The Year of the Gun

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Tea again?’ he asked warily.

  ‘That’s what I have.’

  ‘Or we could go to a pub? There’s got to be one nearby. They seem to be pretty much every block here.’

  ‘It’s about ten minutes’ walk,’ she told him. ‘Probably longer in the blackout.’

  It was closer to twenty minutes in the end, but they took their time, her arm tucked through his, guiding him past St Matthew’s Church, down Allerton Hill, taking their lives in their hands as they crossed the blackness of Harrogate Road. The Regent seemed like an island of warmth and light. People turned to stare as they entered, then returned to their drinks.

  Old, threadbare red velvet on the seats. Dark, polished woodwork. Beer for him, gin and tonic for her. Lottie glanced around, looking for any neighbours, but there were no faces she knew.

  They spent an easy hour chatting. Neither of them mentioned work, as if they’d chosen to put a fence around it. He sipped at his pint as if it was an obligation.

  ‘You don’t like English beer?’

  ‘I still haven’t made up my mind. It’s different. Stronger. I’m more a Rainier kind of guy.’

  She didn’t understand. ‘I thought that was the name of the team you mentioned.’

  ‘Baseball, yeah.’ He laughed. ‘At Sick’s Stadium. That’s named for the Sick family that brews Rainier beer. We have a mountain called Rainier, too. It all comes from there.’ He paused and thought. ‘I guess we have a bunch of mountains, really.’

  The conversation moved through geography, history, family, and finally to the future.

  ‘What are you going to do when it’s all over?’ she asked.

  He didn’t hesitate before answering. ‘Go home, spend some time with my kids, catch a ball game or two and go back to my old job. What about you?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ Lottie admitted. ‘Sell the house. I’m just rattling round in it. Find something to do with my time. Not easy at my age.’

  ‘You’re not old,’ he assured her.

  She shook her head. ‘There’s a whole new generation out there. They’re going to need work when they come home. And places to live. They have to find their lives, never mind go back to them.’

  ‘That’s very philosophical.’

  ‘It’s true, though.’ She shrugged. ‘I have money. Geoff left me comfortable. Once the war’s finished I’ll just need to find a purpose.’

  ‘You might meet someone.’

  Lottie eyed him sharply. ‘I don’t know that I want to.’

  But Ellison smiled. ‘Stranger things have happened.’ He drained his glass. ‘Come on, I’ll see you home. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘For me, too.’

  At the front door she was ready, half-expecting something. But when he put his arms around her Lottie surprised herself. She didn’t pull back. Instead she let herself settle against him, just for a quick moment, smelling the mix of soap and tobacco on his skin.

  She moved away and he let his arms rest on her shoulders.

  ‘What do you think? Should we do this again?’

  ‘I think that could be a good idea,’ Lottie agreed. ‘Maybe I can cook us something. How about lunch on Sunday? It’ll be short commons with all the rationing, but maybe some snoek if you’re lucky,’ she said.

  He didn’t understand.

  ‘Fish,’ she explained. ‘Well, that’s what the government claims.’

  ‘How about this? You cook, I’ll bring the food,’ he offered. When she didn’t answer, he continued, ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘All right, then,’ Lottie said, surprised. Who was she to turn down food?

  ‘Maybe some of that roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.’ She could sense him grinning. ‘And I can see what it’s like round here in the daylight.’

  ‘YOU look like you haven’t been home.’

  His clothes were creased and rumpled, face pale with heavy, dark circles under his eyes.

  ‘I haven’t,’ McMillan said. He stretched then ran a hand over his cheek. ‘Borrowed a razor so I didn’t look as if I’d been sleeping rough. There was too much to do here.’

  ‘Did they find the guns?’

  ‘All but one.’ He lips curled into a hard smile. ‘None of them had been fired, thank God. We have a few gentlemen looking at a long time behind bars. Two of them are deserters, too; icing on the cake.’

  ‘The one still missing?’ Lottie asked. ‘Can you trace it to Cruickshank?’

  ‘The person who was supposed to have it has dropped out of sight.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Now… do you think you could pop to the canteen and find us some tea? That would be a good start.’

  ‘What did your last one die of?’ But she was smiling, one hand on the door knob.

  ‘Overwork,’ he told her, voice gruff. ‘I’m very demanding.’

  ‘There’s a biscuit, too.’ She placed it next to the mug. ‘Don’t say I never spoil you.’

  ‘Could you get on the blower to Ellison and tell him we have most of his guns? Thank him for the information, too.’

  ‘The chief constable will be happy, all those weapons out of bad hands.’

  ‘Do you know what he said when I told him? “What were the bloody Yanks thinking, letting them walk out of there?”’ He shrugged. ‘Can’t win.’

  ‘I checked on the way in,’ she said. ‘No women reported missing.’

  McMillan shook his head. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. He hasn’t had enough yet.’ He searched through a pile of papers, drew out a flimsy carbon copy of a report, the ink smudged, and pushed it across the desk to her. ‘The post-mortem on Lily Kemp. Exactly the same as the others. No bullet or cartridge, but it has to be him. He’s still hungry.’ McMillan lit a Four Square and blew out smoke. ‘It’s not if he strikes again. It’s when.’

  ‘Unless we catch him.’

  ‘Every copper in Leeds and all the surrounding areas has Cruickshank’s description. So do the newspapers and the BBC.’

  ‘You’re certain it’s him?’

  McMillan sat back in his chair. ‘He’s what I’ve got; everything points to him. For now, I’ll take that.’

  ‘There’s something we’re forgetting.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shire Oak Road. The American seen there.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he told her. ‘I just haven’t worked out how it all fits yet. Maybe Ellison can come up with something now he’s solved his case.’

  ‘I’ll remind him.’

  McMillan yawned broadly and covered his mouth. ‘I need to go home. I’m too old for two days and a night without sleep. You’ll have to manage without me. I can’t think any more.’

  ‘What if the brass wants you?’

  ‘Tell them. What are they going to do, sack me?’ He smiled and for the first time that morning, it reached his eyes. ‘Anything really urgent, come and get me. Just ring first and tell Sarah.’

  ‘Do you want a lift?’

  They both laughed. Memories: twenty years before he’d been the one who asked that, pulling up in his little Peugeot.

  ‘Just look after things here.’

  Apart from the filing there wasn’t much to do except ring Ellison. She put it off, making excuses to herself – he’ll be busy with the paperwork from yesterday, he’ll be preparing for court – until the clock ticked past eleven.

  After the evening before she wasn’t sure what to say. It had all felt pleasant and natural out there in the darkness. She’d enjoyed his company, maybe a little too much. But now, in the grey February daylight, it all seemed different. She was Lottie Armstrong. Middle-aged, a little bit frumpy and stuck in her ways. She wasn’t looking for excitement. She didn’t need romance; she’d had that with Geoff and nothing was ever going to be better. And she certainly didn’t need a divorced man who lived half a world away and who’d be off somewhere else in a month or two. Someone who might not even survive the
war, she reminded herself.

  Twice she put her hand on the receiver; twice she lifted it off again. Finally she dialled the number. This was work. It was more important than her silly emotions.

  ‘That’s good news,’ Ellison said when she told him.

  ‘There’s still one out there,’ Lottie reminded him. ‘That’s the one doing the killing.’

  ‘I know. If I get any tips—’

  ‘And there’s still that house on Shire Oak Road,’ she continued. ‘Maybe you can help us from your end with that.’

  ‘I didn’t have any luck before but I can try again,’ he said after a moment. ‘You’re very businesslike today.’

  ‘It is business,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘But…’

  ‘We have four young women dead. All of them shot with a gun that came from your camp.’

  ‘Lottie…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re on the same side, remember? Trying to help each other. I’m not fighting you. I’ll dig deeper into anything about that house, OK? See if I can find the guy who was seen there.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  She ended the call, stared into space for a while, then went down to the canteen for some dinner. Woolton pie, runny and tasteless. There were shortages of everything, they had to make do, but why did the food have to look so unappetising?

  Lottie sat in the corner with a cup of tea and tried to read. Random Harvest. She’d enjoyed the film but never looked at the book. But she could only concentrate for a line or two before her mind started to wander.

  On the phone she’d considered telling Ellison not to come on Sunday. In the end she said nothing. He sounded so eager at the prospect of a home-cooked meal. That couldn’t hurt. No more hugging, though. That was for the best. Friends, exactly the way they’d agreed.

  A little after three and the afternoon was dragging. For once the heating in the building was working, and it was warm enough to leave her drowsy. She’d filed, cleaned the desk in McMillan’s office and her own, taken more tea breaks that she’d ever normally be allowed. And it still wasn’t time to go home. She kept trying to read, but the words swam in front of her.

  The telephone had only rung twice during the day; now the bell startled her. Helen from the switchboard.

  ‘I’ve got a chap desperate to speak to the Chief Super. Can you take it?’

  ‘All right,’ Lottie agreed. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘He won’t say. He’s in a phone box, I can hear the coins dropping.’

  ‘Put him through.’

  ‘This is Detective Chief Superintendent McMillan’s office. Can I help you?’

  ‘I want to talk to him.’ A local voice, a slight wheeze when he spoke. It could be one of his narks.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here. I can take a message for him.’

  ‘Tell him Terry Cruickshank wanted to talk.’

  ‘I know who you are.’ She sat upright, suddenly attentive and awake. ‘I work with Mr McMillan.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s out for the day.’ She tried to keep her voice level and calm, as if he was just another stranger.

  ‘Tell him it’s not me.’

  ‘What’s not you, sir?’

  ‘I’ve heard. People have told me. He’s looking for me. He says I’ve shot girls.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s not me.’ His voice rose. He sounded at the end of his tether, almost ready to start weeping. ‘I didn’t do that, all right?’

  ‘Do you have the gun?’ she asked.

  ‘Gun?’ The idea seemed to astonish him. ‘No. Why would I need a gun? I told you, I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Sir, why don’t you go to a police station. Tell them who you are and the Chief Super will come and talk to you. I promise you. I’ll go and get him myself.’ She could feel the sweat on her palms. She needed to keep him talking, to find out where he was.

  ‘You’ll have me for it.’ She heard him drop more coins into the slot. ‘I know you lot. You’ll see me hang for it.’ There was a frantic, desperate edge to him.

  ‘Sir, if you’re not guilty, you’ll be fine.’ She tried to sound soothing, just to keep him on the line, to try and gain his trust. The man was still guilty of desertion, but that was nothing in comparison to murder. ‘Where are you? We’ll come and meet you. Talk it over.’

  ‘Just tell him. Tell him it’s not me.’ Lottie heard him slam down the receiver then the buzz of a dead line.

  He’d said his piece. Cruickshank wouldn’t ring back.

  But was he telling the truth?

  ‘Hello, Sarah, it’s Lottie. Is he up and about yet?’

  ‘I heard him stirring a few minutes ago. Is it really urgent? He was dead on his feet when he got home.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Could you give him a shout, please?’

  ‘He’ll be along right away, he says. How are you? He’s not working you too hard, is he?’

  ‘I’m fine. But I’m worried about the way he’s pushing himself.’

  ‘Once all this is over he’s taking retirement. I’m putting my foot down.’

  Nothing seemed to worry Sarah McMillan. Lottie had known the woman for the better part of twenty years and never seen anything upset her. She took life in her stride and got on with things.

  ‘Here he is,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Has something happened?’ His voice was still slurred at the edges with exhaustion.

  ‘You could say that. Terry Cruickshank telephoned. He wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘Just now.’ She gave him the gist, then went through it once more, in detail.

  ‘That’s what he said?’ McMillan asked. ‘Word for word?’

  ‘Yes.’ Every syllable was imprinted on her mind.

  ‘How did he sound?’

  ‘Hunted. Scared. As if he couldn’t take much more.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  Lottie paused before answering. ‘I don’t know. I think so. It would be a good way to divert attention, though, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘But…’ They both knew the implication. If Cruickshank was guilty and they started looking elsewhere, he could get away. If he was innocent and they only focused on him, someone else was free to murder. ‘I’m coming in,’ McMillan said. ‘I want to go over everything we have.’

  She wanted to tell him that everything would still be there in the morning. But why waste her breath? He’d never listen.

  ‘Do you want me to pick you up?’

  ‘I’ll take the bus. I want you there if he rings back.’

  ‘He won’t,’ she said with certainty.

  ‘Just in case,’ he told her.

  She typed it all out and placed it on his desk. Every inflection was sharp in her mind, along with the fear underneath it. But was it the truth, or was Cruickshank a very good actor? She wouldn’t put money either way.

  McMillan spent half an hour going over the conversation with her, every word, every sentence. He wanted to know exactly how the man had sounded, whether he’d stumbled over his words as he spoke.

  ‘He was in a telephone box?’

  ‘Yes. Definitely.’

  ‘Could you hear anything in the background? Traffic, anything at all?’

  Lottie thought, trying to recall. She’d been paying attention to the voice, nothing else. Finally she shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It was a long shot, anyway.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘You might as well get off home. I’m going to be here for a while.’ He reached across for the files on the murders. Papers at least six inches deep.

  Before she left for the evening, Lottie took him a cup of tea.

  ‘You’re an angel,’ he said.

  ‘Remember that the next time you’re upset with me.’

  The next morning she found him in his office, head down on a file, snoring as if he’d just invented it. Gently, Lottie shook him awake, smiling as he blinked and raised his head.
>
  ‘I must have dropped off for a minute,’ McMillan said.

  ‘You’re safe, the door was closed. No one saw.’

  He stretched and winced. ‘I don’t even know what time I fell asleep.’

  ‘You must have needed it.’ Good Lord, she thought, she sounded like a mother. ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘Nothing worth a damn. As far as I can see, Cruickshank is still our only real suspect.’

  ‘No girls reported missing last night,’ Lottie said. It had become the first thing she checked each day at the station. Maybe the madness had passed, she thought hopefully.

  ‘That’s no consolation for the ones who are dead, is it?’ McMillan’s voice was empty. ‘We need to complete the chain.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Bring in the man who sold him the gun. We still haven’t found him. He seems to have vanished. But that way there’d be no doubt Cruickshank’s our man.’

  ‘Until then?’

  ‘We keep an open mind,’ he told her with a sad smile. ‘And keep doing everything we can to track down Cruickshank.’ He stood and stretched again, groaning. ‘First order is to clean my teeth, have a shave, and put some food in my belly. Can you take a look at the new reports and see if there’s anything important?’

  Among all the official bumf was a handwritten envelope, simply addressed to Chief Superintendent, Millgarth Police Station, Leeds. She slit it open and took out a sheet of thin, cheap notepaper.

  I told the girl who works for you. I didn’t kill anyone. I would never kill a girl.

  Terry Cruickshank

  She breathed out slowly, removing her fingers so the letter fluttered to the desk. Very carefully, she took a cellophane bag from her desk drawer and eased the paper in with a pencil, then did the same with the envelope. The postmark was too smudged to read, and thick, wavy lines obscured the king’s head on the stamp. Maybe the lab boys would be able to find more.

  Lottie stirred at footsteps in the corridor. McMillan appeared in the doorway.

  ‘I think you’d better take a look at this.’

  It only took him a few seconds.

  ‘Get this to the evidence people. I want to know everything they can find as soon as possible.’

  She rang for one of the messenger boys to carry it over.