The Year of the Gun

by Chris Nickson

  The pathologist stood, dusting off his knees, and Lottie drew in her breath as she saw the face of the man lying by the railway tracks.

  George Hilliard. She stared, hardly daring to believe he could be dead.

  It was a quarter of an hour before McMillan returned, hauled up the hillside by a pair of burly coppers. He was red-faced and sweating, leaning against the Humber to catch his breath then lighting a cigarette before he spoke.

  ‘You saw?’

  She nodded. It still didn’t seem quite real, that he was down there, dead. After they’d searched so frantically for him, come so close to arresting him, an ending like this seemed so mundane, so ordinary, that it was shocking. She felt cheated. How could there be a sense of victory about this? They hadn’t won. They hadn’t caught him.

  ‘How did he die? What did the doctor say?’

  ‘Broken neck.’ He blew out a long plume of smoke. ‘And the fall didn’t cause it. He’s certain of that.’

  ‘Murdered?’ She was surprised; the idea didn’t astonish her. A phrase came into her head: live by the sword, die by the sword.

  ‘He’ll know more once he has Hilliard on the slab, but yes. Someone killed him.’

  Lottie looked around. The nearest house was a couple of hundred yards down the road. Another a little farther the other way. A nice empty spot for getting rid of a body.

  Hilliard was dead. She had to keep repeating it in her head. He was dead. No more killing of young women.

  ‘What about the gun?’

  ‘Still in his pocket,’ McMillan told her. ‘It looks like someone took him by surprise.’

  ‘It could have been someone he trusted.’

  ‘True.’ He nodded. ‘Or the killer put it back there.’ McMillan ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know. Andrews is organising a team to go door-to-door and see if anyone noticed anything.’ He stared at the deserted road. ‘I’m not going to hold my breath.’

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘A goods train driver. Stopped at the next station and rang in. It was in some bushes, just good luck he even noticed it. The doctor had to move Hilliard to examine him.’

  ‘At least someone’s stopped him,’ she said. He was dead. She should have felt relief. Instead there was emptiness; another killer was still out there. Lottie shuddered, as if someone was walking over her grave.

  ‘Who did it, though? And why?’

  She dropped McMillan close to the mortuary. He’d be there, ready when they brought in Hilliard’s body. The first postmortem he’d attended in years, but he wanted to be there for this one.

  ‘The sooner we know, the sooner we can get moving.’

  ‘You don’t need me, do you?’ she asked.

  ‘You go back to Millgarth,’ he said with a smile. ‘Have a cuppa and a gossip.’

  ‘I never gossip.’ Without thinking, she began to bristle.

  ‘A natter,’ he corrected himself. She snorted, pulling away as he closed the door. Cheek.

  By four o’clock he still hadn’t returned. The newspapers had rung, local and national. Helen had put through a constant stream of calls. All Lottie could tell them was that the Chief Superintendent would make a statement in due course. Even the BBC had been on the blower; they’d have to wait like everyone else.

  She wasn’t sorry that Hilliard was dead. Women in Leeds were safer now. Any jury would have convicted him; this just saved on a trial and a hanging. Killing him like that was justice of a sort.

  But it wasn’t the law.

  Now they needed to find his murderer. The job was only half done.

  She heard McMillan trudge up the stairs. When he appeared in her doorway he looked wrung out, battered, as if he’d been pulled through a mangle.

  ‘I’d forgotten how gruesome those things can be.’

  ‘Did you learn anything?’

  He managed a wan smile. ‘Apart from the fact that retirement can’t come too soon? The break came from a sudden, sharp increase of pressure on the head until his neck snapped.’ Lottie shuddered as she thought of it. ‘Done from behind. Not gentle. Not kind. And very professional.’

  They had a nation full of trained killers. Men who’d been taught unarmed combat.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been trying to puzzle it out on the way back. Has anyone rung?’

  Lottie held up a fistful of notes. ‘Press, radio. They all want to know what we’re doing.’

  ‘I’ll cobble something together,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You might as well go home. I’m settling in for a long night.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. We’re not going to solve this one in a couple of hours.’

  She was halfway down the stairs before she remembered the package waiting on the windowsill. Meat and potato pie for dinner.

  MCMILLAN didn’t wake as she opened the office door. Head back, he snored gently, large, dark circles under his eyes.

  Down in the canteen Lottie persuaded the cook to make a bacon sandwich, and carried it back upstairs with a mug of strong tea. She placed them in front of him and gently shook his shoulder.

  ‘Breakfast,’ she told him.

  He blinked, passing a hand across his mouth. ‘I must have dropped off. Forty winks.’

  He needed a shave, and the collar of his white shirt was ringed with dirt. Lottie picked the papers off his desk.

  ‘You get yourself ready and I’ll put these in order. Nothing overnight?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  The pathologist’s report had been hastily typed, full of spelling mistakes. But it confirmed what he’d said at the scene. The neck broken, snapped. Efficient, brutal. Whoever murdered Hilliard knew exactly what he was doing.

  He’d died somewhere between midnight and four. The abrasions on his hands and face had happened after death, almost certainly when he was tipped down the embankment.

  The evidence bods had been thorough, but they had little to tell. Hilliard carried a counterfeit ration book and National Identity card in the name of John Graham. A wallet with two pounds, another five shillings and threepence in change in a trouser pocket. Handkerchief, wristwatch. It didn’t seem as if anything had been stolen. The Colt pistol was in his pocket. Two sets of fingerprints on the weapon. One set belonged to Hilliard, the other from someone unknown, without a record.

  DS Lawton in ballistics must have worked late, too. He’d tested the Colt, comparing a spent bullet to those that killed the four young women. The same. That confirmed it, if there’d ever been a shadow of doubt. Hilliard was guilty of all four murders.

  Canvassing the area hadn’t brought anything. But the bobbies had found many people out when they called during the day. They’d had more luck in the evening, but still no joy. No one remembered anything. Three places left where there’d been no reply. She noted the addresses for later.

  By the time she’d collated it all, McMillan had washed, shaved, combed his hair and put a fresh collar on his shirt; he looked awake and alert. The empty plate and mug stood at the corner of the desk and he was smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Thank you for breakfast.’

  ‘Payment for that lovely stewing steak you gave me yesterday,’ she said. ‘But you’d do well to grovel next time you’re in the canteen. I had to beg for that bacon.’

  His smile only lasted a second.

  ‘You’ve read it all. What do you think?’

  ‘We know someone dumped him there.’ It echoed what Hilliard had done to Anne Goodman at Kirkstall Abbey, she thought. Just tossing the body away. The killer must have brought the body in a car. ‘The house-to-house need to ask if anyone heard any vehicles. It was the middle of the night. It might have woken someone.’

  McMillan scribbled a note. ‘Smith can go back and check.’

  ‘What about this other set of fingerprints on the gun?’

  ‘Nothing in Records.’ He shrugged.

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘I’ve spent ha
lf the night trying to work that out,’ he said with a sigh. ‘And I still don’t have an answer.’

  ‘There’s one thing that baffles me. Why would they leave the gun? Surely whoever killed him could sell it on the black market. Or use it himself.’

  ‘Hilliard’s murderer probably knows what he did with that Colt,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t want to risk being caught with it.’

  That made sense. Anyone arrested with the weapon would be looking at a hanging.

  ‘The way he was killed—’

  ‘Doesn’t mean much. You know that. How many troops are wandering around Leeds? How many who’ve served? Last time around, too. Every one of them knows how to do that.’ He paused. ‘I telephoned the Ministry of War last night.’

  ‘Why?’ She didn’t follow his thinking.

  ‘Hilliard must have had friends in his platoon. I wanted some names. You never know, he might have stayed in touch after he deserted.’

  ‘How does that help us find his killer?’ Lottie still didn’t understand.

  ‘Maybe we can learn what he’d been up to. It could point us in the right direction.’

  ‘That sounds like a very long shot,’ Lottie said.

  ‘It is,’ he agreed with a long sigh. ‘It is. That’s how desperate I am.’

  A little after ten o’clock. Lottie had brought another cuppa from the canteen and finished it. She’d gone back over the reports, making a note of every detail and trying to connect them, to see if anything popped out. All in vain. The only thing she had were some scribbles on a piece of paper.

  McMillan’s door opened. He was already wearing his overcoat, trilby in his hands. His eyes looked hopeful.

  ‘The Ministry rang back. We have someone to see.’

  He was eager, already disappearing down the stairs as Lottie buttoned her greatcoat, slipped on a pair of gloves and jammed the WAPC cap on her head. By the time she reached the car he was tapping his foot impatiently.

  Lottie played with the choke, adjusting the mixture before turning the ignition. The engine fired immediately.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Chapel Allerton. The hospital.’

  Lottie glanced in the mirror as she eased out into traffic. She’d passed the place but always been thankful she never needed to visit. The prosthetic hospital, that was what people called it. Full of troops who’d had their arms and legs blown off, being fitted with new limbs and prepared for Civvy Street.

  An easy drive, up Harrogate Road then turn on to Harehills Lane. A brief stop at the gates while a guard checked their identification.

  The hospital itself was a big old house, sandstone blackened by the years. In spite of the cold, a few men wandered outside. Some with crutches, others in wheelchairs. In battledress and dressing gowns. One of two limped cautiously, growing used to the false legs. At least they had some freedom, she thought; it was probably better than being cooped up inside all day.

  The place was heartening and depressing at the same time. She parked the Humber and followed McMillan into the building. Voices echoed. The medical smell of antiseptic filled the air. A harried nurse directed them, pointing down a long corridor.

  In the ward, the sister looked them over carefully before nodding and leading them to a bed where a man in flannel pyjamas was propped up, reading Weekly Illustrated.

  ‘William, this gentleman is from the police. He’d like to ask a few questions about someone you might know.’ The way she spoke, it was a demand that brooked no objection.

  He looked up and Lottie could see the burns that covered the left side of his face. He’d had surgery but the scars would remain for the rest of his life. As bad as anything she’d seen after the last war.

  ‘Hello.’ The man extended a hand and smiled. ‘Have a pew if you can find one.’ He turned his head towards Lottie. ‘Sorry, miss, we’re a bit short on chairs around here.’ A sly wink. ‘I think the nurses must be nicking them.’

  McMillan introduced himself, perching on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Bill Broadhurst. Corporal. For the moment, anyway.’ The man grinned. ‘Let me guess. You’re here about George Hilliard.’ He had a London accent, just like the cockneys she’d seen in the films, cheerful, devil-may-care.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ McMillan brought out his cigarettes and offered one to Broadhurst.

  ‘Ta. Well, he was the only one in our lot likely to be in trouble with the rozzers. If it wasn’t nailed down, it would disappear when George was around. He made sure he kept his hands off our personal gear, though. Just as well.’

  ‘You were friends?’

  ‘Not close or anything. But you know how it is, you get to know everyone in the platoon. He was light-fingered but he was pleasant enough. Always good for a laugh. We had fun. I was sorry when he took off, really. I think the brass was glad, though.’ He grinned. ‘Not as many things vanishing. What’s he done now?’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you. He’s dead.’

  Broadhurst looked from one of them to the other, waiting to be told it was a joke.

  ‘George?’ he said finally.

  ‘We found the body yesterday,’ McMillan said. ‘Someone killed him.’

  ‘Christ.’ He looked at Lottie and tightened his lips as an apology. ‘I know he was a bit of a lad and all that, but why? What had he been up to?’

  ‘He’d killed four young women.’

  Broadhurst stayed silent for a long time.

  ‘I see,’ he said finally.

  ‘You don’t sound too surprised.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. I heard things. You know, that George could be a bit rough with a woman. Didn’t like to hear them say no, that was the rumour. But no one brought charges. And killing them?’ He shook his head doubtfully. ‘George was always a bit of a coward. I reckon that’s why he deserted.’ The man paused. ‘You’re sure it’s him?’

  ‘There’s no doubt,’ McMillan said. ‘No doubt about any of it. He shot a policeman, too.’

  ‘It just… I don’t know…’

  A slight pause and McMillan asked the important question. ‘After he deserted, did you ever hear from him?’

  ‘No. I liked him, but he knew I’d have turned him in. Deserting, it isn’t fair on your mates, is it?’

  It was the type of question that didn’t need an answer. Lottie cleared her throat and Broadhurst turned his head to look at her.

  ‘Was there anyone from the platoon who might have kept in touch with him?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Honest truth, miss, I don’t. I suppose it’s possible, but…’

  ‘The rest of you couldn’t trust Hilliard after he deserted.’ McMillan finished the sentence and Broadhurst nodded.

  ‘That’s it. He was always a bit… and you’ve got to trust the lads with you.’ He cocked his head. ‘Were you in the last one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lottie knew he wouldn’t say more than that; McMillan never talked about his time in the army.

  ‘You know, then.’ The man stared at Lottie again. ‘You see, miss, didn’t matter that George was a laugh. It’s a matter of loyalty. I couldn’t see any of the boys wanting to know him. Still a shock that he’s dead, mind.’

  McMillan left the packet of Four Squares and a box of matches on the table beside the bed. Outside, in the corridor, the ward sister caught up with them.

  ‘You’re the first visitors he’s had.’

  ‘It was hardly a social call,’ he told her.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. It’s something. His family was bombed out in the Blitz. They can’t get up here.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Those burns to his face. More on his chest. And he lost his right leg above the knee.’ She said it matter-of-factly; no doubt it was the kind of injury she saw every day. ‘Italy. Monte Cassino. From what William says, we’ll be seeing quite a few more from there.’ She gave a tight smile, turned away and returned to the ward.

  Outsi
de, away from the smell of carbolic and medicine, McMillan breathed deeply.

  ‘Maybe that explains a few things about Hilliard,’ he said. There was a sense of finality in his voice. He glanced back over his shoulder at the building. ‘Let’s get out of here. Places like this always scare me.’

  After she parked at Millgarth, he disappeared, returning half an hour later with a sombre face.

  ‘I went over to the war memorial for a few minutes.’

  She didn’t need to ask why. All those thoughts of old comrades among the dead. And the knowledge that one of his sons could so easily join them, another body somewhere in the Far East.

  ‘You didn’t miss anything.’

  He frowned, took a new packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.

  ‘More’s the pity. Can you bring me everything on Hilliard and the girls he killed?’

  It took three trips. There were piles of paper, two box files, and a score of reports. Lottie mounded them on his desk and stood back.

  ‘I’m going through everything again,’ McMillan said. ‘Maybe I’ll see something different after what Broadhurst told us.’

  ‘Do you really believe we missed anything?’ It felt as if they’d followed every path, no matter how hopeless.

  ‘I hope we have,’ he answered and sighed. ‘We’re stuffed otherwise. I don’t suppose you fancy nipping down to the canteen for a couple of cups of tea, do you?’

  Lottie shook her head. But she was grinning, already reaching for the doorknob. Her knee was close to normal again. Still bruised and tender if she poked it, but the swelling had gone and she could move easily.

  She placed the mug on his desk and closed the door on the way out. In her own office she took a book from her uniform jacket. Double Indemnity. After seeing the film she’d wanted to read the book. Ten pages in and she was already intrigued. The style was so different, very American.

  Her telephone rang several times, reporters hoping for some fresh news on the Hilliard killing. All she could tell them was the official line: McMillan would make a statement in due course. Two of the calls brought tips, but neither sounded credible. She passed them to CID.