been in a pub with John Godfrey. Couldn’t track either of them down last night, though.’

  ‘I’ll get to them today. You’d better go home and rest for a while. We’re going to have a long night.’ He pulled out the newspaper. ‘Something to enjoy on the tram. Apparently the authorities believe things could become disturbing over the next few days.’

  ‘Really?’ The sergeant chuckled and rolled his eyes. ‘I wonder what makes them think that?’ He put on his bowler hat, adjusting it carefully. ‘I’ll see you this evening.’

  Reed should have gone straight home, he knew that. He could feel the exhaustion rising up through him. He waited for the tram on Woodhouse Lane, determined he’d go directly to his lodgings and sleep until he needed to report for duty again.

  As the tram slowly crossed the moor, rocking slightly with each turn of the wheels, he opened the newspaper Harper had given him, skimming from page to page, the ink staining his hands. There was nothing to interest him. Everything that affected his life he heard at the station. What was happening in London, around the empire and in other countries meant little. He’d been there, seen them during his years in the regiment. Paraded for the Queen in London, stationed in Gibraltar, service in Africa, Afghanistan, time in India. And he had no desire to return to any of them.

  He alighted at the end of the Woodhouse Moor and crossed the street to Mould’s Hyde Park Hotel. Just one drink, maybe two, before going to bed. Something to help him sleep. His lodgings were no more than five minutes’ walk away.

  The place smelt of beeswax, the wood glistening, the brass of the rails and pumps shining in the light that came through the window. Streaks of water shone on the black and white tiles of the floor where it had just been mopped. He often came here on the way back from work, but that was usually in the evenings. Mornings seemed different here. There was a single drinker, huddled away in the corner, and a potman whose face he didn’t recognize polishing the mirror behind the bar.

  ‘Gin,’ he ordered, counting out the change from his pocket. He took the glass over to a table and let it sit for a minute. As long as he could do that, just stare at the alcohol without touching it or drinking, he was fine, he was in control.

  Finally he put his fingers around the glass and tasted the liquid, feeling the fire and the taste rush into his throat. He closed his eyes, letting it burn through his body. Until he joined the army he’d rarely drunk. Not that he’d been teetotal; only his uncle was, and he was chapel. But Reed had just enjoyed beer then. He’d taken the taste for gin in the NCO mess. The sergeants had drunk it and corporals like him imitated them, seeing themselves like that in a few years.

  He took another small sip, letting it linger in his mouth before swallowing it. There’d been precious little alcohol in Kabul. It was too far to bring it from India. All they had was what a few enterprising troopers could distil in the barracks. Godawful stuff, but everyone bought it. They needed it to warm them through the frigid winters and take the edge off the furnace that was summer there.

  Mostly, though, they drank to forget what they saw. The troopers captured on patrol, and found later, tortured and mutilated. The lucky ones were dead. He found one on a bleak hillside west of the city, staked out among the rocks. The sun had burned his skin to blisters and blood had soaked into the ground where he’d been castrated. He was going to die, his tongue swollen, mind raving. Reed had tipped water from his canteen into the man’s mouth, seeing his eyes clear for a moment.

  ‘Kill me,’ he’d said thickly. ‘Please.’

  He’d raised his rifle, taken aim, and the shot had echoed around the valley. That night he’d drunk himself into a dreamless sleep before the face could haunt him. It still returned, all too often, along with the other things he’d seen done, by tribesmen and English alike.

  As soon as he returned to England he put in his papers to leave. He’d seen too much. He had to do it to stay sane. Too many of his friends, people he’d trusted with his life, were dead. Some men could cope with it, shrug it off. He wasn’t one of them. Becoming a bobby seemed a good compromise and Leeds was close enough to his family in Bradford. He could visit yet still stay away. In this job he was keeping order, finding those who’d done wrong and putting them away. He could pick out the others on the force who’d spent time in the army. It was there in the way they looked at a street as they entered it, how they carried themselves. But he kept his distance from them. From everyone, really, except Harper.

  Reed didn’t have a girl. Most of the time he never missed it. He knew it wouldn’t be fair to put her through the bad dreams, worse to have her there when his anger flared uncontrollably. If he needed someone, there were plenty available for a few pennies, factory girls needing a little extra money.

  Tomorrow morning his letter should reach Whitby, he thought. With luck he’d have a reply on Tuesday or Wednesday. Maybe he’d find his tiny piece of paradise.

  He drained the glass and went back for another, a large one. That would be all, he told himself. Then he’d go home and sleep and the gin would keep it all at bay so he could wake feeling rested.

  As the hands of the clock turned to seven, Superintendent Kendall strode in wearing his best uniform. The braid and buttons gleamed, his cap badge shone and his boots were carefully polished. He waved Harper into his office.

  ‘What do you have for me, Tom? I need to go to a meeting at the Town Hall in a minute.’

  ‘Not much, sir.’ He recounted what Reed had told him. ‘I’ll catch up with the pair of them today. After that I might have a better idea
what to do. The night beat have been scouring all the courts and yards. The problem is that we don’t even know where to look—’

  ‘Or whether we’re looking for a girl or a body,’ Kendall said. ‘I know. You’ve got until eight tonight. Then I want you over at the Midland Station.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The strikers are going to try to stop the replacements getting through. Mingle with them. If you spot anyone causing trouble, arrest them.’

  Harper nodded. If he tried to arrest any of the strikers, the rest of them would tear him apart. He’d be lucky to escape with his life.

  ‘The constables will come to help you,’ Kendall went on.

  They bloody wouldn’t, he thought. They’d be hard pressed to look after themselves if it was as bad as everyone expected.

  ‘Just do your job,’ the superintendent told him. ‘If you learn anything about the girl, send a message over to the Town Hall. I’ll be there most of the day.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Ben East. He hadn’t heard that name in a couple of years. Another one who’d never held a real job but made his living like a magpie, stealing the shiny things he saw. All too often, though, he’d been caught. The man had been in Armley three times to Harper’s knowledge, and probably more than that.

  John Godfrey was a different matter altogether. He’d shared a drink with him a couple of times. Godfrey was in his forties, an honest man all his life. He worked at the dye plant on Fearn’s Island, with a neat, clean home in Turk’s Head Yard. What would he want with a couple of characters like that? Or what would they want with him?

  Briggate was already busy with buses and carts, some piled impossibly high with goods, the drivers urging on their horses. A hackney carriage weaved wildly in and out of the traffic, the cabbie skilfully guiding the horse between vehicles. Pedestrians filled the pavement, most walking purposefully, a few lounging and watching. As soon as they saw Harper with the grim, determined look on his face, their eyes would slide away and they’d slope off to another spot, out of sight.

  In Turk’s Head Yard, Whitelock’s was already open, the door wide to air out the bar, a man shining the brass, the scent of wax rising as a woman polished the wood. The house he wanted was at the other end of the court, its glass clean, cheap lace curtains keeping out prying eyes.

  He knocked on the door, expecting Dorothy Godfrey to answer. Instead he was face to face with her husband, a stooped, rounded man who peered at him and blinked.

  ‘It’s Inspector Harper,’ he explained.

  Godfrey’s eyes widened. ‘Hello, lad. What’s the matter? Have I done summat wrong?’ His voice was a wheeze and he coughed at the end of the sentence.

  ‘Can I come in, Mr Godfrey? You don’t need your neighbours knowing everything.’

  ‘Aye, reet enough,’ he agreed readily, standing aside. The parlour was clean, the boards swept, the empty grate blackleaded, but it seemed strangely bare. Two chairs, a table pushed against the wall, but none of the china that would usually fill the mantel in a house like this. He could hear noises in the kitchen; Mrs Godfrey already preparing dinner, most likely.

  ‘I thought you’d be at work,’ Harper said.

  ‘Not these days,’ the man told him with a weak smile. ‘Me lungs aren’t what they were, I’m allus stopping and coughing. And my eyes, can’t hardly see to do owt, so they had to let me go.’

  ‘How do you manage?’

  ‘We’ve saved a little bit, but …’

  Harper understood. Times would be hard and everything they could sell would be sitting in the pawnshop. It explained the sparseness of the room.

  ‘I’m wondering about a couple of fellows you might know.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Godfrey cocked his head.

  ‘One big one, looks like a boxer, the one smaller with dark hair.’

  The colour left the man’s face and he began to cough again, finally bowing his head, dragging a handkerchief from his pocket and spitting dark phlegm into it.

  ‘Who are they, John?’ Harper asked softly. ‘I need to know. A little girl’s life might depend on it.’

  ‘What, that little one from Fidelity Court that’s missing?’

  ‘Martha Parkinson, yes. It’s important, please, tell me about them.’

  Godfrey took a thin breath. The inspector watched him. He wanted to talk but he was scared of something, Finally the man made a decision and raised his head.

  ‘They said they’d hurt my wife if I talked to the coppers,’ he said quietly. ‘They meant it, too. That big one, his face, he looks just like he wants to hurt someone.’

  ‘Why would they threaten you?’

  ‘I borrowed some money. Just a little to see us through. They came to collect it.’

  ‘How much did you borrow?’ Harper asked.

  ‘A fiver. We’d been paying it back, two bob a week, like I’d agreed. Then these two came and said they wanted it all.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Seven quid.’ His eyes looked helpless. ‘We don’t have that kind of brass, Mr Harper. Why would I want a lend if I had cash like that?’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘I’ve got two weeks to find it.’ He shook his head. ‘Said they were being generous, giving me all that time. And if I didn’t pay they’d take it out on my wife.’

  ‘Which one did the talking?’

  ‘The small one. The big lad, all he needed to do was stand there. He terrified me, Inspector, he really did.’

  ‘What were their names?’

  ‘They didn’t say. Didn’t need to, really, did they?’ He tried to smile but failed.

  ‘When were they here?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Four days back. I’ve not slept proper since. There was a knock last night, I was scared to answer it in case they’d come back.’ It explained why Reed hadn’t talked to him.

  ‘Who did you borrow the money from?’ He hoped Godfrey wasn’t too scared to answer.

  ‘Henry Bell.’

  He should have guessed. Bell made his fortune through his generosity, lending money to those who needed it, then charging interest that crippled them. The police had been trying to put him away for years but when folk refused to testify against him there was little they could do.

  ‘These men, had you seen them before?’

  ‘Never. They didn’t sound as they were from here, though.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Aye. Manchester, if you ask me. I might not see or breathe too well these days, but I can pick out an accent,’ Godfrey said proudly.

  ‘If they come back, don’t let them in. Shout and yell and someone will call a constable.’

  The man nodded. Harper wanted to say that he’d make sure the pair never bothered him again, that he’d be safe, but that was a promise he couldn’t make. Not yet.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Godfrey.’

  ‘I’ll not let anything happen to my missus. Over my dead body.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to make sure it doesn’t come to that.’

  Back in the sunlight he fitted the hat on his head. Money, fear, and those ready to take advantage of the folk who had nothing and scrabbled for a living. There were always too many who traded in those things, the Henry Bells and Tosh Walkers, who made their money out of misery.

  But what John Godfrey had told him changed everything. It meant that Col hadn’t sold Martha, after all. He must have owed Bell money and they’d taken her to pay off his debt. Maybe they’d even thrown him a pound or two along with a warning to keep quiet.

  Then, after he’d come calling, asking about the girl, they’d returned to make sure Parkinson couldn’t talk. Why? Why had they wanted the girl instead of money? He couldn’t make sense of that. What had the bastards done with Martha?

  Ben East was exactly where he’d expected, outside the large Co-op on Albion Street, watching for a rich pocket to pick. His eyes darted around, alert for a uniformed constable but never noticing a policeman in plain clothes until it was too late.
r />   ‘I wouldn’t try to scarper,’ Harper warned him. ‘I’d catch you in ten yards.’

  ‘I’m not doing anything, Mr Harper.’ He was a scarecrow of a man, scrawny as twigs, in need of a shave, never quite meeting anyone’s glance.

  ‘Of course you’re not, Ben. You’re just taking the air and trying not to think about those men who work for Henry Bell.’ East glanced away furtively and Harper sighed, his voice turning hard. ‘Look, you’ve been seen with them. Don’t go telling me you don’t know who they are. I want to talk to them about Martha Parkinson, so you’d best not bugger me around. Who are they?’

  ‘I don’t know their names, Mr Harper,’ he pleaded. ‘I don’t, honest. They come round a few days back and said I had a fortnight to pay up a fiver. Then the big one hit me a few times.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On me belly and me chest where it dun’t show.’ He looked shamefaced at the humiliation of it. ‘T’ little ’un said it’d be worse if I didn’t pay.’

  ‘Have you seen them before?’

  East shook his head. ‘Never. New, I reckon.’

  ‘How much did you borrow?’

  ‘Two quid,’ he answered bleakly. ‘Two bloody quid. What is it, you think they took that little girl?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I’m going to find out.’

  ‘Who’s the biggest, nastiest uniform we have?’ Harper asked Tollman.

  ‘Robbie Collins,’ the desk sergeant answered without hesitation. ‘You must have seen him, sir. Over six foot, looks like he could push down a wall without even trying. He used to play rugby for Holbeck before he became a bobby.’

  He knew the man. Exactly who he needed for a visit to Henry Bell.

  ‘What’s his beat?’

  ‘Round by Wellington Street. Why?’

  ‘I’d like him to meet me at the corner of Briggate and Commercial Street in half an hour.’

  The sergeant looked at him quizzically but nodded his head.

  For a moment, Harper considered going over to the Town Hall to tell the superintendent what he planned to do. But the man was busy with his preparations. And what he didn’t know about, he couldn’t turn down.