‘You took off after him like a policeman.’
‘I didn’t feel like one when I came back empty-handed.’ He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. ‘Look, I need to get going for that meeting. Would you like me to check on you later?’
‘Would you mind if I said not tonight? I don’t think I really feel up to entertaining.’
‘You bet.’ He smiled. ‘Once you’re fighting fit I’ll take you dancing and give that knee a workout.’
She laughed. The ridiculous things he said. ‘I’ll look forward to that.’
Then he was gone, walking with that open, easy stride.
Chocolates: a whole box of them. She’d meant it; he really shouldn’t have bought them. But he had, and she couldn’t refuse them; that would have been rude. And after four years of rationing, no one in England would turn down chocolates. Eating one would feel like an indulgence, a little sin. She’d make them last, just one or two a day to eke out the box.
She found a walking stick hidden away in the cupboard under the stairs. Geoff had used it back in ’36 when he twisted his ankle. It made moving around a little easier. Still, she knew it was going to be few days of frustration.
By the third morning most of the swelling had gone. Lottie eased out of bed, cautious about putting weight on her left leg. She winced, but it held, and she could walk around the bedroom without much pain. Tentatively, one hand resting on the dressing table, she flexed the knee. Not too bad, she decided. As long as she was careful she should be able to work.
People gave her second glances as she crossed from the bus station to Millgarth, in full uniform, leaning on the walking stick. She could almost hear the questions in their minds and smiled to herself. It was still slow going up the stairs to McMillan’s office, and she was sweating by the time she reached the landing. But she was here. She’d made it and she wasn’t going home again.
The routine felt comforting. Rattling around the house, her days had felt empty. In spite of her resolution, she’d finished the chocolates that first evening as she listened to the Billy Cotton band on the radio. So what if she’d been a pig? They were delicious. And Cliff had been right; in a curious way they did make her feel better.
‘Well, well.’ McMillan stood in the doorway and grinned. ‘Ready for the hundred-yard dash?’
Lottie picked up the stick. ‘I’m ready to take this to you if you don’t behave. Do we have him yet?’
The Chief Superintendent gave a long, deep sigh. ‘Do you know that brick wall downstairs, at the back of the yard?’
‘Yes,’ she answered hesitantly. ‘Why?’
‘Next time you pass it, take a look. You’ll see the indentations where I’ve been banging my head against it. Does that tell you anything?’
‘Somebody will shop him sooner or later.’
‘I wish they’d do it bloody quick, then.’ His voice rose and his nostrils flared slightly. ‘I’m pulling men from every division to search. Inspectors are complaining because they don’t have enough bobbies to walk the beat properly. And I still don’t feel as if we’re any closer to catching him.’ McMillan shook his head. ‘How are you on stairs?’
‘Slow and careful,’ she replied. ‘Why?’
‘I was hoping you could go down to the canteen and fetch us a cup of tea.’
‘It’d be stewed by the time I got back.’
He sighed. ‘Story of my life. I’ll get them and we can have a confab.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Lottie said. They were in his office, smoke from his cigarette curling up to the ceiling. ‘What you said about Cliff Ellison.’ McMillan cocked his head. She took a sip of the tea before continuing. ‘I’ve gone through it again and again.’
‘And?’
‘He’s genuine. I’m sure of it.’ She turned to look at him. ‘He visited me the other day. Just after you left, in fact. He apologised. I believe him.’
‘You believe him or you want to believe him?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘I believe him. I had a couple of doubts after you came to see me. But I don’t think it was a put-up job.’
‘That’s good enough for me.’ He stubbed out the Four Square and lit another. ‘How do we catch Hilliard? None of my ideas seem to work.’
‘You were right about the pubs,’ Lottie said.
‘And now Hilliard won’t dare go back into any of them.’
‘Have you gone to see the people he knows again?’
‘Every single one of them. If you want the truth, I’m at my wits’ end.’ He ran his palms down his cheeks and exhaled slowly.
She didn’t know what to say. There was one thought, but she didn’t know how well he’d take it.
‘Have you thought about bringing in a fresh pair of eyes?’ She paused, glancing at his face. ‘Someone who’s not so close to it all?’
‘The Yard?’ She could hear the loathing in his voice.
‘No.’ She knew the only way he’d accept that would be over his dead body.
‘Who, then? Our American friend?’
‘Why not? He’s a copper on Civvy Street. He knows how things work.’
McMillan sat back, smoking and staring up at the ceiling.
‘Are you absolutely certain we can trust him?’ he asked eventually.
‘Yes,’ Lottie said. But there was just a glimmer of a hesitation before she answered: enough to make him jerk his head.
‘Well?’
‘Yes, I think we can.’ She slammed the mug down on the desk. ‘For God’s sake, stop putting me on the spot. We’re on the same side – don’t try and trap me.’
‘I’m sorry. But if you’re not absolutely positive that he’s with us, I don’t want him.’ McMillan stared at her.
Ellison hadn’t been acting the other night. She was sure of that. But he’d lied to them once, maybe more. He could do it again.
So much for the idea, she thought.
‘Fine. No Ellison.’ Gingerly, Lottie pushed herself to her feet and reached for the stick.
‘There is something he can do for us, though,’ McMillan said.
‘Make up your mind. You either want his help or you don’t.’
‘I want to catch Hilliard.’ His voice was hard. ‘That’s what I want. Ring Ellison and ask if any bullets were packed with those guns.’
She didn’t understand. ‘Don’t they all come with bullets?’
He shook his head. ‘No, and none of the ones we recovered had any. Hilliard’s getting them from somewhere.’ He thought for a second. ‘While you’re at it, better ask him if any ammo’s gone missing, too.’
WHY was she reluctant to pick up the telephone and ring him? She didn’t even have to look up the number, it was right there, at the front of her mind.
He’d been kind. She was sure he’d really gone after Hilliard and almost been shot for it. Why the hesitation?
Lottie didn’t know. And for now she didn’t have the time to examine it. She’d be like Scarlett O’Hara; she could think about that tomorrow.
‘How are you feeling? Back at work now?’ Ellison’s voice was warm and cheerful.
‘I’m on the mend. Thanks again for the chocolates. They were delicious.’
‘It’s nothing.’ From the way he said it, she believed him. ‘Is this social or business?’
‘Business.’ Her tone became crisper. ‘I need to ask you about bullets.’
‘What about them?’ He sounded amused.
‘Those pistols that were stolen; were they shipped with ammunition?’
‘Never. They’re always separate.’
‘That’s what the boss thought. But Hilliard has ammunition. We know he’s fired at least six shots.’
‘Ammo goes missing,’ he said cautiously.
She caught his tone. ‘Is that a general statement or something specific?’
‘Specific,’ he answered after a second. ‘At least according to the quartermaster’s figures.’
‘How much?’
‘If he’s right,
we were lucky. On the .45s it was just a box.’ He phrased that carefully, she noticed. What other calibres had vanished? And how much? ‘It’s hard to be sure, with all the training and exercises. People are supposed to sign for things, but they sometimes slip by.’
‘I see,’ Lottie said. ‘How many in a box?’
‘There were a hundred in this one. Like I said, we try to keep a tight control on things, that’s how he noticed.’
But not tight enough, she thought.
‘Is the same man who sold the guns responsible?’
‘Probably.’ Ellison sighed. ‘I was more concerned with the weapons. A box of ammo didn’t seem like much.’
Maybe it wasn’t, until the bullet killed you.
‘It means Hilliard could have ninety-four more bullets,’ she told him.
‘Yeah.’
‘So he hadn’t bothered to tell us that, either.’ McMillan’s face was grim. ‘Is there anything else he hasn’t mentioned? Does Hilliard have a bazooka hidden away somewhere that fell off a US Army lorry?’ He tossed his fountain pen on to the blotter, leaving a spatter of ink. ‘What next?’
There was nothing she could say. Inside she was furious at Cliff for keeping quiet. What would he have done if McMillan hadn’t started wondering? Would they ever have known?
‘You know, there are times I wonder if the Yanks really are on our side.’ For a moment he sat and stared into space, then he exhaled slowly. ‘I suppose we’d better go and pay a call.’ She heard the reluctance in his voice.
‘Who are we going to see?’
He eyed her, chewing on his lip, then said, ‘I think you’ll want to stay in the car.’
‘Who?’ Lottie asked again. ‘It’s not a state secret, is it?’
‘Chief Superintendent Carter,’ he told her after a moment. ‘I believe he was still Inspector Carter when you knew him.’
Lottie felt a chill rise up her spine. Yes, he’d been an inspector then, and she was a WPC, right at the bottom of the ladder. Carter had made it clear that he didn’t approve of policewomen. He was unhappy when an investigation needed her help. And he seemed to relish his position on the board that dismissed her from the force. McMillan was right; she’d want to remain in the Humber. She didn’t ever wish to see the man again.
‘He must be retired by now,’ she said.
‘Left in 1937.’
Good riddance to bad rubbish, she thought.
‘Then why do you want to see him?’
‘I know you never cared for him—’
‘That’s putting it mildly.’ She snorted her disgust.
‘—but he was one of the best coppers I’ve ever known. Not a particularly nice person,’ he added before she could open her mouth, ‘and we didn’t always see eye to eye, but he understood the job. He got results.’
‘You think he might see something we haven’t?’
‘I don’t know. But right now I’m willing to try anything.’ He offered her a weak smile. ‘Even him. Do you have a good book?’
She patted the pocket of her uniform. She’d finished the novel she’d been reading. Now it was Agatha Christie, The Moving Finger. Pleasant enough, but absolutely no resemblance to reality, and Miss Marple annoyed her. Still, it would pass the time.
Lottie gasped as she first pressed down on the clutch and pain roared through her knee. The second time was a little easier, the third better still. Within two minutes she didn’t even notice it any more, concentrating on the traffic and following the sketchy directions McMillan offered.
Carter lived at the near end of Armley, a quiet street of through terraces just a stone’s throw from the library. It was a working man’s neighbourhood, cobbled streets, no cars parked by the kerb. Not somewhere she expected to find a retired detective inspector.
‘I’d have thought he’d have lived somewhere…’ She struggled for the right word, something that wasn’t offensive.
‘Posher, you mean?’ McMillan’s lip curled in a smile. ‘Not Tommy Carter. This was the place he bought as soon as he could afford somewhere. Always reminded everyone they raised six children here. Didn’t see any reason to move.’
She could almost hear the man saying it, the strange pride shining in his voice. ‘I’ll leave him to you.’
She was grateful for her heavy greatcoat as she sat in the car. Her knee seemed to stiffen and she rubbed it gently, wincing at the pain. Finally, bored by the village tedium of the book, she grabbed the walking stick and eased herself out of the Humber.
The first few steps hurt so much that they almost made her cry. But she wasn’t going to stop; by the time she reached the end of the street, moving was easier and smoother.
She rested against the low front wall of a house, staring across an open patch of land. The remains of a building, jagged chunks of masonry, a chimney that had been cut off ten feet above the ground. Small hills of rubble everywhere. It took her a minute to understand she was staring at a bombsite.
Everything was overgrown, weeds and ivy reclaiming the earth. On one open stretch a pair of grubby boys kicked a ball around, oblivious to the cold in their school shirts and shorts. Their blazers were bunched up to make goalposts. Part of her wanted to grab them by the ears and march them back to classes. But sense won out: let them be, let them enjoy themselves. If this war stretched out another ten years they could be in uniform. And sometimes it felt as if it might never end, that the fighting would still be going on decades from now.
Lottie made her way back to the car slowly. The damage and rubble had given her pause for thought. It was so long since the last raid. Eighty-seven dead in Leeds from bombs. It was bad enough, but nothing compared to other cities. She just wished it could all be over.
McMillan was taking his time. Perhaps Carter had some good ideas after all, although it seemed hard to believe. He always seemed to run things by the book. But twenty years had passed since she’d seen him. People changed. Finally she heard a door close and turned the key in the ignition just as the Chief Superintendent settled on the creaking leather of the back seat.
‘Worthwhile?’ she asked, one eye on the mirror to catch his expression.
‘Nothing we haven’t already tried.’ He lit a cigarette and seem to relish the plume of smoke he blew. ‘I think he enjoyed the company more than anything. I got the impression he doesn’t have many visitors.’
That didn’t surprise her. But Lottie bit her tongue.
‘Back to Millgarth?’ she asked as they reached the end of the street.
‘Might as well.’ He sounded as old as the sky.
At the bottom of the hill they had to wait as a convoy of olive drab US Army lorries drove past. The canvas flaps were tied open at the back to show youthful, happy faces. People stopped to stare: women, children, even some men. Some of the soldiers threw chocolate bars whenever they spotted a child. Others waved. Where would they all be in six months, she thought. How many of them would be laughing then?
Without thinking, she counted the vehicles. Twenty-three of them, traffic backed up behind to leave her sitting in the idling Humber.
‘Do you think the Americans are moving out?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ McMillan said. ‘Did Ellison say anything?’
Lottie shook her head. Would he even bother to tell her? Would he be allowed to?
She looked ahead, only half-watching the road. ‘Did you see that?’ she asked suddenly.
‘What?’
‘The Jeep that just went by. It’s Del Vecchio. Driving himself, too.’
‘Really?’ She heard the soft sound as McMillan sat upright and craned his head. ‘Do you think you can follow him?’
Lottie eyed him in the mirror. This was like a scene from a film. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, go on. Let’s see where he’s going.’
She slipped the Humber into gear and nudged her way into the flow, of traffic then kept a steady speed. A van and two cars separated her from the Jeep. Del Vecchio didn’t seem to have
noticed her. Lottie removed her WAPC cap and tossed it on to the passenger seat. Now he’d never give the vehicle a second glance.
They were heading away from Leeds, towards Kirkstall Bridge. The abbey was out there, and a few miles away, Horsforth, Rawdon, then the countryside around Yeadon. Maybe all the troops were going on manoeuvres.
But del Vecchio wasn’t following them. At the bridge he slowed, ready to turn right and go up the hill. She was lucky; the car in front of her was going the same way, a shield between the Humber and the Jeep.
It was tricky, especially after the car in front turned towards Headingley station. The Jeep was now right in front of them.
‘Pull your hat down to shade your eyes,’ Lottie advised. McMillan obeyed. Now he could be anybody.
She kept her distance, as far back as she dared, foot ready to push down on the accelerator. But at North Lane the traffic left her no choice. He was stuck, waiting to turn and she had to stop directly behind him.
Del Vecchio never seemed to glance in the mirror. Yet at the first chance he gunned the Jeep, leaving her standing. Had he noticed them? She honestly didn’t know.
Her palms were sweating on the steering wheel as she forced her way between vehicles. He was a good fifty yards ahead.
She blinked and then he wasn’t there at all.
A good try, she thought with a smile as she turned on to Shire Oak Road. Just not quite good enough.
‘Do you want me to park here or go all the way to the end?’
McMillan considered the question. ‘Let’s go all the way,’ he said. ‘We might run into our friend there.’
A Jeep was parked in the drive of the empty house. Lottie angled the Humber to make it difficult for him to leave.
‘Now let’s see what he has to say for himself.’
The front door was ajar, no sign of the colonel downstairs or in the garden. She heard the creak of a floorboard and raised her head. McMillan put a finger to his lips and stood facing the stairs, hands in the pockets of his overcoat.
Another minute as the man moved around upstairs, every noise amplified by the empty building. Finally he came striding back, halting suddenly as he faced McMillan.
The Year of the Gun Page 19
