The Year of the Gun

by Chris Nickson

  ‘No.’

  As they drank tea she switched on the radio, letting the dance bands play softly in the background.

  ‘About del Vecchio,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Maybe it’s better if we let that lie. You said your piece.’

  ‘Just one thing more: if it had been up to me, he’d have talked to you.’

  ‘It wasn’t only that. It was the way you lied about it.’

  ‘I’d been told I couldn’t even admit he worked at the base.’ Ellison took out his packet of Lucky Strikes and lit one. He seemed on the verge of speaking. Finally he said: ‘If John really wants a word with del Vecchio he’s usually in the bar of the Metropole around six every Monday evening.’ Ellison stared at her. ‘I didn’t tell you that, OK? Just some little bird somewhere.’

  Lottie smiled. ‘I’m sure he’ll be grateful.’

  ‘I hope it helps.’ He stood. ‘I ought to get going. No days off for me. But thank you. I really mean it.’ He rubbed his stomach. ‘The meal was great.’ His face cracked into a smile. ‘And you’ve got a cute place, now I’ve finally been able to see it in the light.’

  She hadn’t expected him to leave so soon. It was probably for the best. If he stayed, the conversation would only become more personal.

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’ She held out a hand; he shook it. ‘And thank you for the food.’ The joint had been delicious. There was enough left to scrape out two more meals, too.

  ‘There’s a little bit more.’ He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and brought out a bar of chocolate. Hershey. ‘I don’t know if you like candy. If you don’t, maybe someone else will.’

  In spite of herself, Lottie had to smile. Chocolate, too?

  ‘It’ll find a home here, believe me. That’s very generous.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  With a nod, he went by her. By the time she reached the front door he was halfway down the drive, turning to give her a flat American salute.

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  She stood and watched until he pulled away in the Jeep.

  ‘WHO told you that?’ McMillan looked up in disbelief, cigarette poised halfway to his mouth.

  ‘A little bird,’ she said.

  ‘I can guess what kind. Is it true, do you think?’

  ‘As far as I know. Cliff’s trying to make up for what he did before.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Do you fancy a drink at the Metropole after work?’

  She laughed. ‘I bet you make that offer to all the girls.’

  ‘Sounds as if you have offers of your own.’

  Lottie glared at him in warning; that topic was off-limits.

  As soon as she arrived at Millgarth, Lottie had checked the missing persons register. Only when she saw there were no reports did she realise she’d been holding her breath.

  That was still good news – as far as it went. There could still be others out there, ones they might never discover. And it didn’t help them catch Cruickshank. Or whoever the killer really was.

  Two tips during the day sent them haring off. McMillan complained about the slow speed of the Morris. She let him rant; it was simply his frustration at the way things were progressing.

  But neither hint panned out. The first was nothing, the second a man with a faint resemblance to Cruickshank. By five o’clock they were parked on Commercial Street with nothing to do for an hour.

  ‘Come on, I’ll buy you tea,’ he offered. Men bringing food yesterday, offering her a meal today: who was she to complain? Betty’s was busy, the waitresses bustling around in their black and white uniforms.

  The cooks did their best, but nothing could disguise the shortage of food. A small selection on the menu. As tasty as they could make it, but not filling, and a poor choice of sweets.

  ‘How do you want to tackle del Vecchio?’ Lottie asked when they were finished. She dabbed at her mouth with the serviette. At least the place made sure its linen was white and starched. Keeping up appearances, even as the war rolled on.

  ‘We need to catch him on his own.’

  ‘Are you going to arrest him?’

  ‘For what?’ McMillan asked. ‘All we’ve got to connect him to Shire Oak Road is the testimony of that chap you talked to. The commissioner for oaths.’

  ‘Ask him to help with inquiries, then?’

  ‘I’ll be satisfied if I can get him somewhere for a quiet word.’ He checked his watch. ‘Come on, we’ll walk down.’

  The Metropole Hotel was a place that had seen better days. The colours on the carpet were faded and worn, the staff old and slow. But it was like everywhere else these days, just hanging on and hoping things would be better soon. That the war would end. Servicemen and women in uniform sat and talked, and a murmur of noise came from the bar.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ McMillan told her. She saw him talking to a man in a well-cut lounge suit. No more than a minute, and they parted with a quick shake of hands.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Wait and see,’ he answered with a sly smile. ‘Let’s have a look for our friend. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot with that mole on his cheek.’

  It was easy. He was at a table in a corner, wearing his uniform. The small lump stood out on his face. Del Vecchio sat in earnest conversation with a man wearing a heavy overcoat, bald head glistening under the lights.

  ‘We’ll wait until they’re done,’ McMillan said. ‘I’ll order drinks. Stand where we can see them.’

  With so many different uniforms around, Lottie knew she blended in. Who knew what was what? From its colour, the WAPC skirt and jacket could easily belong to the navy. She sat back, enjoying the people-watching and trying to guess who were couples and who was passing time. She sipped her gin and tonic. Even now, tatty at the edges, there was still an echo of grandeur about the Metropole. Geoff had brought her here for their tenth anniversary, and she’d felt overwhelmed by the Art Deco splendour of it all. But that seemed like a lifetime ago.

  And now she was back again for work: a different kind of treat. This was like being a real copper again. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and saw she was grinning like a loon. People would start to wonder.

  Half an hour later the man with del Vecchio put down his empty glass, stood and left. He didn’t glance at them as he went by. McMillan waited until he’d left the bar, then he was on his feet, strolling over to the American, Lottie close behind.

  ‘Colonel?’

  Del Vecchio looked up, cocking his head, curious. The mole on his cheek stood out against the skin.

  ‘Hi, do I know you?’

  ‘No, sir. But I’ve been trying to catch up with you.’ He brought out his warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Super-intendent McMillan, Leeds City Police. I’d like a chat with you, if I may.’

  Del Vecchio didn’t look concerned. ‘And if I don’t want to?’

  ‘Then we’ll have a talk anyway, sir.’ His voice hardened. ‘We can do it here or somewhere more private.’

  The colonel seemed to weigh the choice for a second, then stood in a single, fluid motion. He was easily six feet tall, with thick dark hair. Not handsome; his features were too puffy for that, and the mole was a beacon on his cheek. But he carried himself confidently, an air of cockiness about him.

  McMillan led the way down a corridor, away from the reception desk. He stopped at a door, turned the handle then stood aside for the American. So that was what his little word earlier had been about, Lottie thought. A favour from the manager. Somewhere out of the way for an interrogation.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Del Vecchio pulled out cigarettes and a Zippo lighter.

  ‘About you and a house on Shire Oak Road in Headingley.’

  ‘Yeah? What about it?’ His eyes narrowed a little.

  ‘You were there, giving the place the once-over.’

  The smile returned. ‘That’s right. Someone told me it was empty. I thought it might make a good billet for my guys.’


  ‘But?’

  ‘I took a look at the place. It was a wreck, it was going to need too much work.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s not.’ He waited for the colonel’s reaction.

  ‘Is that right? What else?’ He didn’t seem especially curious, Lottie thought. As if he already knew.

  ‘A few days later a man was seen leaving the house after midnight, carrying a young woman. They drove off in a Jeep with the American insignia.’

  ‘So?’ He shrugged. ‘She’s drunk, he takes her home. Happens every night somewhere.’

  ‘She left her underwear behind in the house,’ Lottie added.

  Del Vecchio glanced at her before replying. ‘She’s probably not the first to do that, either.’

  ‘A few days later her body showed up in a cold storage unit.’ McMillan paused for a heartbeat. ‘She’d been shot with a Colt.’

  Del Vecchio leaned forward, elbows on the table, suddenly very earnest.

  ‘Are you trying to say—?’

  The Chief Superintendent cut him off. ‘I’m trying to find a killer. I want to know what you know. And I want it now.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘You could be big-arsed Duncan from Dundee for all I care. It doesn’t put you above the law of the land.’ McMillan slammed a palm down on the desk. ‘Someone’s killed four women, all the same way. I want him. Now…’ His voice calmed again. ‘Shall we start over?’

  ‘Start what? I already told you what I know.’

  ‘No, Colonel, you’ve told me nothing. That American who left the house with a girl; that could have been you.’

  Del Vecchio gave a smile with no warmth. ‘I guess it could,’ he agreed. ‘But it wasn’t.’

  ‘Prove it. Tell me where you were a week ago on Wednesday.’

  Del Vecchio stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. ‘I don’t remember. I’ll have to check with my social secretary.’ He shook his head, blew out a trail of smoke and stood. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m doing right now, though. I’m walking out of here and it really won’t be a good idea if you try to stop me.’

  He had size and age on his side. Very likely some deadly experience, too, Lottie thought.

  Del Vecchio’s face showed his mood, patience exhausted. ‘I’ll spell it out for you, OK? It wasn’t me there that night, and I don’t know who it was. This is the first I’ve heard of it. Goodnight.’

  He brushed past McMillan, shouldering him out of the way, then walked around Lottie with a short nod. The door closed softly and they were alone, the silence enveloping them.

  ‘Come on,’ the Chief Superintendent said finally. ‘Let’s call it a day.’

  There wasn’t much to discuss, and only one question to ask as they walked back to the car.

  ‘Do you believe him?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Some of it,’ he said wearily. ‘I don’t like him, but my gut says part of that was the truth.’

  ‘Which part?’

  ‘We go home and hope we know that in the morning.’

  The day arrived with a bitter wind from the west to make the February cold even worse. Standing at the bus stop Lottie was glad for her heavy greatcoat and scarf. There’d be little crime today; weather like this would keep even the crooks off the streets.

  By the time she reached Millgarth a few flakes of snow were whipping around. She was grateful for the warmth of the building as it wrapped around her. The first stop was the missing persons’ book. No young women reported in the last twenty-four hours. It had been several days now. Lottie started to feel she could breathe more easily. Maybe the madness had abated. Maybe.

  Upstairs, she hung up her coat and rested her gloves on the steam radiator to keep them warm, then made her way to McMillan’s office with two mugs of tea from the canteen.

  ‘Better drink it fast,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. We need to go to Harehills.’

  ‘What?’ She felt her heartbeat quicken. ‘Have they caught Cruickshank?’

  A shadow passed across his face as he shook his head. ‘Not yet. The chief authorised a reward – the usual, information leading to arrest and conviction.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty pounds.’

  She let out a low whistle. It wasn’t feminine but she couldn’t help herself. Fifty pounds? It was a fortune. ‘That should bring something.’

  ‘I hope so.’ He drained the mug. ‘Right, let’s go.’

  ‘I want you to ask most of the questions when we get there,’ he said as they drove through Sheepscar, caught behind a tram.

  ‘Me?’ Lottie asked in surprise. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a young woman home on leave. She says someone tried to attack her last night. Andrews questioned her but he didn’t get too much, she was still upset. He left a WPC with her.’

  ‘All right.’ She felt a shiver run through her body. Doing real copper’s work. This could get to be a habit. ‘Let me talk to her on her own, then, without you there. She might find it easier to speak without a man around.’

  ‘If it helps,’ he agreed. ‘We want Luxor Drive. It’s around here somewhere.’

  Cobbles on the road. Back-to-back houses, paint peeling in long strips from the window frames. The Morris was the only car parked on the street.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Caitlin Johnson.’

  ‘Caitlin?’ She’d never heard that before. ‘What type of name is that?’

  ‘Irish. Probably from a grandmother.’

  The woman police constable answered the door. Seeing her, so smart and eager, was like gazing into a mirror and catching a reflection of herself twenty years younger.

  ‘Through here, sir,’ the WPC said. She didn’t even seem to notice Lottie.

  The young woman at the table wore a dress of printed cotton, torn at the shoulder. She’d tried to mend her hair and her make-up, but she was still dishevelled, eyes frightened as a rabbit, dark tracks of mascara tears still visible on her cheeks. Her features seemed too small for her face, crowded together, giving her an awkward look.

  ‘Is there another cup in there?’ Lottie picked up the teapot. Empty. ‘I’ll make some more, shall I?’

  A dark blue uniform jacket hung on the back of the chair, a pair of eagles on the lapels. Nothing she recognised, but there were so many branches of the services these days. It was like a maze.

  ‘I’m Lottie.’ She sat on the empty chair. ‘You must have been terrified.’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman held out her hand, still shaking slightly.

  They were alone in the scullery, the door closed, heavy heat coming from the range.

  ‘Do you feel up to talking about it, Caitlin?’ She didn’t take out her notebook. Nothing official, nothing to put her on her guard. Just two women talking.

  Johnson was home on a three-day pass from the Air Transport Auxiliary.

  ‘The job’s nothing glamorous,’ she said with a timid laugh. The smile suited her; it made her face come alive. ‘I don’t deliver the planes or anything. Ground crew. Control tower.’

  She’d gone out with some of the girls she’d known from school. They’d stayed at home to work in the factories, she’d joined up; it was a chance to get away and meet people she’d never know otherwise.

  ‘By nine we’d had a couple and went off to dance a bit.’ She tried to laugh again but it came out forced, cracked. ‘Maybe meet a bloke. Well, I did that all right.’

  ‘Is that the dress you were wearing?’

  Johnson glanced down at it as if she’d never seen it before. ‘Yes. And a coat. But…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. What was he like?’

  ‘He was wearing civvies. Nothing special, suit from the fifty-shilling tailor. Nice enough in a pinch.’

  Lottie brought out the photograph of Terry Cruickshank they’d taken from his mother and laid it on the table.

  ‘Was this him?’

  Johnson shook her head as soon as she s
aw it. ‘No. Not even close. I’ve never seen this one before.’

  The man who’d been with her claimed to be an army officer on leave. Pale hair Brylcreemed down, thin moustache, a hint of a Leeds accent. About five feet nine.

  ‘He seemed nervous,’ Johnson said suddenly. ‘Eager. I thought he just…’ She looked down for a moment.

  ‘What happened? Take your time, I know it’s not easy.’

  Johnson lit another Player’s, adding the match to the pile in the ashtray.

  ‘He said he knew somewhere we could go. I wasn’t sure – my mum had told me about what happened to that girl.’

  ‘But you went with him?’

  She gave a curt nod. ‘I’d had a few and I was in the mood. Anyway, he said it wasn’t far. We went down this ginnel and suddenly he was all over me. Pulling at my clothes. Got my wrists pinned over my head. He scared me. Then I felt something against my stomach.’

  ‘Go on,’ Lottie said quietly.

  ‘It was cold. Hard.’ She looked up for a moment. ‘Metal. I thought I was dead. I just brought my knee up. As soon as he let go I started screaming and ran. Kept going until I found a policeman.’

  ‘Where did it happen?’

  ‘One of those little lanes off Lower Briggate.’

  ‘Which side? Do you remember?’

  ‘The copper I found asked me that. I don’t know. I just ran.’

  McMillan would have men out searching all the courts down there. There might be some small piece of evidence to find.

  ‘When are you due back on base?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow.’ She stubbed out the cigarette in a flurry of ash. ‘How am I going to sleep? Every time I close my eyes it’s like it’s happening all over again.’

  ‘Talk to your doctor,’ Lottie suggested. ‘He can give you something.’ She paused. ‘You don’t have to tell him what happened.’

  Johnson nodded. ‘Was it… him? You know.’

  ‘It sounds like it,’ she answered cautiously. If it was, Cruickshank had been telling them the truth. They were back to square one. ‘Was there anything else about him?’

  ‘No. That is… no.’

  Lottie waited a moment, then said, ‘What? Tell me, please. It might help us catch him.’