Gods of Gold

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘Tosh Walker.’

  Arkroyd snorted. ‘That lickspittle arsehole?’ He fixed his gaze on Harper. ‘Why come to me about him?’

  ‘Because you hate him and you’re one of the few who isn’t scared of him,’ the inspector said simply.

  The man acknowledged the facts with a small nod. ‘And what do you think I can do for you?’

  ‘Information.’

  Arkroyd considered the idea. ‘If I have any, what’s in it for me?’

  ‘Revenge.’

  Jem thought for a long time, blowing out smoke and slurping the thick, dark brew.

  ‘Ask away,’ he said finally.

  ‘What do you know about Tosh Walker and children?’

  ‘I know he dun’t have any. Not him and the missus of his. There’s been talk of a bastard or two here and there …’ He shrugged.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Do I?’ He raised a pair of bushy eyebrows. ‘Happen you’d better tell me.’

  ‘Children for sex.’

  Arkroyd shook his head. ‘Not heard owt. And I’ll tell you this much, if I’d heard anything like that I’d kill him with my own fucking hands. Why, you think he is?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m trying to find out.’

  ‘And you want me to ask around?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If I find he is, you’ll not see him again and you’ll never find the body.’

  ‘No. If he is, you’ll let me know.’ They stared at each other, neither one saying a word. ‘I mean it, Jem. You don’t and I’ll have more men down here than you can handle. We’ll shut you down.’

  ‘Then you’ll shut down the docks.’

  ‘I dare say the union will be glad to move in.’ It was more than a threat, it was the future, and Arkroyd was smart enough to know it. He’d still lose in the end but cooperation would buy him a little more time.

  ‘All right, then,’ he agreed grudgingly. ‘But I’ll not promise the state he’ll be in.’

  ‘You just tell me if you learn anything and I’ll take care of the rest.’

  It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

  Just the name Tosh Walker seemed to turn them silent, Reed thought. Their eyes became empty and they forgot whatever they might have known. He doubted that anyone in Leeds inspired more fear.

  He’d gone from person to person, wearing out shoe leather hither and yon in Leeds, from a respectable parlour on Blenheim Terrace down to Mabgate. In St Peter’s Square he stopped to watch a group of ragamuffin boys kicking a ball around over the cobbles. Their shirts were off, ribs showing through thin chests, socks fallen around their ankles. Then he walked under the imitation arch with the glass sign over the front step. It was a failed attempt to give some culture to another back-to-back in a long row of them. Inside was a Turkish bath house, one of the first in the kingdom, a notice said. The air was hot and steamy, and caught in his throat. A young man sitting on a chair, a pile of grubby towels behind him, looked at him without interest and held his hand out.

  ‘Sixpence for the bath,’ he said.

  ‘And nothing to see Mr Ross.’

  The young man glanced up again sharply, this time seeing him for who he was. ‘Upstairs,’ he said.

  Ross had made the front bedroom into an office. He was staring out at the street and turned at the footsteps. The smile on his face was so false it could have dropped away in a second.

  ‘The police?’ he asked.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Reed.’

  There were rumours about Ross, nothing more than that. No one had managed to prove anything. His skin seemed impossibly pale, the freckles standing out like spots, his red hair a shock that oil couldn’t tame.

  ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?’ He gestured at a chair but Reed stood.

  ‘Tosh Walker.’

  Ross looked at him quizzically. ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone who might like young girls.’

  ‘And what does that have to do with me, Sergeant?’ Ross drew himself up, straightening his back.

  ‘From what I hear, maybe the two of you have plenty in common.’

  ‘I run a respectable business, Mr Reed.’

  The sergeant smiled. ‘I dare say you do. But it’s not what goes on here that concerns me. Sir.’

  ‘I don’t know the man,’ Ross answered. For a moment, Reed almost believed him, until his eyes flickered and he looked down briefly.

  ‘I think you do.’ He felt the heat rising inside and his fists starting to clench. Very carefully he took three long, deep breaths. ‘I think you do,’ he repeated.

  ‘I don’t know why you’d imagine that,’ Ross said.

  ‘Because you’re lying to me.’

  The man cocked his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s a simple question,’ Reed told him. ‘I asked if you knew Tosh Walker. You said no.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘And I say you’re lying.’

  ‘How can you presume …?’ Ross’s face had reddened with anger and guilt.

  The sergeant gave himself time, letting the calm flow through him. ‘Because that’s my job.’ He moved forward a pace, close enough to feel menacing. ‘Now, sir, why don’t you just tell me the truth? It’ll be much easier for us both.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know the man.’

  ‘Tosh Walker,’ Reed said.

  ‘That’s right.’ He stared at the policeman. ‘I’ll say it again. I don’t know him. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.’

  They both knew it wasn’t the truth. But Ross wasn’t going to shift, at least not on this visit. Not without more force than he dare use.

  ‘Then I’ll wish you good day. But I hope you’ll have a think about it before I come back and ask again. And I will be back, sir, you can be sure of that.’

  It wasn’t far to Millgarth. He could almost see it from St Peter’s Square, the top of the roof peeking above the houses. On the way back to the station he stopped at the cobbler’s shop on the corner, paid his one and sixpence and carried out his good boots in a brown paper parcel. Resoled and reheeled, ready for Harper’s wedding. And for Sunday in Middleton, he thought. If he went.

  By late afternoon the station was busy, every available uniformed officer called in to escort the remaining blacklegs from the Wortley gasworks back to the station. Reed pushed his way through them and into the office.

  ‘They’re ready for trouble,’ he said.

  ‘Too late,’ Harper answered. ‘There won’t be any this time. People will be glad to see them go. Found anything?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  They’d baited the hooks. Now all they could do was wait and hope the fish would bite.

  The light seemed brilliant and clear as Harper emerged from the door of the station. At least his ankle was improving. The swelling was down; it still throbbed but he could put some weight on it and walk more normally.

  He cut through the squalor of Pollard’s Yard, out to Lady Lane, then along North Street to the shop that sat at the edge of the Leylands, between the old grandeur of Sheepshanks House and the Hope Inn. It was no more than two hundred yards from where he’d grown up on Noble Street. Even with the machinery silent for days, he could still smell the malthouses that supplied the Brunswick Brewery. It took him back to the years of rolling barrels day after day, memories he’d as soon put behind him.

  It seemed so long ago now. And he was happier as a policeman than he’d even been back then. He was a man with a future and love in his life. But you could never escape your past; he knew that by now. This visit was like stepping back in time. He glanced at the sign over the door, M. Cohen and Sons, Tailors, and entered.

  The man who bustled out of the back room, pins sticking out of his waistcoat, was as familiar as family. He was the same age as Harper. They’d gone to the same school, played together on the cobbles, their houses separated by nothing more than a few walls.

&nbs
p; ‘Tommy!’ Moses grinned. No one had called him that in years. It was like being in knickerbockers and long socks again, sitting through lessons and waiting for the bell to ring.

  ‘Hello, Mo.’ He looked around the shop. Bolts of fabric lined every shelf in blues, blacks, greys and browns, everything from the best worsteds to cheap gaberdines. ‘Looks like you’re doing well for yourself.’

  Cohen gave a small, eloquent shrug. He was wiry, three or four inches shorter than Harper, with dark hair slowly receding from his forehead and dark eyes covered with spectacles. His parents had arrived from Russia with their two children, Moses and his brother Isaac, everything they owned in three small, battered suitcases. At first the family only spoke Yiddish, trying to make themselves understood with signs and pointing. But the boys had quickly picked up a kind of fractured English and translated for their parents.

  By the time they were nine and leaving school, Moses spoke the language better than Harper. He’d gone to join his father in one of the sewing sweatshops while Harper started at Brunswick’s, but they still saw each other from time to time. At sixteen Moses had married, a girl whose parents had fled the persecution in Lvov. Harper had gone to the wedding, one of only three goys invited. He’d been fascinated by everything, the words he couldn’t understand, the smashing of the glass and the wild dancing.

  But too many years had gone by since he’d seen Cohen. He’d joined the force and taken lodgings away from Noble Street. His mother had died; his father, ruined in body and mind, had gone to live with one of his sisters. There was nothing to bring him back here. The old bonds had broken. But never completely.

  ‘I need a suit,’ he said.

  Moses eyed him professionally. ‘A good one or just schmatte?’

  ‘A good one,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Promotion?’ Cohen guessed.

  ‘I’m getting married.’

  ‘Oy.’ He shook his head comically. ‘You didn’t learn from my mistakes.’

  The last he’d known, Moses was devoted to his wife. He had two boys of his own, probably sewing away in the back room.

  ‘I’m a lucky man, Mo. She keeps telling me that.’

  ‘Only because she doesn’t know you, Tommy.’

  He laughed. ‘She does. And she still loves me.’

  ‘Then you’d better do her proud. See if you can fool her longer.’ He strode to a shelf and brought out some grey cloth, expensive, close-woven worsted. ‘Wear a suit of that and she’ll think she’s marrying a lord.’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ Harper agreed, feeling the smoothness under his fingertips. ‘But I can’t afford that. Policemen don’t earn much.’

  Cohen waved away his complaint. ‘How long have I known you, Tommy? Years and years. Call it my wedding present.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He could hardly believe it; the gesture was so generous. But any pound saved was important on his wages.

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ Cohen answered in a voice that brooked no argument. He pulled a tape measure from the counter and pulled off the inspector’s jacket. ‘Now this is schmatte. Barran can make them cheap but he can’t make them good.’ He shook his head again. ‘You should come to me for your suits. A few shillings more but they last you forever.’

  He began to take his measurements, scribbling figures on a grubby piece of paper.

  ‘How are your parents? Still on Noble Street?’

  Cohen nodded, the pencil between his teeth as he knelt, checking the length of Harper’s legs. ‘They’ll never move. They ran from Russia. They stopped running when they arrived here.’ He shrugged again. ‘They kvetch but they’re happy. Me, I live over the shop. Keeps it simple. So tell me about this woman who’s foolish enough to marry you.’

  Harper told him as he worked, watching him nod and scribble, taking measurement after measurement until he stood, coiled the tape and put it away.

  ‘You better be good to her, Tommy.’

  ‘I will,’ he promised.

  ‘She sounds like the type to throw you out if you’re not.’

  Harper laughed. He could easily imagine that.

  ‘When do you need the suit?’

  ‘The wedding’s a week on Saturday.’

  ‘How about Tuesday?’ Cohen asked. The inspector knew there’d be no work done after the sun set today until Sunday. Moses might be one of the new English Jews but he’d never ignore the Shabbat.

  ‘Fine. And thank you again, Mo.’

  He was drained. He’d been up since one, seen dead bodies, talked to the living and travelled all over Leeds. He’d done his duty and been measured for the wedding suit. All he wanted now was a meal, a drink and an early night. He waited for the omnibus outside the Public Dispensary on North Street, watching the sick come and go. By the time he alighted in Sheepscar he could almost feel his eyes closing.

  The bar at the Victoria was almost full, men laughing and joking. Celebrating the end of the strike, he realized. Soon they’d all be back at work, with a little money in their pockets. He pushed through a door and climbed the stairs.

  The windows were open wide and Annabelle was busy in the kitchen. She came through as he entered, smiling, happy to see him.

  ‘I saw you get off the bus. Kettle’s boiling.’ She stood and stared at him. ‘You look like summat the cat’s dragged in.’

  ‘Just tired,’ he told her.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘have a cup of tea and a wash. We’re going out tonight.’

  ‘We are?’ It was a stupid question. Annabelle had made up her mind and she was going to sweep him along with her.

  ‘You’re taking me to dinner at the White Horse and then we’re off to see the new acts at the Scarborough. I fancy letting me hair down for the evening.’ She saw his face. ‘Come on, Tom. When was the last time we went out?’

  He tried to remember. Almost a fortnight. It had been a sunny Sunday, they’d taken the omnibus to the end of the line then walked across Adel Moor to Verity’s tea rooms. She was right, it was too long. She looked at him, her eyes wide and hopeful and he knew he couldn’t refuse her.

  Annabelle had dressed quickly, in a pale grey skirt and white blouse, pulling up her hair under a summer straw hat, her arm through his as they walked, a floral parasol over her shoulder. They took the tram back into town, strolled to Boar Lane then up the stairs to the restaurant above Fairburn’s druggist.

  The White Horse meant chops. The meal was excellent, plates filled with mashed potato and carrots, the meat tender and perfectly cooked. At first Harper wondered if he was too weary to feel hungry, but with the first mouthful he realized he’d barely eaten all day.

  It was dusk as they turned the corner on to Bishopgate. The Scarborough was no more than a few yards down the road. They arrived just in time for the second house. He ordered a glass of beer for himself, gin for Annabelle. She’d been right; she was in a mood for fun. From the moment the master of ceremonies appeared, she was loud, calling out like all the others, her face flushed with laughter from the comedians, joining in with every song, her voice brassy and tuneful.

  And he enjoyed himself. It was worth it all to see her happy. By the time they climbed into a hackney carriage at the stand in the middle of Briggate she seemed content, sitting back and leaning her head against his shoulder with a sigh.

  ‘I needed that. You can’t beat a good night out.’

  ‘It was fun.’

  She kissed his cheek. ‘You held up well. Thank you.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m always proud to be seen with you,’ he said honestly.

  ‘That’s a lovely thing to say.’

  He looked out of the window as the cab moved slowly along. Still no gaslight, but plenty of figures flitting in and out of the shadows, singing and laughing with none of the usual violence of drunken men. The public houses were doing good business, people still out celebrating victory in the strike. And well they might.

  ‘Penny for them,’ Annabelle said.

  ‘I was just thinking about
the strike.’ But every thought about that took him one pace further and then another and another, and they all led back to Martha Parkinson. He knew the super was right, that she was probably dead. But he couldn’t let himself admit it until he saw her body. Somewhere inside he felt guilty that he wasn’t out there now, looking for her. But he’d done all he could. And he’d be back out there again tomorrow.

  ‘No you weren’t,’ she said, and he had to chuckle at the way she could read him like the pages of a book open in front of her. ‘The girl?’ Annabelle asked. He nodded. ‘That’s why I made you come out tonight.’

  ‘I thought you wanted a good time.’

  ‘I did,’ she admitted. ‘But I also wanted you to stop thinking. You do too much of it, Tom.’ She was right and he knew it. But thinking, making connections, that was part of his job. It was what made him a good detective. ‘It’ll all still be there in the morning.’

  It would. But he wanted it over, he wanted answers. And he wanted Tosh Walker for this. They had no evidence but he could feel it inside. The man was guilty. He knew he should go back out to Armley and see Betty Parkinson again. Not going was the coward’s way. But he had no news, no hope to give her. She must be going a little more mad each day, and there was nothing he could do. Not yet.

  He paid off the cab outside the Victoria. Candles and lanterns lit the back but the customers had gone. Dan was cleaning up, wishing them goodnight as they climbed the stairs.

  Annabelle bustled around, taking off the hat and tossing it on the table, propping the parasol in a stand and loosening her boots with a sigh of relief.

  ‘You’ve no idea what we go through to look good for a man,’ she complained. ‘Shoes too tight, corsets that pinch you in, glop all over your face.’

  ‘You look lovely.’

  ‘Aye, but do you mean that?’ she challenged him.

  ‘Every word.’

  Her lips curled into a sly smile. ‘Happen you’d better prove it, then.’

  ‘Prove it?’ He didn’t understand.

  ‘We’re getting married tomorrow week.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I want everything to be right.’

  ‘So do I,’ he agreed, still mystified.