Modern Crimes

by Chris Nickson

‘We’ve talked to Mrs Walker’s friends. None of them have heard from her.’

  She knew enough to use the door at the back of the house. For servants and tradesmen. She found the woman there, blackleading the range.

  ‘Hello.’

  The servant turned sharply, eyes taking in Lottie’s uniform. ‘You’ve been here before.’

  Her hair was tucked under a starched white cap, her black dress neat and clean, a long apron covered in stains from the morning’s work. She had a thin, feral face, with suspicious eyes and a small, pursed mouth.

  ‘That’s right, I have.’ She sat down at the table. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘I have my job to do.’

  ‘This is part of your job,’ Lottie said. ‘You want Mrs Walker and Irene back, don’t you?’

  ‘Course.’ She bristled. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘You probably know everything that’s going on in the house.’

  ‘Some of it.’ The woman’s voice was wary.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Shelagh. For my nana.’

  ‘How long have things been bad around here, Shelagh?’ She needed to start the woman talking, let things build before asking the big questions.

  ‘Months. Sometimes the air between the mister and missus were so thick you could cut it with a knife. I’d walk in where they were and want to walk straight out again, it were that bad.’ She shook her head at the memory.

  ‘What was the problem?’

  ‘He owes money. Couldn’t help but hear them talking about it. And then that telephone would ring late at night, after I were in bed. Could hear him muttering away on it, trying to be quiet. Afterwards he’d be up a while.’

  ‘What happened after Ronnie was killed?’

  ‘I didn’t believe it when one of your lot came to tell us. None of us did. Who’d want to do that? I came when he were ten, he was still a little lad to me.’

  ‘What did Mrs Walker do?’

  ‘She was screaming and crying. Blamed her husband. He knew it was his fault but, well, too late then, wasn’t it? He said she had to keep quiet or it would get worse.’

  ‘You heard him tell her that?’

  Shelagh lifted her head. ‘I don’t lie.’

  ‘What was she like when Irene vanished?’

  ‘She’s been terrified ever since. You saw her.’

  ‘Do you know where she could have gone when she left here yesterday?’

  ‘I didn’t even know she’d left until that copper on the gate came for his cuppa and said she hadn’t come back.’

  ‘Where do you think she’d go? You know her.’ This was the important question. Lottie held her breath, hoping for an answer.

  Shelagh hesitated and glanced away before answering. ‘She likes Eccup Reservoir. It’s peaceful up there, she says. A good place to think.’

  It was somewhere to start. The chair scraped over the flagstones as Lottie stood up.

  ‘What was she wearing yesterday? Do you remember?’

  ‘Your sergeant asked me that. Tweed skirt, blouse, cardigan. And her coat.’

  ‘What colour is her coat?’

  ‘Royal blue.’ Shelagh smiled. ‘Had it for years, she has. Says it’s so bright it always makes her feel better.’

  ‘Eccup Reservoir,’ Lottie said as she climbed into the car. ‘Evidently Jane Walker likes to go there.’

  McMillan banged his palm again the steering wheel. ‘Why the hell didn’t the woman tell me that? We could have been looking already.’ He slipped the car into gear. ‘We’re going to need some men out there to search.’

  Lottie had cycled out to Eccup with Geoff during the summer, carrying a picnic that they ate in a field looking over the water before riding home. But she’d never walked by the reservoir, she didn’t know all the roads.

  A phone call to the station, then McMillan dodged through the traffic to Alwoodley and beyond.

  ‘There’s talk that Walker was a profiteer during the war,’ he said. ‘Overcharged the government, provided sub-standard boots for the troops. Plenty of motive for hurting him and his family.’

  ‘Mrs Walker and the servant both said he owed money.’

  ‘I daresay he does. I’m just thinking out loud, trying to find connections. We’re getting nothing from Walker himself. Just sits on his bloody pride. Excuse my French.’

  He became quiet. Soon enough he was driving along a thin, rutted road with dry stone walls on either side, before pulling over near a dusty track.

  ‘It’s the other side of those,’ he said, pointing at a wide grove of trees. ‘Come on, we’ll make a start. It’s going to be a while before anyone else arrives.’

  She followed him down the slope. ‘Why do you know Eccup so well?’

  He turned his head and gave her a wink. ‘I did a lot of my courting out here.’

  Suddenly he raised an arm. ‘There’s something – see it?’

  The glint of light on glass. He began to run, stumbling twice but never quite falling.

  ‘It’s her car!’ McMillan shouted. ‘No one inside.’

  A Crosley, cream and light blue. Dust from the track covered the coachwork and windows. The bonnet was cold; no one had driven it in hours. And no sign of anyone nearby. Only birdsong broke the silence.

  He turned his head from side to side, chewing on his lower lip. ‘You go that way, I’ll go this. Use your whistle if you find her.’

  The path was overgrown. Blackberry bushes with their big, awkward thorns, nettles that crept too close, burrs that clung to the skirt of her uniform. But no sign of Jane Walker, no hint of a royal blue coat anywhere.

  Lottie found a dead branch, carrying it to push the brambles away as she moved along the trail. She could hear the call of a magpie, the stutter of a woodpecker somewhere, even a quiet plop on the water as a fish surfaced momentarily.

  The dirt under her feet was dry and hard, no footprints, nothing to help her at all. The undergrowth was thick enough to hide an army; anyone could crawl off in there and never be found. It was going to take dozens of men to search the area properly. Two of them walking round, it was simply hoping Lady Luck would smile on them.

  They met on the far side of the reservoir.

  ‘Carry on,’ McMillan told her. ‘Maybe you’ll see something I missed.’

  He pushed his trilby back on his head and looked up at the sky. High cloud and hazy, thin sun. If they hadn’t been working it would have felt like a beautiful autumn day.

  At first she saw nothing but the greens and browns of the trees and plants and the long, grey stretch of water. Then, as the path turned, she noticed a place where the grass and bushes were bent, as if someone had forced their way through. Slowly, she followed along, glancing around and looking for… she didn’t know what.

  About twenty yards away, behind a thick of blackberry bushes, she walked into a copse of beeches. The air was still. Sitting on the ground, her back against one of the tree trunks, was Jane Walker.

  Lottie felt for a pulse in the woman’s wrist, but as soon as she touched the skin she knew it was hopeless. The flesh was cold and waxy, hard under her fingertips. Jane Walker’s eyes were empty, staring off into the branches. Her left hand was stretched out, a brown bottle of pills in her palm, the metal cap missing.

  And the blue coat was buttoned tight around her body.

  McMillan was out of breath, panting as he looked down at the body. Not even ten minutes has passed since she’d stood and started blowing the whistle, but it seemed like hours. The birds had flown off at the noise, leaving her completely alone with Jane Walker’s corpse.

  Lottie was careful to disturb as little as possible, moving away, exactly as she’d learned during training. Back then, though, no one had expected a policewoman would ever really see a dead body. Now she’d seen two of them in a week.

  ‘God,’ he said sadly. ‘Why here?’

  ‘She probably liked it. Thought it was peaceful.’

  ‘But…’ h
e began, then shook his head. ‘Maybe you’re right. Did you take a look at that bottle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I can see it later. You think she killed herself?’

  ‘Do you think she didn’t?’ This was her secret spot, a place she came when she needed to get away from the world. This time the leaving had been permanent. There was no sign of a struggle, no indication that it had been anything but deliberate. Maybe Jane Walker knew there was nothing she could do, and this was the only grace she could find.

  McMillan interrupted her thoughts. ‘There should be a few uniforms out here soon. They can stand guard until the coroner’s van arrives.’ He frowned. ‘It’s going to be a right job getting the body out. Once someone comes I’ll take you back to town. There’s nothing you can do here.’ He took out a handkerchief as he approached the corpse, and used it to wrap the bottle and slip it into his jacket pocket. ‘Fingerprints,’ he explained.

  ‘There’s nothing else,’ Lottie told him. ‘I couldn’t even find the cap.’

  Another quarter of an hour until they heard the shouts and the sergeant guided the men over. They didn’t talk; she didn’t feel like idle conversation and he smoked, leaning against a tree.

  Lottie felt as if the wood was closing in around her, pressing down on her lungs. Too much death around, perhaps. Back in the open air she breathed deeply.

  ‘The first few always get to you,’ McMillan said as they walked back up the rutted track to the car.

  ‘How many have you seen?’

  ‘Hundreds. Thousands. The war.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry.’

  ‘But enough on this job. Accidents, mostly. Suicides. One or two murders.’ He stopped himself. ‘What did you do during the fighting?’

  ‘I was a Barnbow Canary.’

  ‘Were you there for the explosion?’

  ‘I started two days later.’ The smell of cordite had still been heavy in the air, men removing what was left of room forty-two, where it had happened. Thirty-five women dead, dozens more in hospital. And not a word in the newspapers because of the war effort. She remembered stepping through the gates, feeling the atmosphere and wondering what she’d got herself into. So long ago now that it might have happened to someone else, something she’d read in a book or a magazine.

  ‘My sister was there,’ he told her as he drove back down the lane. ‘She was injured. Lost her right arm and her right eye.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ What else could she say? It was as if seeing a corpse brought out all the reflections of death.

  He shrugged. ‘My parents look after her.’

  He parked outside Millgarth.

  ‘I need to telephone the coroner,’ McMillan said. ‘You did excellent work out there. We might never have found her otherwise.’

  ‘They’d have spotted her once they began searching,’ she said. It was no more than the truth.

  ‘You did it sooner.’ He cast an eye over at the desk; no uniformed sergeant behind it right now. ‘I’ll get the proof you rang in this morning. We don’t need people like Sergeant Berwick in the police. Not if we’re going to be a proper force.’

  Nothing more on Irene Walker, she learned back at Millgarth. The girl wouldn’t know about her mother; maybe she’d never learn, Lottie thought as she left the station to find Cathy. But she’d no idea where her partner could have gone. Following something about Hannah Moorcroft? She couldn’t find her as she covered the patrol. No one seemed to have seen her.

  But she was there in Mrs Maitland’s office as the shift ended.

  ‘Nothing to add, ma’am,’ Cathy said. ‘I’ve written everything down.’ She nodded at the report waiting on the desk. ‘I can’t do anything else until I take a statement from Miss Moorcroft.’

  ‘And have you been given any indication when that might be?

  ‘It should be tomorrow, ma’am. She’s recovering but they’re worried by the infection.’

  The woman gave a curt nod then turned to look at Lottie. ‘I hear you’ve been causing trouble, Armstrong.’

  The words took her by surprise. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Sergeant Berwick. He claims you disobeyed orders to ring in every hour.’

  ‘With respect, ma’am, he’s lying.’

  ‘I was there when she telephoned,’ Cathy added. ‘I know WPC Armstrong is telling the truth.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt you are,’ Mrs Maitland told Lottie. ‘I’ve told Inspector Carter you are.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The sergeant has said many times that he doesn’t believe women belong in the police. He doesn’t think any of us should be here. I have an assurance that if Berwick is proved to be a liar, he’ll be sacked.’

  ‘I used a telephone at a shop,’ Lottie said. ‘They’ll be able to tell anyone.’

  ‘Very good. Write down where you were when you rang and they’ll follow up tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ She scribbled in her notebook and tore out the page.

  ‘Dismissed.’

  ‘I need to dash,’ Cathy said. ‘I saw a lovely frock in a shop window. I’ve just got time to try it on before I go to the hairdresser.’

  ‘You’ll look a picture for him tomorrow.’

  ‘Let’s hope he thinks so. God, I’m scared to see him.’ She let out a breath. ‘At least old Berwick will get what’s coming. I never liked him, always leering at me.’

  ‘We’ll see. Off you go, you can’t keep a good hairdresser waiting.’

  She was waiting for the tram, seeing Jane Walker’s body in her mind, the blue coat buttoned tight. Even when the car horn sounded she didn’t pay attention until someone nudged her.

  McMillan in the Peugeot, staring at her and grinning. She made her excuses as she pushed through the queue.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Lottie asked as she closed the passenger door behind her, feeling embarrassed. ‘This is becoming a habit.’

  ‘I was passing and I saw you. Thought you might like a lift.’

  ‘That’s very kind, but…’

  ‘I’m going back to Eccup. I want to take a proper look at Mrs Walker’s car before it’s dark.’

  ‘Have you seen her husband?’

  ‘Yes. The inspector’s had him most of the day. Kept exactly the same look when I told him. Didn’t say a word about it. You’d think… I don’t know,’ he said with a frown. ‘Maybe it’s me. I’d fall apart if my wife killed herself.’

  ‘I think most people would,’ she told him quietly. ‘They’d blame themselves.’

  ‘Whatever he’s feeling, he’s not showing it.’

  They stayed silent as he kept a steady speed through Sheepscar and up Chapeltown Road.

  ‘We’re getting absolutely nowhere,’ McMillan said finally. She could hear the frustration and anger simmering in his voice. ‘Two dead, one missing, another girl in hospital and we still don’t have a bloody clue who’s behind it.’

  ‘Not even a single lead?’

  ‘I think we’ve talked to most of the criminals in Leeds and not one of them knows anything.’

  ‘Someone must,’ she said.

  ‘Walker,’ he replied emptily. ‘And he’s not saying a word. I don’t know if his pride is more important than his family or if there’s something else going on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. The inspector keeps hammering at him and getting nothing and the rest of us might be banging our heads against a brick wall for all the progress we make. I’ve never known anything like it. It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lottie said, then added, ‘Do you think you’ll need me again?’ Unless they found Irene alive, what could there be for her to do?

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘It’s probably not what you want to hear.’

  ‘Better to be honest.’ She managed a smile. ‘You can just let me off on the main road, it’s fine.’

  He parked in front of the greengrocer, boxes of apples and a few late tomatoes in their crates, a pile of bright bananas in
the window.

  ‘You did a wonderful job today,’ McMillan told her as she stood on the pavement. ‘Outstanding police work. I told the inspector that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lottie said. ‘And thank you for the lift.’ She felt flustered, not sure what else to say. She liked the praise but knew the memory of discovering the body in the wood would stay for a lifetime.

  Put it away, she thought as she walked up the street. Be ordinary. What could she make for tea? Fry up a little skirt of beef, maybe, some Bisto to thicken the gravy. Potatoes and a tin of peas. Easy and quick.

  A few minutes later she was home and changed, an apron over her housedress, peeling potatoes and dropping them into salted water. Everyday things. But however much she tried to lose herself in them, they couldn’t banish the thoughts that crept from the back of her mind. Jos, Jane, the image of lost Irene.

  She heard the key in the lock and Geoff came through to the kitchen. He was beaming, face flushed, dirt and soot on his cheeks, tie askew.

  ‘My God, what on earth happened to you?’ Lottie asked. ‘You’re…’ She didn’t even know. There were no injuries she could see.

  ‘Turn all that off and come outside. Come on.’ He held out his hand. She took it and followed, curious.

  It was there, at the curb. The paint shone glossy green on the fuel tank, the chrome of the handlebars sparkled. And bolted to the side, a dark metal sidecar. She turned to him, not sure what she felt more: joy at the surprise or anger that he’d spent money without asking her.

  ‘I thought we were going to wait until the weekend.’

  ‘I know.’ He had the grace to look sheepish. ‘But I was just saying that to see if you were interested. A chap at work was selling his, it’s only six months old and the price was good.’ He held up his hands. ‘I know. I’m sorry. But it’s a bargain, honestly. Hardly any miles on it.’ He beamed, full of pride at his new toy. ‘Anyway, we can take it out on Saturday instead of shopping for one.’

  Carefully, Lottie climbed into the sidecar. The seat seemed comfortable enough. She was aware of net curtains twitching across the road and smiled. At least there was something for them to see.

  ‘I thought we might go for a spin,’ Geoff suggested.