Modern Crimes

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Come on, sit down.’

  They sat on the bed. Lottie kept an arm around the woman’s shoulders. Jane Walker fumbled in her sleeve, bringing out a small handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes and rubbing her nose.

  ‘We’re trying to find her,’ Lottie said. ‘But we need all the help we can get. You understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ It came out tentatively, then a little more firmly. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Lottie kept her voice gentle. ‘We can’t bring Ronnie back, but whoever did that must have taken Irene. If we know why, we can find them.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Her mouth closed to a thin, pale line.

  ‘Someone killed Ronnie. Someone has Irene. We have to find them, Mrs Walker.’ She was close. Lottie could feel the tension in the woman’s body. ‘They’re your children.’

  She could hear Jane Walker’s breathing, sense her mind working, trying to build up the courage to speak.

  ‘I believe my husband owes a great deal of money,’ she said finally.

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘He won’t say.’ Her fingers kneaded the handkerchief. ‘He won’t even tell me if he does. But I’m sure of it. Benjamin has a business. His factory makes boots. He used to export all over the Empire. The government bought a lot during the war. Since then…’

  Lottie knew the story. She’d read it so many times in the newspapers. The colonies had developed their own industries. British goods had become more expensive. All over the country, factories had closed their doors, men were on the dole. She saw them every day when she was on patrol, looking hungry and cowed.

  ‘It’s failing. I honestly believe it is,’ Mrs Walker finished.

  ‘Couldn’t he sell it as a going concern?’ Lottie wanted to take her time, to tease it all out, to get everything she could.

  ‘Who’d want to buy it? One look at the books and they’d know the truth. I can see it in his face, even if he won’t say a word.’

  ‘What about the bank? Can’t they help him?’

  She shook her head. ‘Why would they lose money by helping a business that’s going to end up bankrupt? No one would.’

  ‘Do you think he’s borrowed money from someone?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Her voice was chillingly certain. ‘He thinks I don’t know how bad everything is. But I’ve looked at the figures when he’s not here.’ She stared at Lottie. ‘I’m not a fool. He won’t admit it, but borrowing is the only way he can keep going. I told him a year ago we should sell this place, but he won’t do it.’ She frowned. ‘Pride. Stupid bloody pride.’ She began to cry again, pressing her fists against her face, as if they could contain all the sorrow.

  ‘How certain are you?’

  ‘Positive. Benjamin always said he could make it work if he only had a little more money. But all it did was make the world fall apart.’

  Lottie tried to frame her words carefully. How could she say it without reproach? ‘You should have told us everything after they killed your son.’

  ‘Told you what?’ she asked sharply. ‘All I have are my suspicions. I can’t prove a thing and Benjamin is never going to admit it. He didn’t when Ronnie was murdered. He hasn’t since they took Irene.’

  Lottie squeezed the woman’s hand. ‘We can find her and bring her back. Then we can hang the killers for your son’s murder.’

  ‘You can’t stop them.’ Her voice was empty.

  ‘Talk to your husband,’ Lottie told her. ‘Persuade him to tell Sergeant McMillan everything he knows. It’s the only way. He has to.’

  ‘I’ve talked and begged until I lost my voice. But if he does that, he’s shown he’s a failure. Everyone will know.’ She snorted. ‘And Benjamin Walker could never accept that.’

  For God’s sake, Lottie thought, wasn’t his daughter’s life worth more than his pride? What kind of man would put his pride ahead of his own children? She could feel her anger rising and tamped it firmly down.

  One life lost, maybe two, all because of a man’s pride. ‘I have to tell Sergeant McMillan,’ Lottie said.

  ‘I know.’ Her voice was solemn. ‘He still won’t pry a word out of Benjamin. I can tell you that right now.’

  ‘Whoever took your daughter and killed your son doesn’t have anything to lose. You understand that, don’t you?’

  Jane Walker raised a pair of terrified eyes. ‘That won’t make a scrap of difference to him. Believe me.’

  ‘The sergeant will find out.’ He had to. She stood, helping the woman to her feet. ‘Come on. It’s time.’

  She waited at the bottom of the stairs, hearing male voices. Mrs Walker clattered down behind, head held high, jaw clenched tight.

  ‘I’ll take Mr McMillan outside and tell him,’ Lottie explained. ‘After that it’s up to him.’

  They stood on either side of the Peugeot. The sergeant rested his elbows on the roofs, moving a lit cigarette through his fingers as he listened.

  ‘All she really has is suspicion,’ he said once Lottie had finished. ‘No proof.’

  ‘She’s certain. It fits the facts, you have to admit that.’

  ‘Or she made it fit them.’

  ‘Come on, you don’t believe that. You’re the one who brought me out her to talk to her,’ she reminded him. ‘That’s what she told me. And I believe her.’

  He tossed the end of the cigarette into the gutter, took out another and lit it.

  ‘I need to talk to the inspector,’ he said. ‘Walker has clout. If I start on him…’ He shrugged.

  ‘And meanwhile someone has Irene Walker,’ Lottie said coldly.

  ‘I’m well aware of that, Constable,’ he replied. ‘Get in. We’ll go back to Millgarth.’

  They barely spoke on the journey. She could feel his frustration and anger, but nothing she had to say would help.

  In the car park she walked away, patting her hat down over her hair.

  ‘Lottie,’ he said.

  ‘Sarge?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Part of the job.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  SHAFTON Street, over in Holbeck. Cathy was already there. Back-to-back houses in blocks of eight, a gap for the outside privies, then more houses.

  Number thirty-seven was exactly the same as its neighbours. The only thing to mark it was the crowd of women gathered across the street, talking and watching the front door. Lottie felt their eyes on her as she strode up and knocked hard.

  A few seconds, the snick of the lock, and she was in the front room, standing next to Cathy. The room smelt of mould, a stain of damp over the distemper up by the ceiling.

  ‘The doctor telephoned the station just before I left. He’d been called in first thing this morning. Bad case of septicaemia.’

  Lottie glanced at her. They both knew what that meant. An abortion that had gone wrong.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Hospital. It took forever to get an ambulance here. She’s only sixteen, poor thing.’ Even younger than Jocelyn Hill. Cathy frowned and shook her head. ‘I tried to talk to her but she was off her head with pain. The doctor had given her something but it didn’t seem to help much.’

  ‘What about the family?’

  ‘Mother’s gone with her. Three sisters and an aunt.’ She nodded towards the scullery. ‘They’re all in there.’

  ‘Father?’ Lottie asked. ‘Husband?’

  ‘Father’s at work.’ Cathy sighed. ‘They sent the youngest but he hasn’t come. Can’t afford to lose the money. The girl doesn’t have a husband. That’s why she was having the abortion.’

  They’d seen it before. They’d probably see it many times in the future. That didn’t make it any easier. No one talked about abortions, but they happened all the time. Not just in streets like this or Cross Green; perfectly respectable girls found themselves in the family way, too.

  Often there was no problem with it. But when there was… usually the girl died. Left it too late before calling for help, too many complications.

  ‘Is she
going to survive?’ she asked.

  Cathy shook her head and shrugged. ‘It didn’t look good. I’m just going over to the hospital. I’ll leave you to question them.’

  ‘Right.’ She took out her notebook. ‘Better give me the details.’

  Hannah Moorcroft. Born July ninth, 1908. Spinster. Unemployed. There was nothing more to tell.

  ‘You didn’t get the midwife’s name?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Haven’t had a chance. I’d better go.’

  ‘Watch yourself.’ She grinned. ‘There’s a coven waiting across the street.’

  ‘I’ll think pure thoughts.’

  ‘There’s a first time for everything.’

  Three girls. Jocelyn Hill. Irene Walker. Now there was Hannah Moorcroft. Lottie took a breath and walked into the scullery.

  The girls wore pinafores over their dresses. The oldest was perhaps fourteen, the others younger, probably just too old for school. Eleven and twelve, maybe. The woman sitting at the old, wobbly table had an austere air of religion. She was dressed all in black, from her small hat to the boots on her feet, her only decoration a worn gold wedding ring. A face covered with lines, cheeks sunken where she’d lost most of her teeth and a fierce, fixed expression in her eyes.

  ‘I’m WPC Armstrong.’

  ‘Evelyn Richards.’ The woman gave a small nod. ‘Hannah’s mother is my sister. I live just over on Rydall Place.’ A few streets away, next to the factory. But she’d know the area.

  Lottie pointed to the teapot keeping warm on the range. ‘Is there another cup in that?’ It was always a good way to begin. It put people at ease, let them feel busy, in charge in their homes, even in the worst situation.

  ‘Honor,’ Mrs Richards said, and the oldest girl moved to fill a cup and set it down by the milk jug and sugar bowl.

  ‘I think you know what I need to ask,’ Lottie said after taking a sip. Long enough in the pot to be strong but not stewed.

  ‘You three, out for a few minutes,’ Mrs Richards ordered the girls. ‘It’s grown-up talk.’ As they filed out she raised her voice. ‘But don’t you go far.’

  The back door slammed; they were alone.

  ‘Who?’ Lottie said.

  The woman shook her head. ‘I don’t know. And before you start, I’m chapel and I don’t approve of what our Hannah did. Not how she got it or how she got rid.’ She waited until Lottie nodded her understanding. ‘The first I knew was this morning when young Harriet come for me.’

  ‘You live around here. You know what goes on.’

  ‘Not that, though.’

  ‘The midwife?’

  ‘Mrs Brady?’ Her gaze was firm. ‘Never. Not in a hundred years.’

  ‘Someone did it.’

  ‘You’ll need to ask Hannah, unless the Lord takes her for what she did. Or my sister. But from the look on her face when I walked through that door I doubt she knows, either. I’ll tell you this, though: there’ll be the devil to pay with her da.’

  ‘Who was the baby’s father, Mrs Richards?’ The woman’s eyes flickered; she knew. ‘Well?’

  ‘Bobby Denham. You’ll not find him round here now, though. Ran off to join the merchant marine as soon as he discovered our Hannah was in the family way and we’ve not seen a sign of him since. That were six weeks ago. So he’s had nowt to do with this.’

  ‘How far along was she?’

  ‘Three months, near as. Poor little lass.’ It was heartfelt, but full of the kind of fatalism she’d seen before. Hannah Moorcroft would probably die. That was in God’s hands. And if she did she’d be going to a better place. Maybe it really did help people cope.

  ‘Do you have any idea who could have done it?’

  ‘I don’t, luv, and that’s the truth.’ She looked Lottie straight in the eye.

  There was nothing more to be learned here.

  ‘You said Mrs Brady’s the midwife around here. Where does she live?’

  ‘Brown Lane East, just off the moor. But I told you it weren’t her.’

  Lottie smiled as she stood. ‘I believe you, don’t worry. Maybe she’ll have an idea or two.’

  She was at the corner when she heard the footsteps and turned. The oldest girl from the Moorcroft house. Honor. The resolute look had gone from her mouth. It was all fear now.

  ‘Is Hannah going to die, Miss?’

  There was no point in giving false hope.

  ‘I don’t know.’ The girl’s face fell. ‘I haven’t seen her. They’ll do everything they can at the infirmary. You know what happened, don’t you?’

  ‘Course.’ But that was no surprise.

  ‘Do you know who did it, Honor?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘All I know is she went out yesterday afternoon. When she came back she said she didn’t feel too well and went to bed. It got worse during the night and she started screaming with pain after me dad left for work. That’s when mam sent for Auntie Evie and the doctor.’

  ‘Why don’t you show me where Mrs Brady lives?’ Lottie asked. The girl brightened. She needed company, a little warmth. ‘Tell me about your sister.’

  ‘Not much to say. She’s daft half the time. But she’s pretty and I love her.’

  ‘What about Bobby Denham?’

  ‘He’s a waste of breath.’ Honor snorted. ‘Everyone saw it but our Hannah. He was good-looking and he always had a bob or two to spend. Thought he was the bees’ knees and she lapped it up.’

  ‘What happened when she told him she was having a baby?’

  ‘She came back over the moon. He’d promised he’d be over the next day and talk about the wedding. Morning comes and everyone’s saying he’s scarpered. I told her she was better rid of him but she just cried her eyes out.’

  Pregnant, humiliated. No wonder she wanted an abortion.

  ‘That’s Mrs Brady’s over there,’ the girl said. ‘Number five.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She needed to give Honor some hope, if nothing more. ‘I know the people at the infirmary. They’re very good, they’ll do everything they can.’

  ‘Yes.’ A tight, scared nod and the girl was running off.

  There was no answer at number five when she knocked.

  ‘She’s over at the Bartlett’s,’ a neighbour told her. ‘Delivering twins.’

  ‘Do you know how long she’ll be?’

  The woman gave her a withering look. ‘As long as it takes. They’re not trains, they don’t come on a timetable.’

  Stupid question. ‘I’ll try her again later.’

  Cathy was still at the hospital. Lottie gave her report to Mrs Maitland then stood in the queue, waiting for her tram. People pressed all around, some giving her uniform curious looks, most too absorbed in their own thoughts to notice.

  She’d always wanted a job that would test her. Barnbow had been exacting, but once her shift was over she could leave it all behind her until the next day. She’d hoped that she’d find what she needed as a policewoman. But most of the problems were easy, solved in a few minutes, hours at most. Then again, what they covered was limited. Tart patrol, she thought angrily. But it had all changed with Jocelyn Hill. Since the moment they’d gone to the home for unwed mothers, everything seemed different.

  They filled her thoughts: Jos, Ronnie, Irene and Jane Walker, now Hannah Moorcroft and her sisters. All their pain and fear. She was involved. It might only be for a short while, but it made the job seem worthwhile. Even the guilt she felt at their misery was fine.

  Walking up Sholebroke Avenue she heard a handbell in the distance as the muffin man made his rounds. The orderliness of it made her smile.

  The paper lay on the table. Geoff might have left it there by accident, but she knew him better than that. It was quite deliberately in the way for her to see. An advertisement for the BSA Model L. And he was right; she read it. Most of the details meant nothing, it didn’t matter to her if it was a three-speed gearbox with a 349cc side-valve engine as long as it started and stopped properly.

  The shape was sleek.
It looked fast. Just one seat. Lottie tried to imagine how she’d feel in a sidecar. Scared at first, she was certain. But after that… She smiled. He’d been right; it had worked. She was interested.

  She left it sitting as she served the liver and onions. The radio hummed and crackled as the valves warmed up and a pale, lemony sun came through the windows.

  ‘Do you want to go on Saturday?’ she asked.

  ‘Go?’

  She nodded towards the advert. ‘To take a look at one.’

  He smiled hopefully. ‘Do you think you’d like one?’

  ‘I’d like to see it.’ That was as far as she was willing to go for now. Probably they’d be driving home with one, but she wasn’t going to let him win quite so easily. He’d be ready to go first thing on Saturday morning, waiting for her, as eager as a child going on an adventure.

  ‘Good.’ By now he was beaming, the meal forgotten. ‘I’ve been talking to a few more chaps who ride. They say there’s nothing like it.’

  A little later, standing in the kitchen and drying the plates, she thought about something he’d told her: ‘One fellow said that riding is what freedom must feel like.’ It seemed an odd phrase. Disturbing. They had freedom, didn’t they? Wasn’t that what the war had been about?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE words came back to her as the tram wobbled its way down Chapeltown Road. She didn’t understand them any more than she had the night before. Never mind, she told herself; it doesn’t matter.

  As soon as she reached the station Lottie asked about Irene Walker. No sign yet. The father was being questioned; he knew something. Thank God, she thought; maybe something will move. Was there news about Hannah Moorcroft? All she received were shrugs and blank looks. The girl hadn’t been important enough to remember. From the front desk she telephoned through to the infirmary, waiting patiently to be connected to the ward sister.

  Still alive, the nurse told her warily. At first they didn’t think she’d last. But she had some strength. A fighting chance; that was as far as she’d go.