The Year of the Gun

by Chris Nickson

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So you’ll understand why I’m here.’

  Wheaton took a long time to reply, smoking and running his tongue along his lips as he thought. Finally he said: ‘I guess I’d better tell you. We had a crate of guns go missing. The quartermaster in charge of stores reported it a month ago. There were ten Colt M1911s in there. We’ve been hunting for it since then.’

  McMillan leaned forward in his chair, his voice hard, disbelieving. ‘A crate with ten weapons went missing a month ago and you didn’t think to tell the police?’

  ‘I reported it to our Provost Marshal and he has our own CID working on it.’

  ‘What you’re telling me is that those guns could be on the black market and nobody mentioned it to us?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Wheaton admitted reluctantly. ‘We don’t know.’

  God, it couldn’t be worse, Lottie thought. Finding an American with a gun would be hard enough. Knowing that anyone might have the weapon made their job almost impossible.

  ‘I’ll need to see your investigator,’ McMillan said.

  ‘I can arrange that.’

  ‘I want him in my office at Millgarth at ten.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Wheaton nodded and McMillan stood.

  ‘Thank you for your time.’

  He marched to the car, long, fast strides that showed his anger. Sitting in the back seat, he smoked a Four Square as Lottie drove.

  ‘Bloody Yanks,’ he said finally. ‘Maybe they’ll win the war for us but they’re an arrogant bunch. Act like they own the place.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ she asked.

  McMillan sighed loudly. ‘Honestly? I haven’t a clue. Anyone could have the gun now. It could be in the river. We can talk to all the snouts but I don’t think it’ll do much good.’ He slammed his palm down on the leather seat. ‘I thought we were getting somewhere and it’s thrown back in my face. Worse. If there’s a bunch of guns floating around…’

  ‘Maybe they’ll find them.’

  ‘You believe that as much as I do. Along with Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy. If we hadn’t gone there I’d never have even heard they were missing. I can guarantee you that.’

  They both knew the stories about items vanishing from the service stores, only to appear for sale a few days later. Not just American; British, too. The black market was where the country shopped, whether they admitted it or not. More goods than ever, Inspector Andrews had said, a glut of them that seemed impossible to stop. On top of that, a pair of detectives was investigating a break-in at a government office where thieves had stolen over a thousand ration books. Forged coupons were everywhere. Whatever you wanted was available – for a price. But pistols… she didn’t even want to imagine.

  RIGHT on the dot of ten Helen rang through from the switchboard.

  ‘There’s an American here to see your boss. A Captain Ellison.’

  ‘Send him up, will you?’ Lottie said.

  ‘He’s on his way.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘He’s very good looking. I could eat him for my tea.’

  ‘Get away with you,’ Lottie laughed. Never mind; she’d find out for herself in a moment.

  Good looking, she wondered as he entered the room, cap under his arm and a diffident grin on his face. Maybe. At least he didn’t have that terrible cropped hair like the other Americans. His had a little style to it, dark, parted at the side, and his smile showed strong white teeth.

  ‘Hi. I’m Cliff Ellison, US Army CID. Looking for Detective Chief Superintendent McMillan?’ It came out as a question. Helen was right; there was something endearing about him, she decided. Lines around his eyes and mouth that showed he’d lived, but no real brashness to his manner.

  ‘I’m WAPC Armstrong. I’ll show you through.’

  A knock on the door and she entered. ‘It’s Captain Ellison, sir.’ Her mouth twitched into a smile. ‘Here just as you requested.’

  ‘Could you find three cups of tea, please, then join us?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  By the time she returned the men were talking earnestly. Any frostiness in the air had already vanished.

  ‘It’s not a trickle, Chief Superintendent, it’s a flood,’ Ellison said as he stubbed out a cigarette. ‘We’re never going to admit that officially, but it’s the truth. And before you say anything, it’s the same in your services. I’ve talked to those guys in the Special Investigation Branch and they say it’s pretty much impossible to stop. You arrest one thief and two more take his place.’

  ‘The only thing that concerns me right now is these handguns,’ McMillan said. ‘One in particular and what it’s done.’ He pushed a file across the desk. ‘Take a look for yourself.’

  He drank his tea and glanced at Lottie as Ellison skimmed the pages.

  ‘Two common factors,’ the captain said when he’d finished. ‘Both in the service, both shot.’

  ‘Three. Both the bodies were at Kirkstall Abbey. It’s a ruin,’ he explained, ‘an old monastery. One was killed there, the other dumped in the grounds.’

  ‘Is that important, do you think?’ Ellison asked sharply.

  ‘I have no idea,’ McMillan told him.

  ‘Look, I was a cop before I joined the army. Back in Seattle. A lieutenant, detective.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘I’ve seen murders before.’

  ‘Anything like this?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  He was trying, Lottie thought. And there was something about him; he seemed like an inherently decent man.

  ‘I have someone running round killing girls. Two of them in two days. The murderer could be anyone – British, American. I’ve got nothing to go on. Nothing at all.’ McMillan cocked his head. ‘You say you were a copper. What would you do?’

  ‘Well…’ Ellison stroked his chin. ‘I’d be using my informers. And I guess I’d try and get someone on the American side to follow things from there.’

  ‘I have people talking to the snouts. Grasses, informers,’ he explained when the other man looked confused.

  ‘I can try to help from our end,’ Ellison said.

  ‘I’ll take anything I can get at this stage.’

  ‘What would make sense is a co-ordinated operation, Chief Superintendent.’

  ‘John. I never liked being called by my rank.’

  ‘John.’ Ellison nodded and smiled. ‘I’m Cliff.’

  Cliff, Lottie thought. Clifford. Why did Americans have such strange names? Bing. Clark. It sounded like they made them up on the spot.

  ‘If you can help me catch my killer, I’ll be grateful.’

  ‘No promises, but I’ll do what I can.’ He gestured at the file. ‘Is there any chance I can get a copy of that?’

  ‘I’ll have one typed up and sent to you.’

  ‘I saw something about a house in there. Where is it?’

  ‘My evidence people have gone over it.’ McMillan hesitated a moment. ‘I thought it had something to do with the murders, but it seems I was wrong.’

  ‘Hunch?’ He nodded. ‘We all have them. I’d still like to take a look at the place. It says in there that an American was looking at the place and there was one of our Jeeps.’

  ‘OK. Lottie can drive you. It’s easier than giving directions.’

  She was taken by surprise. He’d never offered her services to anyone before; Ellison was honoured and he didn’t even know it.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Lottie?’ Ellison asked as she weaved through traffic on the Headrow, past the Town Hall steps where she’d heard Mr Churchill speak a couple of years before. ‘Is that short for something?’

  ‘Charlotte, sir.’

  ‘And WAPC?’ He read the letters off her shoulder flash. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Women’s Auxiliary Police Corps.’ She glanced in the mirror and smiled. ‘Not a proper copper.’

  ‘So you’re his driver?’

  ‘And dogsbody. Conscience, too, if he needs one. We’ve actually known each o
ther for years. It’s a bit of a long story.’ One she wasn’t about to spill to a complete stranger. ‘You said you’re from Seattle. Where’s that?’

  ‘Kind of the top left hand corner of the country.’ Ellison gazed out at the clouds and the green of Woodhouse Moor. ‘The climate’s pretty much like England.’

  ‘Is it really all cowboys out there?’

  He began to laugh so hard Lottie thought she’d need to park and thump him on the back. Finally he stopped, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his eyes.

  ‘Sorry, but you Brits…’ He took a breath. ‘That’s all history. Seattle’s a big city.’ He looked out of the car window. ‘More modern than this. Newer.’

  ‘We have history,’ she said defensively. ‘A lot of it.’

  By the time she parked at the end of Shire Oak Road she’d learned that he was forty-three, had a degree in history and he’d spent eighteen years in the police. Divorced with a pair of children. Americans were always so open about themselves; she’d noticed that before. She glanced at him again in the mirror; she’d never met a divorced man before.

  ‘Have you been inside this house?’

  ‘With the superintendent. We did the first search.’

  He looked at her more carefully. ‘You’re more than just an auxiliary, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not really.’ She smiled. ‘I was a real policewoman once. That’s all.’

  Ellison gave her a curious look. ‘OK. So show me round.’

  There really was nothing to see. Everything had been taken for examination, fingerprint dust over most of the surfaces. He listened attentively as she pointed out where things had been, then she left him to poke around the place. Maybe he’d spot something they’d missed.

  ‘The old guy next door?’ Ellison asked when he’d finished.

  ‘You’ll need to talk to the Chief Super about him.’ She repeated the man’s claim.

  ‘Definitely an American star on the Jeep?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime. Is there somewhere we can eat?’

  ‘I think we can find a place,’ Lottie told him with a grin. ‘Come with me.’

  Charlie Brett’s had been on North Lane for years, so long that the grease must have soaked into the walls. Fish and chips, about the only food that wasn’t rationed these days. And they did them well here. She and Geoff used to cycle to Headingley to eat. Lean against the wall outside, enjoy the meal with a bottle of Tizer while they watched people go past.

  ‘You know,’ Ellison said as she led him along the path to the old cottage that housed Brett’s, ‘I’ve been here six months and I’ve never eaten this stuff. We had a place back home selling fish and chips for a while but it closed down. Ivar’s.’

  ‘Then it’s time you found out what the real thing is like.’

  ‘That’s not too bad.’ He sounded surprised. At least he’d been chivalrous enough to pay.

  ‘Well, if you want to understand the English, you’d better enjoy it,’ she said. ‘This is more or less our national dish. With lots of salt and vinegar.’

  ‘I can’t see it going over big in our canteen, but it’s tasty,’ Ellison said. ‘What’s your take on these killings?’

  ‘Me?’ Lottie was astonished he wanted her opinion.

  ‘Yes, you.’ He grinned, showing those white teeth again. ‘Come on, you’re more than a driver, you’ve said that. You must have an opinion.’

  She allowed herself a smile for a second, then her face turned serious.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know.’ Lottie sighed. ‘And I’ve no idea if the Shire Oak Road house is even involved in anything. The boss thinks it is but there’s no real evidence.’

  ‘Hunches are important to cops.’

  ‘But they’re not infallible.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But if he feels it that strongly…’

  ‘We’ll see.’ This conversation would just take them in a circle. Time to change the subject. ‘What’s Seattle like?’

  ‘Pretty,’ he told her after a moment. ‘There’s water on one side and mountains on the other.’ He scrambled in his pocket, brought out a wallet and dug through for photographs. ‘That’s my house.’

  She’d never known anyone who carried a picture of his house. It seemed such a strange thing to do. People, events, pets. But never a house. Still, he was far from home, divorced. Maybe it gave him a kind of anchor. It looked to be a pleasant enough place, a wooden bungalow, a large car sitting next to it in the drive.

  ‘I don’t live in Seattle itself,’ he explained. ‘I’m across Elliott Bay in West Seattle. Long drive round, but it’s nice and peaceful.’

  But Lottie was looking at two other photos that had come out.

  ‘Are those your children?’

  He laid them out on the table and his voice softened. ‘Yeah. Jimmy’s in eighth grade. I’m just hoping all this is over before he’s old enough to be drafted.’

  ‘It will be,’ she said with certainty. ‘What’s your daughter’s name?’

  ‘Karen. After my mom. She’s in sixth grade. I get letters from them but it’s not the same. How about you, you have kids?’

  ‘No. My husband was wounded in the last war. We couldn’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He narrowed his eyes a little. ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He died five years ago. Heart attack.’ It didn’t feel so painful to say these days. Not when so many others had lost family to much worse.

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘It happens.’ She pushed the empty plate away and drank the rest of her tea. ‘Come on, I’d better get back or he’ll have me up before the firing squad.’

  ‘You took your time,’ McMillan said as she walked into the office.

  ‘He was hungry so I took him to Charlie Brett’s. I’m fostering co-operation with our allies.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what they’re calling it these days?’

  Lottie snorted. ‘Do you have to go somewhere?’

  He sat back, putting his hands behind his head. ‘I wish I did. At least I’d feel we were making some progress. Everyone’s talking to their narks, the bobbies are putting the pressure on all the small-time crooks. Anything that can get us a lead on that gun.’

  ‘Nothing so far?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird.’ He played with his fountain pen, idly moving it between his fingers. ‘Got more patrols out at night, but that doesn’t help too much.’ The telephone rang. ‘Who knows?’ McMillan said to her. ‘Maybe that’s our change of luck.’ He picked up the receiver and listened for half a minute, then said, ‘Good work, George. We’ll be there in a little while.’

  ‘George Chadwick?’ she asked. ‘The Special on the beat?’

  ‘He’s found one of the tramps.’ McMillan was grinning. ‘Maybe it really is a little bit of a break. Let’s find out.’

  THEY drove in silence. McMillan’s face was set, tense, every strain visible. Lottie moved through the gears, thinking over the conversation with Ellison.

  As they’d headed back to the station, he’d said, ‘I know this probably sounds crazy, but would you like to have dinner sometime?’

  ‘What?’ Her hands had jerked on the wheel; she almost hit the kerb.

  ‘You heard.’ He put out a hand to steady himself against the dashboard.

  ‘But… why?’ She was a widow in her forties. Hardly glamorous, hardly anything really. What did he think, she’d be easy prey? He was divorced. Pleasant enough, but… divorced.

  ‘I enjoy talking to you,’ he told her. ‘We’re about the same age. I get sick of being around young guys all the time.’

  She glanced at his face. He sounded sincere enough. Maybe he simply needed some company; she couldn’t blame him for that. It had been a pleasure talking to him, too, learning how different America really was from the films. But…

  ‘I work long hours,’ Lottie said.

  ‘So do I. Crime never stops, even i
n the service.’

  She parked in the yard behind Millgarth and turned off the engine.

  ‘What do you say?’ Ellison asked. ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered after a few seconds. She was going to make sure she put conditions on it. ‘But friends only. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He grinned. ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow at seven? Will you be on duty?’

  ‘I can swing it. Where do you want to meet? I can pick you up if you’d like.’

  ‘Let’s meet outside the station here.’ She wasn’t allowing him anywhere near her house.

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  She wasn’t going to tell McMillan about her date; he’d never let her live it down, and come Monday he’d be asking all sorts of questions. Better to keep it quiet, thank you very much. Besides, she told herself, it was simply two friends going out for a meal. Nothing more complicated than that.

  Lottie parked the Humber near the abbey.

  ‘Down by the weir, George said. He’ll be waiting down there to make sure his man doesn’t do a flit.’

  The ground was hard and rutted. Easy to turn an ankle, she thought as she made her way carefully along, then on a trail between brambles that snatched at her uniform. She looked up the hill towards the houses, the faded paint of a Bile’s Beans advertisement on a gable end.

  ‘Over here, sir.’ Chadwick’s voice called loudly from ten yards away.

  The tramp had built himself a bivouac between some trees, a few feet from the River Aire. It was well hidden. She’d have walked right past it if the big old copper hadn’t been standing there. Next to him was a small, thin man in baggy, torn clothes, everything topped with a thick overcoat that reached to his ankles, a flat cap covering long, unruly grey hair.

  ‘This is Harry Giddins, sir.’ Chadwick was smiling. ‘Found him a little while ago by his campfire.’ He nodded at the small blaze on the ground.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Superintendent McMillan. We’re hoping you can help us.’

  Giddins looked around. He gazed everywhere except at her, Lottie noticed, and she stepped back from his line of vision. Perhaps that would make him more comfortable.

  ‘I told him what you’re looking for, sir,’ Chadwick said. ‘Didn’t I, Harry?’