Gods of Gold

by Chris Nickson

  ‘See if the uniforms knew any of the faces on the steps,’ Harper said.

  ‘Already done it.’ He grinned with satisfaction. ‘They gave me a name.’

  The inspector sighed with relief. ‘It’s a start.’

  ‘So who’s Dick James?’ Harper asked. They’d found a woman serving cups of tea, along with slices of bread and butter, and now he was cradling a china cup and plate on his lap as they sat in one of the empty Town Hall offices.

  ‘He’s a manager at the Wortley gasworks,’ Reed told him. ‘That’s what the uniform said, anyway.’

  ‘That would explain why he was here. Where do we find him?’

  ‘He’s gone back out to the works to make sure everything’s ready for the replacements.’

  Harper snorted. ‘If they ever get there. Even with the cavalry around, it’s going to be a pitched battle all the way.’ He swallowed the rest of the tea and stood up. ‘Right, we’d better go and see him.’

  They followed Wellington Road across the river and over the canal, passed blocks of dirty, cramped back-to-back houses thrown down between factories, homes to labourers and their families. Everything seemed strangely silent. There were hardly any carts or trams on the road; the streets were quiet except for the sound of their footsteps. It was as if the world was holding its breath and waiting.

  Soon they could see the New Wortley gasometers against the skyline, close to empty, only the skeleton of the metal frames showing over the rooftops. A single train whistled loudly, thick smoke rising as it gained speed out of New Station and passed loudly along the bridge overhead.

  ‘They’re really going to bring them out along here?’ Reed asked.

  ‘It’s the direct way.’ He saw the shock on the sergeant’s face.

  ‘They can’t. If the strikers have men up on that bridge …’

  Grassy embankments rose sharply on either side; climbing up would be nearly impossible. Any force up there would be impregnable, protected by the bridge parapet and free to rain down branches, bricks and stones on everyone passing underneath.

  ‘Maybe they’ll be able to keep the strikers off it.’

  ‘They should already have men up there to secure it,’ Reed said angrily. ‘Constables, soldiers, anybody.’ He craned his neck, calculating the height. ‘That has to be thirty feet. People are going to die.’ He shook his head hopelessly.

  There were small groups of pickets standing close at the works. The uniforms guarding the gates demanded to know who they were as he tried to enter.

  ‘Detective Inspector Harper and Detective Sergeant Reed, A Division,’ he said.

  The young constable came quickly to attention. ‘Sorry, sir.’ He flushed. ‘I didn’t know you. All of us here have been drafted in from Bradford.’

  ‘You’ll be busy this evening.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’ The man grinned, showing teeth stained brown by tobacco. ‘Fine by me, I like a good scrap, I do.’

  A few men were moving about the large yard. Two marquees had been erected, the heavy canvas pulled back to show rows of camp beds for the blacklegs. A young man with the first hope of a moustache above his lip was putting them together, sleeves rolled up to show arms like spindles.

  ‘Where’s Mr James?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Over there.’ He pointed at a building at the far side of the works. As he spoke, his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously up and down.

  The wooden door was propped open with a wedge. Inside, a man sat at a desk, scribbling into a ledger. He glanced up, annoyance and questions in his eyes, as the policemen entered.

  ‘Yes?’ There was a brusque edge to his voice, the sound of someone used to his own authority. But he was dressed like a working man, with an old jacket and trousers and a waistcoat that had seen better days, a kerchief knotted around his neck. A foreman, Harper guessed.

  ‘Police, Mr James,’ he said, watching the man sit a little straighter in his chair. ‘You were at the Town Hall when they brought the replacements in last night.’

  ‘Aye,’ James agreed warily. ‘What about it?’

  ‘You were standing on the steps, by the lions?’

  ‘Well, I’d not be down in the mob, would I?’ He smiled at his own wit.

  ‘How many others were around you?’

  ‘Others? What do you mean?’

  ‘The officers said there were a few of you standing there, waiting,’ Reed said. ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ James answered, taken aback by the question, thinking. ‘Ten, maybe. I didn’t count. Why, what’s this about?’

  ‘One of the men who came in was stabbed,’ Harper told him. ‘He’s dead.’

  For a moment the man said nothing as the colour left his face. Then he retched twice, pulling out a handkerchief and trying to spit away the news of death.

  ‘I …’ he began, shaking his head. ‘You mean someone in the crowd killed him?’

  ‘It happened up by the lions,’ Reed said. ‘That’s why we need to know who was there.’

  ‘Of course.’ He frowned, trying to recall. ‘There was Simpson, he’s one of the managers over at the York Street works.’

  ‘Go on,’ Harper prodded.

  ‘Tattersall. He’s a clerk to the gas committee. And Dawkins.’

  ‘Dawkins?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘I’m not sure what he does,’ James admitted, embarrassed at not knowing. ‘He’s often with the members of the gas committee when they visit.’

  ‘What about the men on the committee? Were they with you?’

  ‘They were inside.’ He looked at the two detectives. ‘Can you imagine what it would have been like if that crowd had seen them? I was scared for my life as it was.’

  ‘You’ve given us three names,’ Reed said. ‘What about the others who were there?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Didn’t know them.’ He paused. ‘He really died?’

  ‘Yes, Mr James, he did,’ Harper said.

  ‘Poor sod.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  They’d slipped back out through the gate, the constable saluting promptly this time. Before Harper could answer, a cheer went up from the pickets.

  ‘What’s happened?’ the inspector called out to them.

  ‘Half the bloody blacklegs have walked out of Meadow Road,’ a man answered with a broad grin. ‘Said they’d been conned and they’re going home. That’ll teach the bastards.’ He spat on the ground and turned away, rubbing his hands in glee.

  ‘Sixpence says the rest of them are gone by tomorrow,’ Harper offered as they began the walk back into town.

  ‘I’d be on a hiding to nothing if I took that.’ Reed looked up again as they approached the bridge. ‘Do you know what this reminds me of?’

  ‘What?’ Harper wondered. The sergeant’s face had taken on a strange, distant look.

  ‘Afghanistan.’ He pushed the bowler hat further down on to his head, as if it could protect him. ‘You’d go out on patrol and you’d know the tribesmen were waiting. You might not see them, but you knew they’d be shooting soon enough.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing. You went out and did your job and you prayed you’d be one of those who made it back.’ Reed stayed silent for a while, filled with memories, then said, ‘What do you want to do now?’

  ‘You take the ones with the gas committee. They should be at the town hall. I’ll go out to York Street a bit later.’

  ‘Going to look for Martha Parkinson?’

  Harper nodded. ‘Someone has to. The chief doesn’t care.’

  ‘That brings us back to Henry Bell,’ Reed reminded him. ‘His body’s still in his office.’

  The inspector shrugged. ‘His wife will report him missing soon enough. Let someone else find his body. Henry’s no loss. It’ll all end up on our desks, anyway. If you find anything, send a note over to the station.’

  They parted at the bottom of East Parade. He watched as Reed strode purposefully up the s
treet. The buildings rose high around him, smooth, sheer stone reaching up to the heavens. Banks, insurance offices, all of them filled with the calm, quiet power of money that brooked no challenge.

  Tattersall and Dawkins could almost have been copies of each other, the sergeant decided. They were both in their thirties, with thinning fair hair and offices along the same high corridor in the Town Hall. And both were filled with the gospel of the gas committee’s work.

  He saw Dawkins then Tattersall, but he needn’t have bothered; from the way they echoed each other, one would have been enough. Not that either had much to say. They’d been terrified by the crowd, more concerned with making sure the replacements arrived properly than anything else.

  By the time he’d finished with them he knew little more than when he’d begun. They offered a name or two more. It was as if they’d been there but hadn’t noticed a thing. Still, that was par for the course. Some witnesses gave you gold, most only had lead. He’d go back to the station, write up his notes and wait for the inspector.

  For now, though, he was thirsty. He wanted a drink. Just one to wet his whistle, and a sandwich to fill his belly. The Bull and Mouth on Briggate was on his way back to Millgarth.

  It was an old hotel, always full of men in Leeds on business, commercial travellers who hawked their wares the length and breadth of Britain. The bar was open but empty. There was only one man serving, checking the taps and trying to look busy. He glanced up as he heard the sharp footsteps on the tile floor, smiling to see the policeman.

  ‘Morning, Mr Reed. What can I get you?’

  ‘A sandwich and a glass of beer, please, Peter.’ He looked around. ‘Quiet in here.’

  The barman shrugged. ‘Early yet. Be more in by dinner. But everywhere’s dead with this strike.’ He poured a glass of beer and placed it in front of the sergeant. ‘I’ll bring the sandwich over to you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He reached into his pocket and asked, ‘How much do I owe you?’ but the man waved him away. It was the same every time, a play, a show; he’d once caught a pickpocket in the pub yard and since then they’d made sure his money was no good here.

  The food appeared in less than a minute, the bread cut into neat triangles, generously filled with cold roast beef sliced thick enough to keep him going for the rest of the day. He started to eat, washing each bite down with a sip of the beer.

  He wiped away the final crumbs and drained the dregs from the glass. He wanted more to drink, another and then another. Instead he clenched his fists and breathed deeply. Tonight. He’d be fine until then. Instead of returning to Millgarth he’d go and ask some more questions.

  Harper walked, barely giving Henry Bell’s office a glance as he passed along Commercial Street, heading into the courts and yards he knew well, among the poor where he still felt most comfortable. This was where the prizefighter and his friend preyed on people and they were the ones who’d lead him to Martha.

  In Fidelity Court, children who should have been at school were playing in the dirt. Three of Ginny Dempsey’s brood were among them. He knocked on her door, hearing the slow shuffle of her feet inside.

  ‘Mr Harper,’ she said. ‘We don’t see you for years and now you’re here all the time. Have you found young Martha yet?’

  ‘No.’ It hurt him to admit it. ‘I’m still looking for those two men.’

  ‘The boxer and his friend?’

  He nodded. If anyone around here could help, it was Ginny.

  ‘I can’t do it myself. You know everyone back in this area.’

  ‘I ought to. Lived here all my life,’ she said proudly.

  ‘Then pass the word that I’m looking, and Martha’s life could depend on it. I want this pair, I don’t care where the information comes from. They’ll come around again. I want to know when they do.’

  Mrs Dempsey stared at him for a few moments. ‘If she’s still alive,’ she said. ‘It’s been more than a week now.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Ginny, I know that.’ He could feel the frustration and sleeplessness of the last two days swirling inside. ‘Don’t you think I’m trying? I’ve got a dead blackleg at the Town Hall, and a chief constable who thinks finding his killer is more important than a little girl.’

  Her face softened. ‘I know you care, love. You allus did. I’ll do what I can. If they come around, we’ll find them. After that it’s up to you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m warning you, though,’ she told him. ‘If that lass is dead …’

  ‘Then we’d better all hope she’s not, hadn’t we?’

  TEN

  The York Street gasworks lay behind the railways goods depot on Marsh Lane, close enough for the symphony of trains, the whistles, cries and the metallic rolling of wheels on track to be constant.

  Harper made his way out beyond St Peter’s Square and through the waste ground to Lemon Street. Around here the roads had never been cobbled. They were still dirt that dried into hard ruts during the summer and turned to heavy mud when the rain fell.

  The houses were older, tired, clinging together to stay upright, with bricks black as bruises from years of soot. Around here was where the poor came when there was nowhere else left, where the bobbies only dared patrol in pairs at night.

  A pair of uniformed constables guarded the entrance to the works but there were no pickets gathered outside. The lids on the gasometers bulged almost full as he walked through the yard. York Street was the only place in Leeds that still had gas, it seemed.

  Everything on the office desk was careful and orderly. Each piece of paper was lined up exactly, all the edges aligned, pens neatly placed by the inkwell. The man who sat there carried an air of exasperation, as if the world would constantly disappoint him. He was as fat as the Prince of Wales, with the same well-tended beard and rakish gleam in his eye.

  ‘Can I help you?’ It was a voice used to giving orders.

  ‘Inspector Harper, Leeds Police. You’re Mr Simpson?’

  ‘I am.’ The man sat up straight, just as Harper knew he would, adjusting his cuffs and the watch chain over his ample belly and checking the glittering stickpin in the knot of his tie. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘You were at the Town Hall first thing when they brought in the replacement workers.’

  ‘I was.’ Simpson frowned. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I believe you were up by the lions.’

  ‘That’s right. Your people were holding the crowd back.’

  ‘How many of you were gathered there? And why were you all there?’

  ‘How many?’ He raised his eyebrows at the questions. ‘I don’t know, eight or ten of us, I suppose. People from the works and the committee. We’d been asked to inspect the new workers and greet them.’

  ‘Did you know everyone around you?’

  ‘No,’ Simpson answered cautiously, smoothing his thin moustache with his fingertips. ‘Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘One of the men who arrived was stabbed. He’s dead.’

  Harper watched the man’s eyes, seeing shock cloud them.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ he said, but there was little sympathy in his voice. ‘The strikers did it?’

  ‘It happened as he was passing where you were standing.’

  ‘What?’ His hands gripped the wooden arms of the chair. ‘But …’

  ‘Yes,’ Harper said. ‘You’d better tell me about the people around you.’

  Simpson’s lip twitched. ‘There were Dawkins and Tattersall from the committee. And James, he’s some sort of foreman out at New Wortley, I believe.’

  ‘Who else?’

  He counted them out on his fingers. ‘Clay and Milner, I remember them. They’re both engineers with the gas department. And two more I didn’t know.’ He looked up. ‘That’s all.’

  More men to find and question in the morning.

  ‘The ones you didn’t recognize, could you describe them?’

  ‘Of course,’ Simpson told him with a self-satisfied smile
. ‘I pride myself on my memory.’ Aye, and on most other things, probably, Harper thought. ‘We all tried to keep away from them. There was something about them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Suddenly he was very interested.

  ‘They only talked to each other. I don’t think they said a word to the rest of us. One of them was a chap a little smaller than you, quite dapper, really. It was the other one who seemed odd.’ Simpson paused a moment and pursed his lips. Someone dragged a piece of metal across the yard. Harper winced as the harsh sound filled his bad ear, drowning out speech. The others barely seemed to notice it.

  ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t catch that,’ the inspector said, waving at the door.

  The man glanced at him with annoyance. ‘I said one was a little smaller than you. The other one caught everyone’s attention.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He was big, the kind of fellow you’d avoid if you could. He had a decent enough suit, I suppose, but he’d shaved his head and there were scars on his face. He looked as if he’d possibly been a prize fighter. Something like that, you know the type. You wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, that was certain.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ the inspector asked urgently, his gaze intent on the man’s face.

  ‘Of course I am.’ Simpson bridled, as if he wasn’t used to his memory being questioned.

  Harper could feel his heart beating faster. ‘Who brought them there?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ the man answered. ‘I seem to recall they were already standing there when we came out. But they must have been official,’ he insisted. ‘They must have come out from the Town Hall.’

  Christ, Harper thought as he took a deep breath. This changed everything. But what were they doing at the Town Hall? And how did a dead blackleg connect to Martha Parkinson?

  By the time he’d reached Millgarth he still didn’t have any answers, only a fountain of questions in his head. The station was almost deserted apart from Tollman at the desk. Everyone else was over at the Town Hall, ready to escort the blacklegs out to New Wortley. It would be awful, it would be bloody, and he thanked God he didn’t have to go there.