The Year of the Gun

by Chris Nickson

  A little after four she took McMillan another cuppa. He scarcely noticed, lost in paper, reading his way through a document. Quietly, she retreated again.

  The twenty-ninth of February, she saw on the calendar. Leap year. Tomorrow it would be March. Soon enough spring would arrive. She already had seeds growing in trays in the back bedroom. As soon as the danger of frosts had passed she’d get them in the ground, a cloche over the top for the first few weeks to keep them warm. Maybe they’d have a fine summer; it was about time. The last one she could remember was ’39, so many warm, cloudless days. The good weather had remained well into September, after the declaration of war, after Geoff died so suddenly, the sun staying to mock her.

  At least he’d gone home, Lottie thought when she checked McMillan’s office in the morning. The new month had dawned chilly, frost on the grass, her breath blooming in the air as she walked to the tram stop. But the sky was clear and the sun was shining. She’d arrived early at Millgarth and sat down in the warm fug of the canteen, eating scrambled powdered eggs and baked beans.

  Helen and Margaret came in together, waving, then joining her.

  ‘I don’t know how you can stomach that,’ Helen said.

  ‘I suppose I’m used to it by now.’ But even as she said it she pushed the plate away, remembering the taste of a real egg. The black market might be busy but there weren’t too many of those around.

  ‘Has your boss cracked that murder yet?’ Margaret asked. ‘I was reading about it in the Express on the way in.’

  ‘We’re getting closer.’ Maybe it was true; he might have found something. Lottie leaned forward and the others imitated her, desperate for gossip. ‘He had a gun in his pocket when we found him.’ It was hardly a secret, even though the press hadn’t printed it. And it put them in the know. She stood and winked. ‘Work calls.’

  McMillan arrived at half past eight on the dot, looking fresh, as if he’d slept well for once. He was wearing his good suit and the West Yorkshire Regiment tie.

  ‘Very dapper.’

  ‘I have to see the Chief Constable this morning. Tell him how we’re getting along on this.’ He gestured at the files.

  ‘Any progress?’

  He shook his head. ‘We were thorough the first time.’ He glanced at his wrist watch. ‘I suppose I’d better walk over to the Civic Hall. Unless you fancy driving me.’

  ‘By the time I scraped the windscreen you’d be halfway there.’ She eyed the bulge of his belly under the overcoat. ‘Besides, a little exercise might do you good.’

  Close to eleven and she’d almost finished the novel, reading fast. She didn’t even know anyone was standing there until knuckles rapped softly on the jamb.

  ‘Do you know where the boss is?’ Detective Constable Smith. He always looked diffident, not quite sure of himself, as if he was happiest existing in the shadow of Inspector Andrews.

  ‘He’s at a meeting,’ she told him. ‘Is it something important?’

  ‘I was talking to a bookie’s runner this morning,’ he began, hesitating as if he was unsure whether to give her the information.

  ‘Does it have something to do with Hilliard?’ Most gambling was illegal. But there were so many worse crimes; the police usually ignored it.

  He nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing. She waited.

  ‘Russ Templeton,’ he said. ‘That’s his name. He fancies himself a bit of a spiv but he’s nothing, really. Asked if there was a reward for information about Hilliard’s death.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ So far the city hadn’t put up any money.

  ‘I said I might be able to bung him a quid. But he wants to speak to the boss.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ When he didn’t answer immediately, she said, ‘Oh, come on. Spit it out.’

  ‘He said he’d be on Leeds Bridge at noon.’ Smith shrugged. ‘I told him he’s been watching too many spy films. But that’s what he wants.’

  ‘I’ll make sure the Chief Super’s there,’ she promised, giving the poor lad a smile. ‘Thank you.’

  It was twenty past eleven when she parked in front on the Civic Hall and hurried up the steps. The stone of the building was brilliant white, sparkling in the sun. Inside, everything was as hushed as a church.

  ‘Is DCS McMillan still here?’ she asked the chief constable’s secretary, a prim woman in her early sixties with dark, intelligent eyes.

  ‘They should be finished in a minute, love.’ It was a warm, Leeds voice. ‘Is it urgent?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lottie said. ‘It is a bit.’

  Two minutes and they were in the car.

  ‘Tell me again,’ he said, and she repeated all the information Smith had given her.

  ‘On the bridge?’ McMillan asked. ‘What does he think he is? A spy?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, I’m just the messenger. And the one making sure you arrive on time.’

  She parked on Dock Street, no more than a hundred yards from the bridge but around the corner and out of sight. Better if he went alone; if Templeton really did have information, they didn’t want to scare him. And it gave her a chance to finish the book.

  Lottie slapped the cover closed, satisfied. There was justice in the ending; it completed the circle. She sat back and closed her eyes.

  The solid clunk of the car door as it shut woke her.

  ‘Sleeping on the job,’ McMillan said. ‘I ought to report you.’

  Lottie stretched her back and looked at her watch. He’d only been gone a quarter of an hour.

  ‘What did he have to say?’ she asked, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Chummy claims he knows the man who was sheltering Hilliard the last few days he was alive.’ Someone named Johnson.

  ‘Really?’ Quickly, she turned in the seat and stared. ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘He’d better be telling the truth – I gave him two pounds for the name. Didn’t even make fun of all his cloak and dagger stuff.’ It was a tidy sum. McMillan gave a dark smile. ‘Told him if he was lying I’d take it out of his hide. He swore up and down it was right.’

  ‘Is it someone you know?’

  ‘No.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s what worries me. Someone working the black market, he says. I thought I’d heard of all the criminals in Leeds by now.’

  ‘Did he have an address?’ She started the Humber.

  ‘He claimed he didn’t know it. Let’s go back to Millgarth, see if any of the others have heard of this man.’

  They hadn’t. It brought blank looks and shrugs. Jimmy Johnson. No record. If he really existed, he was making his home deep in the shadows.

  ‘Talk to your narks,’ McMillan ordered the men. ‘Offer them a few bob, make them a deal, whatever it takes. I want to know where this Johnson is. If this lad’s been playing clever clogs and I’ve been conned, God help him.’

  There was no word by the time she left for the night. Nothing first thing the next morning, either. Then she saw Andrews tap on the Chief Superintendent’s door and enter. Less than a minute later McMillan appeared, hat already on his head, coat in his hand.

  ‘We’re on our way.’

  She dashed after him. In the car she pulled on the choke and turned the key in the ignition. ‘Where?’

  ‘Meanwood Road. Near the public baths.’

  The building had been a factory once, but it had been empty and dilapidated for years. Even the need for war work hadn’t brought back the machines and labourers here. It was too far gone, only fit for demolition. Lottie parked down the road, tucking the Humber behind a black van.

  She stood, feeling useless as McMillan talked to the vehicle’s driver. A few seconds later the back doors opened and four large coppers emerged, pulling on their helmets, truncheons drawn. This time they’d come prepared.

  ‘Andrews pushed one of his snouts. Finally got him to cough up that this Johnson lives out at the factory,’ McMillan had explained as they drove from town. He shook his head. ‘Sounds like something in Dickens if you ask me. Evidently he’s only been
around a few months. It might explain why there’s been so much on the black market lately. Maybe why we haven’t heard about him, too. Built himself quite a little empire in that time, though.’

  The Chief Super gathered the men around and gave his instructions, watching as they dispersed.

  ‘Time to see what Mr Johnson has to say.’ He stared into her face. ‘It would probably be better if you stayed here.’

  ‘WHY?’ Lottie asked. Her voice was like flint.

  ‘It could be dangerous,’ McMillan said. He waved a hand at the crumbling stonework. ‘For God’s sake, look at the place. A hard gust and it could all fall down.’

  ‘Then it could just as easily collapse on you.’

  He sighed. ‘Lottie, it’s an order. I don’t know what’s in there. We’re all trained to look after ourselves. You’re not.’

  She looked back at him, not saying a word. Finally he turned away and strode towards the factory. Lottie waited until he turned a corner, hidden by a stone wall as tall as a man, and then followed slowly. What was the worst he could do – sack her?

  Thin tufts of grass grew between the cobbles in the yard. All the windows in the building were smashed; the fragments of glass that remained were covered in years of grime. A doorway without a door led inside.

  She stood there for a few seconds. Light tumbled in through a gap in the roof. Large, deep pools of shade filled the corners.

  McMillan was easy enough to follow. He was trying to be quiet, but that was impossible when rubble and debris were scattered across the floor. Lottie carefully picked her way through it all.

  Then through another doorway into a cavernous space: the factory proper, she guessed. The slates fallen and most of the roof beams were gone, leaving it empty and haunted. Beyond that, she edged into a dark corridor, close enough to hear everything but still keeping her distance. She intended to be there when they found Johnson. Not an adjunct, left behind when it suited.

  She’d earned it. She’d seen the bodies of the young women who were murdered. She’d touched them, felt their stillness. If this was where it all ended, this was where she needed to be.

  A heavy creak somewhere and she paused for a moment. Not even breathing. She could hear McMillan ahead of her, following the path as it turned left. Very quietly, she moved closer until she could see the closed door ahead of him, and the slight hesitation before he barged it open with his shoulder.

  Lottie kept to the shadows, treading very lightly, closer still until she was enough to peer over the chief super’s shoulder. Three oil lamps burned bright in the room. No windows, but a grate with a fire burning, a camp bed in one corner. All very snug, she thought. And, sitting on the chair, pen in his hand, a man with the blackest skin she could imagine.

  ‘You must be Mr Johnson.’ The man looked around as if he was ready to bolt. There was a door in the far wall. Perfectly on cue, it opened, filled by a copper.

  Johnson began to move, his arm reaching for something. McMillan brought the Webley from his pocket.

  ‘That would be a very bad idea,’ he said. He waved the gun. ‘Up.’

  Johnson stood. He was tall, easily six feet two, eyes full of hatred as the cuffs locked around his wrists. He was wearing a ragamuffin’s uniform – a scarred brown leather jacket, woollen battledress trousers, army boots, and a khaki jumper. Deserter, she decided. He had to be.

  McMillan pushed him back down on to the chair. The man hadn’t said a word yet.

  ‘Search the place,’ he ordered the constables. ‘Odds are you’ll find a few things. If this is the right bloke, the black market here might never be the same again.’ Once the men had disappeared, he turned back to Johnson. ‘I wonder how many authorities will be interested in you?’

  He picked up the pistol that had been beyond Johnson’s grasp. A Colt M1911. The same model that Hilliard had used. One had remained unrecovered from the stolen case.

  Fascinated, Lottie could hardly take her eyes off Johnson. His skin was so dark that light seemed to vanish in it. She’d only ever seen anything like it in newsreels about Africa.

  ‘Sir,’ she said. McMillan turned sharply, then his eyes followed to where she was pointing. An American soldier’s forage cap sitting on top of a battered wooden filing cabinet.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said, looking at Johnson again. ‘The Yanks aren’t satisfied with going after our women; now they want our crime, too.’

  The uniforms took Johnson away. He’d be waiting at Millgarth when they returned. Soon enough the evidence men would be out here to dig through everything thoroughly. But even the quick search had already turned up more than a hundred jerrycans filled with petrol, cases of canned food, a carton of women’s stockings and a dozen bottles of rye whiskey.

  ‘He must have good contacts at the base,’ Lottie said.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find a lot more here, too. It like Aladdin’s cave. And all of it nicked.’ He picked up a pair of nylons. ‘You might as well take some of these. No one’s going to count them.’

  Lottie shook her head; it didn’t seem right.

  ‘I told you to stay outside,’ McMillan continued.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He was armed.’

  ‘I kept back.’

  He sighed. ‘Twenty years and you still don’t learn. I should probably discipline you but I just don’t have the energy.’ A final glance around and he started towards the fresh air. ‘Let’s go and see what he has to say for himself.’

  ‘We should tell Ellison,’ she said. ‘After all, he’s one of theirs.’

  McMillan grinned. ‘When I’m good and ready. After all, he hasn’t always been forthcoming.’

  They left Johnson to stew in the cells for the rest of the day. It wouldn’t have any effect on him, she was certain, but it gave the evidence bods time to go over the factory. Late in the afternoon she put the list on McMillan’s desk. He glanced through the two tightly spaced sheets and raised an eyebrow, impressed.

  ‘He had a warehouse out there.’

  ‘All from the American commissaries, by the look of things,’ Lottie said.

  ‘God, from the look of this he must have been supplying half the black market in Leeds. I’m amazed we hadn’t come across him before.’

  ‘I wonder how he’s tied to Hilliard?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find out.’ It sounded somewhere between a promise and a threat. And it probably was. ‘Isn’t it time you were off?’

  Quarter past five. Close enough. She knew why he was dropping the hint. He was ready to question Johnson and didn’t want her around for that. It was going to be rough. No matter; she’d expected that. McMillan wanted answers and he’d do everything he needed to get them.

  She’d been home for more than an hour, the last of the meat and potato pie eaten, pots washed, sitting in front of the fire with the Home Service playing softly on the radio, when she heard the knock on the door.

  ‘Hi.’ She smelled his clean scent.

  ‘Come in,’ Lottie said. She could hardly leave him on the doorstep. Not after he’d taken her to the dance on Sunday. She closed the door behind him, tugged the blackouts back into place, and switched on the light. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ He smiled, but she could see the worry in his eyes.

  ‘It’s warm in the dining room.’

  He sat but he didn’t relax, playing with his cap, eyes wandering around, glancing at the ornaments and pictures.

  ‘You look like you have something to say.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he admitted then stopped. ‘I’m sorry about that kiss—’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she told him. ‘All forgotten.’

  He managed a weak, shy smile. ‘It’s been a crazy start to the week,’ he said. ‘Too much going on.’

  ‘Plenty of crime?’

  ‘Not really.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘It feels like we might be getting ready to move.’

  ‘Oh?’ The words took her by surprise. It had
to come, of course, that was the only way they’d win this war; she just hadn’t expected it yet.

  ‘No one’s saying anything but everyone knows.’ He cocked his head. ‘Do you understand what I mean?’

  It happened everywhere. Ideas carried on the air. By the time the announcement came it was nothing more than a confirmation.

  ‘Any idea when?’

  ‘Not yet. But they never give us much notice for a move. I wanted to come and see you, let you know. I might not have a chance later.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ She meant it.

  ‘I was wondering…’ He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, awkward as a schoolboy. ‘Would you mind if I wrote to you?’

  Lottie almost laughed. It seemed so ridiculous, so old-fashioned and formal to be asking permission to send her letters. She smiled.

  ‘I’d be very glad if you did.’ As long as he understood that nothing would happen, that he’d never be able to persuade her to anything more than friendship, then it would all be fine.

  ‘Good.’ Some of the tension seemed to vanish and he sat back. ‘Is that tea still on offer?’

  ‘I’ll only be a minute.’

  When she returned with two cups he was staring thoughtfully into the fire.

  ‘Penny for them.’

  ‘Nothing, really. Wondering where I’ll be in a few months, that’s all.’

  ‘You miss Seattle, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I do. It’ll be good to get home. To have everything normal again.’

  What was normal, she wondered? She wasn’t certain she could remember. Normal had been when Geoff was alive and the country was at peace. That seemed a long, long time ago, and it could never return. Not in the same way.

  ‘Pardon me?’ she said. He’d been talking, but she’d strayed into her thoughts.

  ‘I was asking how your work has been. Have you caught the guy who killed Hilliard?’

  He must have read about it in the newspaper.

  ‘No, not yet. Still all sorts of tests.’

  ‘Are you getting anywhere?’

  She was suddenly wary. Was it purely professional interest, one policeman asking about another’s case, or was there something else behind the question?