Modern Crimes

by Chris Nickson

‘You saw her on a good day,’ Lottie told him. ‘Wait until she wants to tear a strip off you.’

  He grimaced, fitted his helmet on his head, rolled his shoulders back and said, ‘Right. We’d better see a man about a girl.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Unless he’s moved in the last month, he’s with his mam and dad on Everleigh Drive.’ It was just a few minutes’ walk from Jocelyn’s house, tucked away off York Road, across from the baths. Tennison grinned at her. ‘Think you can walk that far?’

  ‘Cheeky devil. How do you want to handle Coleman?’

  ‘Just a quiet word,’ he answered thoughtfully. ‘To start with, anyway. We don’t even know he’s the father of her baby.’

  ‘He’ll deny it. Men always do. When I was at Barnbow—’

  ‘Oh, a Barnbow canary, were you?’ He smirked.

  ‘I was.’ She bristled. ‘And proud of it. Why?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Tennison said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘As soon as a girl was up the spout we’d take bets on whether the lad would admit it was his. Almost every one of them tried to wriggle out of it for a while.’

  He stayed silent. But there wasn’t much he could say, Lottie thought; he was a man.

  ‘Do you reckon you’ll know if he’s lying?’ Tennison asked after a while.

  ‘Maybe.’ Would she, Lottie wondered? Would she be able to see the guilt on Ray Coleman’s face? ‘Is that why they want me there?’

  ‘Like as not.’ He glanced around. ‘I don’t see a sergeant and I’m going to trust you to say nothing.’ He took out a cigarette and lit it, cupping it out of sight in his hand. ‘Young Ray’s going to be embarrassed with a woman there. Maybe it’ll make him tell the truth. Seems to me it doesn’t matter whether the bairn’s his or not. She hasn’t said, has she?’

  ‘No, she won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘And what we need is to find her. We’ll just hope that Ray can help us. If he feels some responsibility, so much the better. Maybe it’ll make him shape up. I did when my first was born.’

  ‘How many do you have?’

  ‘Three. Two now.’ She could hear the change in his tone and knew what was coming. ‘Our Robert died on the Somme. Broke his mother’s heart. Me, I’m glad the other two were girls. God only knows what might have happened otherwise.’ Tennison gave a small cough. ‘What about you?’

  ‘We can’t,’ Lottie explained. ‘My husband had an injury.’ She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  He didn’t say anything, just offered a short nod. That was better than most; people generally stumbled over awkward apologies. To her it had become a fact of life. But Tennison was in his fifties, about the same age her father would be if he was still alive. He’d seen a thing or two.

  ‘It’s along here,’ he told her after a couple of minutes. Tennison dropped his dog end and ground it out on the pavement, then adjusted his helmet. ‘Ready?’

  Someone must have seen them coming; Ray Coleman answered the front door himself. He looked younger than twenty, with fair hair, not even really shaving yet, just some light down on his upper lip. Skinny, a jumper over his shirt, a pair of trousers that had seen better days. No boots on his feet and socks that had been darned umpteen times.

  ‘Constable,’ he said in a nervous voice. He gulped, his Adam’s apple jumping. ‘Do you need something?’

  ‘Just a chat,’ Tennison said gently. ‘We can do it here if you like, or maybe inside over a cup of tea.’

  ‘Yes.’ He moved aside, letting them through. No need to show them the way in a house like this. Ray’s mother was in the kitchen, already putting a kettle on the hob. There were no modern conveniences here. The house had probably looked much the same thirty years before.

  Mrs Coleman disappeared as the tea was mashing. Not a word had been said, they’d simply taken their places around the table. Ray lit a cigarette, his foot tapping quickly on the floor. Tennison sat back, hands over his ample belly. He leaned forward as the door closed.

  ‘Little birds keep saying you know Jocelyn Hill.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Coleman agreed. ‘You know, say hello, walk to the shops, like that. Until she went away.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t know anything about her going away?’ Tennison smiled.

  ‘Me?’ The boy looked cornered, a fox with the hounds approaching. ‘No. Why would I?’

  As lies went, it was pathetic. The blush was flooding up his face.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Lottie asked. She gave him time to answer, pouring the tea and pushing the cups across the table. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being friends, after all.’

  ‘Yes, we’re friends, I suppose.’

  ‘Maybe a bit more, eh?’ Tennison suggested with a wink. ‘You know why she went away.’

  ‘I know what everyone says.’ Coleman’s face was bright red.

  ‘Perhaps you had something to do with it.’

  The idea seemed to floor him. ‘Give over, Jos wouldn’t look twice at me. Not… you know. I wasn’t her type.’

  Lottie believed him. There was something in his voice, disappointment, a little pain. He carried a torch for her and she didn’t even notice.

  ‘What was her type?’ she asked.

  He didn’t answer at first, spooning sugar into the cup and stirring it. Then, ‘She liked them a bit older. With some money. But she kept that quiet. Her mam didn’t know. No one round here did. She sneaked off in the evening.’

  Tennison opened his mouth to speak. Lottie shook her head slightly at him.

  ‘Did you ever follow her, Ray?’ she continued.

  He bit his lip and nodded. ‘I just wanted to know where she was going. I…’ He shrugged. He didn’t possess the words. Or maybe he didn’t want to admit them to himself.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘The night before last. I saw her near her house.’

  ‘Where did she go?’ Without thinking she reached out and patted the back of his hand. It was pure instinct. His eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘The Market Tavern.’

  She knew it, a stone’s throw from Millgarth station. The Madhouse, everyone called it, although she’d never heard why.

  Tennison gave a quick cough. ‘Did you see her come out again, Ray?’ he asked.

  ‘Can’t have been more than ten minutes.’ She could hear the frustration in his voice. ‘She came out with a man and he helped her into a motor car. Then they drove away.’

  How could a lad with no job hope to compete with someone who owned a car?

  ‘Do you know what type of car it was?’

  ‘A Standard Pall Mall,’ he answered without hesitation.

  In spite of everything, she had to smile to herself. Only a man would know something like that. Only a man would care. Still, they had a lead now. There weren’t many vehicles on the roads; it should be easy to find the driver. But a few more questions might yield something better.

  ‘Had you seen the driver before?’

  ‘No. But…’ he hesitated. ‘He seemed like he had everything. Like he knew everything. And Jos, she just looked at him with these big eyes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lottie told him. ‘You might be helping her. You heard she was missing?’

  He nodded. ‘Everybody knows. That was one reason I followed her. She was supposed to be at that place, not round here.’ His voice trembled.

  ‘Don’t you worry, we’ll find her,’ she assured him. ‘Maybe she’ll realise things are better closer to home.’

  ‘By God,’ Tennison said in admiration as they walked back down the street. ‘Where did you learn to do all that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get them to talk. You should be a detective.’

  She laughed. ‘And pigs will fly. Come on, he wanted to tell us, you could see it in his face. He loves her, he wants to see her safe as much as anyone.’

  ‘If you say so,’ he said doubtfully. ‘That touching his hand, what made you do it?’

  �
�I don’t know. It just seemed to be what he needed. Why? Was it bad?’

  ‘It was ruddy marvellous.’ He smiled at her and glanced at his wristwatch. ‘What time are you due back on patrol?’

  She looked at him. ‘I don’t know. As soon as we’re done, I suppose. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I just thought we could drop in to the Market Tavern before you went back, that’s all.’ He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, a sly grin on his lips.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she agreed quickly. ‘As long as it stays quiet. Mrs Maitland will have me off the force if she finds out.’

  ‘I won’t say a word, cross my heart.’ He winked. ‘For a lass, you’re all right, you know that?’

  She nudged him in the ribs, hard enough for him to feel. ‘And I’ve come across worse blokes than you.’ Her eyes were laughing. ‘So who’s this rich man, do you think?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue, but someone’s bound to know. You won’t find many Standards in Leeds, they’re not cheap. Whoever owns it has a bit of brass.’

  She’d gone into pubs with Geoff, a few times with gaggles of girls from Barnbow when they enjoyed a night out. A cocktail bar with Cathy. But never anywhere like the Market Tavern. It was early enough in the day to stink of stale beer and old smoke, dust motes hanging in the air.

  A few hardened drinkers slumped in the corners, shunning company; a man listlessly mopped the bar. The spittoons hadn’t been emptied and the brass needed a healthy polish.

  ‘Morning, Bill. Is Nancy about?’ Tennison said, looking around the faces in the place.

  ‘In the cellar, Henry. She’ll be back in a minute.’ He stared at Lottie, the look becoming a leer as he licked his lips. ‘Who’s the bird?’

  ‘That’ll be Woman Police Constable Armstrong to you.’ There was an iron edge to his voice. ‘Unless you fancy a belting into next week. Not from me, from her. And don’t go thinking she wouldn’t dare.’

  Bill bowed his head and seemed to deflate into himself.

  At Barnbow the men had flirted. Some of them had tried it on, hands free when they thought they could get away with it. But she’d been one girl among many, plenty of them prettier and more happy-go-lucky. Since she put on the uniform it had been worse, as if she was fair game. Plenty of comments, someone trying to grab her breasts on a crowded tram. Even one of the coppers at work had fancied his chances, thinking he could drag her into a cupboard. A sharp knee had ended that idea and kept him off work the next day. Since then they’d treated her warily around the station. Everyone knew what had happened; no one ever spoke about it.

  Footsteps echoed on stone stairs. A door opened and a woman filled the opening. She was large, tall with wide shoulders. Big-boned in every way, around forty, but she carried it handsomely, wearing expensive, stylish clothes, make-up carefully applied to hide the wrinkles, her hair cut to suit her broad face.

  ‘Well, well, well, look who’s blown in.’ She had a voice like a contented purr, low, pleasant, but with the edge of teasing. ‘Where have you been keeping yourself, Henry?’ Her eyes turned to Lottie. ‘This must be one of them WPCs.’ She nodded approval. ‘The uniform suits you, dear. And Henry wouldn’t be dragging you in here unless you could hold your own.’

  ‘I’ve got a question for you,’ Tennison said. The attention, and everything that lurked beneath it, didn’t seem to bother him. ‘About someone who drinks in here.’

  Nancy took a Woodbine from a packet on the bar and lit it.

  ‘Well,’ she said finally. ‘Spit it out. I don’t have all day.’

  ‘He drives a Standard,’ Lottie said quickly. ‘Probably in his twenties or so. Very likely thinks he’s the bees’ knees.’

  The woman laughed. ‘You’re not backwards about coming forwards, are you? You’re looking for Ronnie Walker. Comes in here a couple of times a week. Likes to think he’s hard stuff because he’s slumming it. What’s he done?’

  ‘Maybe nothing,’ Tennison said. ‘We need to talk to him and find out.’

  ‘You need to take a look in Headingley. Somewhere round there.’ She stared at Lottie. ‘What’s your name, luv?’

  ‘WPC Armstrong.’

  Nancy sighed. ‘Your real name. Like he’s Henry and I’m Nancy.’

  ‘Lottie.’

  The woman extended a large hand and Lottie shook it. ‘You’ll do. You need anything, come and ask for me.’ She nodded at Tennison. ‘You don’t need to wait for him. And no one will hurt you in here. Not unless they want to answer to me.’ She grinned, showing a set of discoloured teeth. ‘And they don’t, believe you me.’

  ‘You went in the Market Tavern?’ Cathy put her hands on her hips. ‘Come on, tell me all about it. I keep hoping someone will take me in there.’

  They were walking through County Arcade, all the old glamour looking a little faded and dreary, the black and white tiled floor sad and grubby.

  ‘There’s not much to tell,’ Lottie told her. ‘It’s a dreary place. We weren’t even inside for ten minutes.’

  ‘What about the woman?’ Cathy asked eagerly. ‘I’ve heard about her.’

  ‘Nancy? She’s lovely. Big, but… it suits her.’

  ‘Are they keeping you on the investigation? What did Mrs Maitland say?’

  ‘The case has gone to the detectives.’

  She didn’t want to say more. After her hopes had been raised for a few hours, they’d been dashed again. Still, that was to be expected. Outside the matron’s office Henry had given her a sympathetic look and a shrug before heading back to his beat. It was the way of the world.

  Evening report was almost complete when Mrs Maitland looked at her. Her next words seemed to come out grudgingly.

  ‘Inspector Carter wants you to report upstairs to CID before you leave.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  FOR a moment her stomach seemed to turn liquid. Why did CID want her? Had they heard she’d gone in the Market Tavern? No, she decided quickly; Maitland would have relished taking care of that herself.

  ‘Go on. Don’t just stand there with your mouth open.’

  She gave Cathy a short, confused look, then left, heels clicking along the corridor then up the stairs. At the CID office she knocked on the door and entered.

  One man was there, sitting behind a desk and smoking. Sergeant McMillan. She coughed and saw him cock his head towards her. He was a slim, handsome man in a well-tailored pinstripe suit, a thin, dark moustache on his upper lip.

  Full of himself, she thought. That was what everyone said. Too cocky by half. But the rumour was he’d been a war hero, and he was supposed to be good at his job.

  ‘You must be Armstrong.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Stand at ease.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘You’ve been working on this Jocelyn Hill thing.’

  ‘That’s right, Sarge.’

  ‘Tennison brought me up to speed.’ His smile turned wolfish. ‘He told me you met Nancy Smith. Says she took a shine to you.’ His tone was gently mocking.

  ‘She was pleasant enough, sir.’

  ‘Nancy doesn’t like too many. You’ve been favoured.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’ She really didn’t know what to say. She had no clue what he wanted, no idea where this was going. It didn’t feel as if he was going to reprimand her.

  ‘Tennison says you’re a natural with the questions.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ She felt herself reddening at the praise.

  ‘How would you like to work with CID on this Hill case?’

  ‘Sir?’ For a moment she was certain she’d misheard. Work with CID?

  ‘We’re going to find her and we’ll need a woman to sit down and talk to her, to find out what’s happened. Maybe even to talk to people along the way.’ He took out another cigarette and lit it. ‘What do you say? If Henry’s right, you’re just who we need.’

  ‘I…’ She felt tongue-tied. It was impossible to believe. This was exactly what she’d hoped for when she joined the force. But she’d stopped believing i
t could ever happen. Lottie dug a fingernail into her palm, just to be certain she hadn’t fallen asleep on the tram and started dreaming. She was still here, still facing Sergeant McMillan. And he was still smiling hopefully at her.

  Lottie took a deep breath. ‘Yes, Sarge,’ she said. ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Let’s make a start, then.’ He pulled an old mackintosh and a trilby off the rack and led the way out of the station’s back door to the street. A small Peugeot coupé stood at the kerb.

  ‘In you get,’ McMillan told her with a grin. ‘We’re going to give your friend Ronnie Walker a surprise. See if Miss Hill’s there.’

  She could see Cathy pacing by the gate, waiting, a raincoat buttoned over her uniform.

  ‘I just need to talk to my partner,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’

  She could sense his impatience as she walked away. But Cathy deserved to know.

  ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What did they want?’

  Lottie let the words flow out, still scarcely believing them herself, and Cathy squealed loud enough to make people turn. She hugged Lottie tight.

  ‘That’s wonderful. But you’d better make sure you tell me everything.’

  ‘I will.’ The reality was starting to sink in. She began to grin and couldn’t stop.

  ‘If you’re working for that Sergeant McMillan I might have to scratch your eyes out.’

  Lottie glanced back at the man waiting in the Peugeot and bit her lip, eyes twinkling.

  ‘You rotten cow!’ Cathy was laughing with pleasure. ‘Do you get to wear plain clothes, too?’

  ‘Uniform. The sarge thought that might be a step too far.’

  ‘Tell him he can dress me up any time he likes.’

  Lottie couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a motor car. Carole’s wedding, perhaps, when she’d been a bridesmaid. For a moment it felt like luxury, then she remembered the job.

  ‘I want to put some pressure on Walker. We need to find Jocelyn. She’s been gone far too long in her condition.’

  At least they were worrying about her; that was something. The story would be in the papers soon, maybe even the late edition of the Evening Post.