Modern Crimes

by Chris Nickson

  ‘That’s wonderful. I’m so pleased. Jimmy, this is Lottie, I’ve told you all about her. Lottie, this is my husband.’

  She said it so proudly, her arm through his. He was good-looking in a slick way, his skin tanned and weatherbeaten from those years on the water.

  Lottie said hello and left them to it. They were jabbering away nineteen to the dozen. With regular work everything would settle down. They wouldn’t even notice she’d gone. And there was something Lottie wanted to do before she went home…

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE side door of the Royal Hotel gave with a little pressure. Inside, Lottie stood for a moment, listening for footsteps and taking in the gloom. Very carefully she climbed the stairs, ready to work her way through the place.

  The idea had come to her in the scullery of the dead woman’s house, when she’d seen the rat hiding itself away. If Irene Walker was in Leeds, she needed somewhere to stay. There were plenty of places in the hotel, and Alice Sutherland would have keys to them all. The woman had even mentioned it herself.

  In a place like this the girl could burrow, hard to find.

  She wasn’t even sure how to search. All she could do was walk along the corridors, looking for marks in the dust on the carpet and testing doorknobs. Nothing on that floor. Two more to go.

  More steps, and the door opened with a slow creak. She froze, waiting, ready to scurry away at the slightest sound. But there was nothing ahead of her except an empty silence. Cautiously she paced along, alert for everything.

  At the far end, close to another set of stairs, a short passageway led towards the back of the building. It was dark, almost black. Lottie put one hand against the wall to steady herself, the other out in front.

  Five paces and her fingertips touched a wooden door. She felt for the handle and slowly closed her hand around it, holding her breath.

  Now or never, Lottie thought.

  After the shadows in the hall, the light in the room seemed unnaturally bright. She needed to blink before she looked around. Someone was living here. The furniture had been dusted. There was make-up on the dressing table, nail varnish, a jar of Pond’s cold cream. A pair of stockings hung over the back of a chair. Sheets, blankets, an eiderdown and candlewick covered the bed, a blue cloche hat with a pattern in sequins lying on top. Hanging from a hook behind the door was an overcoat in RAF blue.

  Now she knew where Irene Walker was hiding.

  Carefully, Lottie left, closing the door quietly behind her. She wanted to run but forced herself to go slowly downstairs and out into the fresh air. She pulled the wood against the jamb, breathing as hard as if she’d run a race and standing for a minute until her heartbeat slowed to normal.

  She marched to Millgarth, jaw set, wanting to sprint and knowing she couldn’t. It was part of her training: a police officer never runs, unless responding to an emergency or stopping a crime. And this would wait another minute or two.

  McMillan’s car was still in the yard. Lottie clattered up the steps and into the CID room. Two men were hunched over a desk, examining a document: the sergeant, along with Inspector Carter.

  ‘What do you need, Constable?’ Carter asked. ‘The usually etiquette is to knock before barging in.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir, but I have some important information.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I know where Irene Walker’s staying, sir.’

  Carter had nothing to say, his face like stone. McMillan’s eyes shone with glee. His mouth twitched, and in a moment he was moving.

  ‘That’s excellent work, Constable,’ he said, taking her by the elbow and ushering her out of the room. ‘You’d better show me the place.’

  ‘Where?’ he asked as he nosed the Peugeot out on to George Street. ‘And how?’

  ‘The Royal Hotel,’ Lottie told him. ‘It was just something that came to me earlier.’

  She told him what she’d found. ‘I’ll park on Duncan Street,’ McMillan said. ‘We can walk down.’

  He followed her, treading carefully up the stairs and along the corridor, letting her open the door to the room and enter first. Everything was still there, in exactly the same places. McMillan started to move forward, but Lottie held up a hand.

  ‘Can’t you smell it?’

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘The perfume.’ It was faint, no more than a hint, but it hadn’t been there before; she’d have noticed. Tabac Blond. She’d smelt it in Alice Sutherland’s room. It was a popular scent, though. Irene Walker might have worn it, too. ‘Someone’s been in here in the last few minutes.’

  ‘Miss Walker?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Lottie made a decision. ‘Come with me.’

  Up a flight of steps to the top floor of the hotel.

  ‘Wait here,’ she whispered, a few yards from Sutherland’s room. ‘I’ll shout if I need you.’ McMillan nodded.

  She knocked and waited until the door cracked open.

  ‘Hello, Alice.’ She smiled. ‘Do you mind if I come in for a minute?’

  She had no idea what she was going to say, what questions she could ask. All she could do was hope something would come to her as Alice Sutherland stood aside to let her enter.

  A gramophone was playing softly, Paul Whiteman’s Orchestra and Felix The Cat. The air was heavy with a familiar scent. A shaft of late sun came through the window, lighting up the Oriental pattern on the rug.

  No Irene Walker.

  Alice gave Lottie a quizzical look.

  ‘Have you found her?’

  ‘Not yet. I wanted to see if she’d been in touch with you since I was here last. Everyone’s starting to fear the worst.’

  ‘No.’ Her face showed nothing but concern. She ought to be on the stage or in pictures, Lottie thought. So believable.

  ‘And you’ll let us know if you hear anything?’

  ‘Of course.’ Just the slightest trace of annoyance. ‘I said I would. If you’ll excuse me, I was about to get ready to go out.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry to take your time.’ She paused. ‘What’s that perfume? It’s lovely.’

  ‘Oh.’ She brightened. ‘Tabac Blond. It’s very evocative, isn’t it? I started using it when it came out. Irene loves it, too. I bought her a bottle for her birthday.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  In the hall, hearing the door close and the key turn in the lock, she put a finger to her lips and hurried outside, McMillan behind her.

  ‘Well? You weren’t in there long.’

  ‘Alice definitely wears that scent. She must have bought some for Irene.’

  ‘So Miss Walker could have been back in her room?’

  ‘She probably was.’ Lottie took off her hat and handed it to him. ‘Hold that, will you? I’m just going to poke my head into the women’s bar in case Irene’s there.’

  But she wasn’t. The place was almost deserted, not even a glimpse of Auntie Betty. She was in and out in seconds, shaking her head.

  ‘I’ll have someone keep watch on this place,’ Sergeant McMillan told her. ‘Irene will be back if she wants a bed for the night.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re quite a girl, you know. I can’t think of a detective who could do what you’ve done. And it was worth it just to see the look on the inspector’s face.’

  Lottie gave him a nervous smile. She didn’t know how to reply; she couldn’t think of the words to respond to praise like that. All she’d done was put two and two together and hope it made four.

  ‘Let me ring in and get someone here then I’d better run you home,’ he continued with a wry grin. ‘I’m starting to feel like your personal taxi service.’

  ‘I can take the tram,’ she offered.

  ‘Don’t you dare. You’ve earned a lift.’

  Who was she to refuse?

  Geoff was at the kitchen sink, scrubbing motorcycle grease off his hands with heavy carbolic soap.

  ‘I was just making a few adjustments,’ he explained. ‘The carburettor. I wanted to make sure it didn’t stick.’ It
sat on the corner of the table, on top of a copy of the Daily Express. ‘I’ll put it back on the bike after tea.’

  She stood and watched him, fascinated by the deft movements. He seemed to understand exactly where everything should go. With it all connected, he started the engine, letting it idle as he brought out a screwdriver, making tiny changes until he smiled with satisfaction.

  ‘Just right.’

  ‘If you say so.’ She couldn’t hear any difference. As he worked Lottie had told him about her day, the death, the discovery. She wasn’t even certain he’d been listening.

  ‘You’ve been through it today,’ Geoff said tenderly. ‘Do you fancy popping out for a drink?’

  She thought of the washing up she’d just finished, the small chores she could probably do and the pile of darning waiting by her chair.

  ‘Very much,’ she replied.

  The Skyrack in Headingley was almost empty. The ride had been exhilarating, up and down hills, Geoff grinning wide as he opened up the throttle. Lottie sat with a gin and tonic, still catching her breath.

  ‘It sounds like the force is beginning to realise what a treasure you are,’ he said with approval. ‘Up for a commendation, and you’re doing that sergeant’s work for him.’

  ‘Get away with you.’ She watched as he lit a cigarette. ‘It’s my job, that’s all. I just try to do it well.’

  ‘Sounds like you succeed.’

  ‘I enjoy it.’ She sipped the drink. ‘I’d go barmy if I was at home all the time.’

  ‘I know that.’ He chuckled. ‘You were never the type to do that. It’s one of the things I always loved about you.’

  He’d said it before. But it always gave her a warm feeling. Geoff appreciated her for who she was, not who he could turn her into. She was lucky; most men wouldn’t accept their wives working. It was the last resort to feeding a family.

  ‘You’ll have to put up with it for a while yet,’ Lottie warned him. ‘Unless they sack me for doing too much.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ he told her. ‘Not a chance.’

  She didn’t see anyone from CID in the station next morning. There was no word passing around about Irene Walker. When she asked, people shook their heads. All she could do was go on patrol with curiosity buzzing in her head. She’d find out sooner or later, Lottie told herself. Patience.

  On Commercial Street, by the entrance to the private Leeds Library, young John perched on his cart, a sign in front of him: Gave my legs for England. Please be generous.

  They saw him often on patrol. He’d been blown up on the Somme, surviving for almost two days in a shell hole before he’d been rescued. He’d lived, but his legs had been amputated.

  The pension he’d been promised never arrived. Now he propelled himself around Leeds on a small wheeled cart, spending his days begging. Lottie and Cathy always gave a penny. He was a constant reminder of the war, part of the city’s conscience. Others still carried their wounds. The men without an arm or a leg. The ones whose minds would never return from the trenches. And then there were the ones who’d lost their faces only to have them built up again by the surgeons. Lottie knew they were good, brave souls who’d done their duty and suffered. But it was still hard to bring herself to look at them.

  ‘Did Jimmy get off to work on time this morning?’ she asked Cathy as they moved on. He’d been taken on in Hunslet, a good job and a decent wage.

  ‘He’s not going to be late the first day. I had his snap packed and waiting for him.’ She smiled. ‘He was over the moon last night. Made me a happy girl in every way.’

  ‘Now, now,’ Lottie told her with a chuckle. ‘Less of that, young lady. We’re a clean patrol, no matter what anyone else thinks.’

  ‘I’m just pleased. It’s all going to be fine, I can feel it.’

  Cathy was still on top of the world when they stopped for their dinner at a sandwich stall on City Square. She rushed through the food then bought a packet of potato crisps, opening the blue twist of salt and emptying it over the potatoes.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘after the last few days, probably nothing exciting will ever happen to us again.’

  ‘It will,’ Lottie told her. At least she hoped it would.

  McMillan wasn’t at the station when they reported back to Millgarth in the late afternoon. The CID room was empty. Lottie could see the shadow of Inspector Carter behind his glass door, but she’d have no thanks if she knocked.

  Instead she took the long way to the tram stop, along the Calls and slowly up Lower Briggate. If she spotted someone from CID watching the Royal Hotel then Irene Walker was still out there somewhere. If not… well, she didn’t know.

  Lottie wasn’t afraid of being recognised. With a raincoat over her uniform she was in mufti. And she was a woman; she was invisible in the crowds on the street.

  She passed within three yards of him and he never even noticed. A detective constable she’d seen around Millgarth. He was pretending to read a newspaper, the brim of his trilby pulled down low to try and hide his eyes.

  No Irene, she thought as she climbed on the tram and stared out of the window as they went along North Street. What did that mean?

  She still didn’t know the next morning as she entered Mrs Maitland’s office. Cathy was late again, running headlong down the corridor and straightening her uniform.

  ‘Your skirt isn’t straight and your cap’s not on properly. Smarten up, girl. You’re representing Leeds City Police out there.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Cathy answered softly.

  ‘Armstrong, Sergeant McMillan wants you this morning.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Lottie said in surprise.

  ‘Now, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ She raised her eyebrows at Cathy and left.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  HE was leaning against the post at the bottom of the stairs, smoking a cigarette, his face grave.

  ‘It’s not good, is it?’ she asked.

  McMillan shook his head. ‘Not at all.’

  The Royal Hotel was full of noise and activity. Policemen in uniform on every floor, examining all the rooms. In the room where Irene Walker had been staying a photographer and a fingerprint man were working busily. The coat had gone from behind the door and the girl’s favourite hat was missing from the bed.

  ‘She’s vanished again,’ Lottie said.

  ‘I’ve had someone watching the place. When there hadn’t been any sign by first thing this morning I came in for a look. You can see for yourself. I’ve taken that other woman in for questioning.’

  ‘Alice Sutherland, you mean?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  ‘Don’t believe a word she says. She’s a very good liar.’

  ‘I don’t intend to.’ He grimaced. ‘It doesn’t help us find Irene, though. She must have seen we were watching this place.’

  If she’d been at all careful she couldn’t have missed it, Lottie thought. But she kept quiet.

  ‘I don’t understand why you want me here.’ A flashbulb popped loudly and she jumped.

  ‘You’ve been through the room. You can tell me what’s missing.’

  ‘I only had a quick look. Her hat and coat have gone. Apart from that, I don’t know.’ She glanced around. ‘The bed looks exactly the same as when I was here. Did you open the curtains?’

  ‘They were that way when I came in earlier.’

  ‘Then she probably ducked in, grabbed a few things and left again.’

  The cosmetics were still on the dressing table, the stockings over the back of the chair. Beyond that, Lottie didn’t know. She’d never checked the wardrobe.

  ‘What has Alice said?’

  ‘She admitted Irene was staying here but said she hadn’t seen her since yesterday morning when she gave her five pounds.’

  It was more than she’d told Lottie. But Sutherland was clever, doling out information piece by tiny piece. And she was wealthy; she would be able to afford a good solicitor to protect herself.


  ‘Have you talked to Mr Walker again?’ she asked.

  ‘For what it’s worth. Sits there with his lawyer like we don’t exist.’

  ‘And this mysterious Mr Donough?’

  McMillan sighed with frustration. ‘If we can ever come up with a proper connection. We talked to Scotland Yard. They said they might have a lead on Ronnie’s killer down in London but they haven’t found him yet. I feel like I’m playing blind man’s bluff in a minefield, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘There’s nothing more I can tell you here,’ Lottie said.

  ‘If she’s anywhere around the hotel we’ll find her.’

  ‘She won’t be. Irene’s too clever for that.’

  ‘That’s what worries me. She’s too clever by half.’

  As they came out into the grey daylight, someone was waiting by the door. Auntie Betty, dressed in a man’s Harris tweed suit and mustard yellow waistcoat, checked shirt and wool tie.

  ‘You’ve just ruined my business,’ she told Lottie.

  ‘I haven’t, Auntie. Alice did that when she let her friend stay.’ She paused a second. ‘I’m sorry, I really am, but we were bound to find out she was here.’

  ‘Except she’s not, is she?’ There was a tease under the words. A taunt.

  ‘Do you know where she’s gone?’ Lottie asked urgently.

  ‘Not a clue,’ the woman said with a smug smile. ‘Not that I’d tell you if I did.’

  ‘You will,’ McMillan said. ‘If you know something, you’d better spit it out.’

  Betty stared at him with contempt. ‘What makes you think I’d do something for a man?’

  ‘You’ll—’ He took a step forward. Lottie held out an arm to hold him back. Anger wasn’t going to help. Betty would dig in her heels, just to be bloody-minded. If she had any information they needed it now.

  ‘Betty, please,’ Lottie said. ‘We need to know. Someone murdered her brother and they’re after her. Why do you think she was hiding here? Come on, please.’

  Auntie Betty’s shoulders slumped inside her jacket. ‘I don’t know anything.’ She held her hands up, palms out. ‘Honestly, I don’t.’ Betty turned to McMillan. ‘I don’t think Alice knows too much, either. She’s besotted, she was happy to let that girl get away with a lot. Gave her money, presents, and Irene was happy to take them.’