Modern Crimes

by Chris Nickson

  Lottie saw the distaste on McMillan’s face. That didn’t matter now. They wanted information. They wanted the truth.

  ‘Go on. We need to know. Anything might help.’

  ‘Irene liked Alice well enough, but that’s as far as it went. She was someone to turn to when she was in trouble. But she didn’t give away her secrets. I know that. Alice told me.’

  ‘Was there anyone else Irene talked to? Anyone who might help her?’

  ‘Not really.’ She stopped herself. ‘There’s a woman called Agnes. I’ve seen her and Irene talking once or twice.’

  ‘Agnes who?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Betty replied. ‘By the look of her, she has money. Cultured voice. And a wedding ring,’ she added. ‘In her early forties, always well turned-out. And she has a little scar here.’ With a finger she traced a line from the left corner of her mouth down towards her jaw.

  Lottie heard McMillan draw in his breath. Please don’t let him say a word, she thought.

  ‘We’ll see if we can find her.’

  ‘Just get your coppers out of here as soon as you can before all my trade goes to the King Edward or the Mitre and doesn’t come back.’ She turned and strode away, leaving McMillan to glare at her back. Lottie dragged him to the car.

  ‘I can’t stand that… thing,’ he said, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Who’s Agnes? You knew her from the description.’

  He hesitated for a long time before answering.

  ‘It’s going to be messy.’

  ‘Who’s Agnes?’ Lottie repeated.

  ‘Her surname’s Rogers. Her husband’s Councillor Rogers.’ He paused for a second to let the name sink in. ‘He’s head of the watch committee.’

  At first she didn’t know what to say. The watch committee was in charge of the police: the budget, everything to do with it. If his wife was helping someone the police were seeking, even someone innocent… the sergeant was right; it was going to be very messy.

  ‘I need to telephone Inspector Carter,’ he said, looking around for a kiosk.

  ‘There’s one up Briggate,’ Lottie told him.

  ‘Do you mind waiting in the car?’ He tossed her the keys. ‘I’m not about to see Mrs Rogers without approval.’

  She was sitting primly when he returned.

  ‘We’re on our way to Alwoodley.’

  They drove in silence. McMillan kept slowing to check the addresses along King Lane. There were fields around, cattle grazing; Leeds seemed far behind them.

  ‘This is it,’ he said finally and turned along a rutted drive. The house had probably been a farm once, when this was all countryside. It was stone, sturdy, built to outlast generations of owners. A maid in her black dress and white apron ushered them to a parlour, a fire burning in the grate. The shutters were pulled back on the windows, offering a view of acres of grass and woods. Rogers probably owned it all, Lottie thought. Hunting scenes on the walls. Every inch the residence of a country squire.

  Agnes Rogers was every inch the city girl, though. She bustled in, her dress rustling as she moved. The garment hadn’t come from a market stall. Not even from Marshall and Snelgrove. It was probably bought in some tiny shop in London, Lottie decided, and there’d be a French label inside. The chic bobbed hair wasn’t from Leeds, either; no one in the city could manage a cut as angular and sharp as that. Yet for all the surface, there were lines around her eyes and mouth that even good make-up couldn’t hide. She’d covered the scar well, though; in the light of the room it was hardly noticeable. The woman was in her late thirties, Lottie guessed.

  The maid followed her into the room, carrying a tea tray.

  ‘I’ll be mother, shall I?’ Mrs Rogers said with a crisp smile. ‘Now, what brings the police here to see me? Usually the officers want to talk to my husband.’ Her eyes widened. ‘It’s terribly exciting.’

  ‘Irene Walker,’ McMillan began as he sipped from a small cup.

  The woman’s mouth closed sharply.

  ‘You know her,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve talked to her once or twice,’ Agnes Rogers admitted cautiously.

  ‘At the Royal.’

  She nodded.

  ‘You know what’s happened with her family.’ He made it sound like an accusation.

  ‘My husband told me.’ Her voice was calm.

  ‘Then you understand she’s in danger.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her for a little while.’ She looked at him from under her eyelids. ‘Honestly.’

  ‘Mrs Rogers,’ Lottie said, ‘did you know she was staying upstairs at the Royal?’

  ‘She was?’ Her surprise seemed genuine. ‘I thought it was empty.’

  ‘The problem is, she’s vanished again. Do you know where she might have gone? Somewhere she might feel safe.’

  ‘Not really.’ Mrs Rogers shook her head. ‘I only knew her to chat.’

  ‘Did you ever give her anything? Presents? Money?’

  ‘I lent her a few pounds here and there.’ She offered a small smile. ‘My husband knows her father, of course.’

  Of course, the families would move in the same circles.

  ‘Does your husband know about your friendship with Irene?’ McMillan asked.

  The pleasure vanished from her face immediately. ‘It’s hardly worth mentioning.’

  ‘Are you a regular at the Royal, Mrs Rogers?’

  ‘I’ve only been a few times, slumming.’

  ‘The place has quite the reputation.’ It was his turn to smile.

  ‘That’s why I wanted to go. To see what the fuss was all about.’

  Slumming was one giggling visit as part of a crowd, Lottie thought. Several times, on her own, was something altogether different. No wonder her husband didn’t know.

  ‘Please,’ Lottie said, ‘if you have any idea at all where Irene could be, we need to know. She’s in danger.’ Maybe a woman-to-woman appeal would help. She glanced at the sergeant from the corner of her eye. ‘And anything you tell us will be in absolute confidence.’

  ‘If I knew, I’d tell you. Everything that’s happened, it’s terrible. I’m sorry. I wish I could do more.’

  She was lying. It was there on her face. But they couldn’t push a woman like Agnes Rogers. The only choice was to nod and accept it.

  McMillan tried a few more questions. They were powerless, though, and she knew it. They dared not accuse a woman whose husband effectively ran the police.

  At the bottom of the drive McMillan stopped the car and lit a cigarette, waiting before he turned on to the road.

  ‘Councillor Rogers chases everything in skirts. She goes to a bar like that. What kind of marriage can they have?’

  There were all sorts. She knew that very well indeed. But no point in starting that discussion; he’d never understand. Instead Lottie said, ‘She was lying.’

  ‘Of course she was. She’s untouchable, though.’ He ran his hands wearily down her cheeks. ‘I can’t drag her down to Millgarth and bring out the cosh. That’s the problem with this case. All the people who have the answers also have influence.’

  ‘What now?’

  He started to drive. ‘We go back, start looking again, and hope we have a stroke of luck.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Back on patrol. I’d keep you if I could, believe me. But the inspector would never allow it. He probably thinks the earth would stop turning if we had a female detective.’

  He dropped her on Vicar Lane, by the entrance to the market. Another ten minutes and Cathy should be along. There was a hint of rain in the air, enough to make her wish she’d worn her cape; if it started to bucket down she’d be soaked.

  Millgarth was close enough, though. If she hurried she could be back in time for Cathy. Lottie trotted down George Street, through the back door of the station and to her locker. Slip the cape over the uniform, button it at the neck. A quick check in the mirror and she was on her way.

  ‘Lottie! Come here.’ The voice was loud enough for a fo
ghorn. She stopped and turned, seeing the woman standing in the doorway of the Market Tavern and waving her over. The landlady. Nancy.

  With her hard face and clothes cut tight over her ample figure, the dress stopping just below the knee, she looked blowsy.

  A glass of gin stood on the bar. Nancy swallowed it in one and grinned.

  ‘Always a good pick-me-up before opening time. That lad you were in here asking about…’

  ‘Ronnie Walker.’ It seemed long ago now, almost ancient history.

  ‘Did you find whoever killed him?’ She brought a small clutch purse from under the bar, took out a silver cigarette case and lit one.

  ‘Not yet,’ Lottie said. ‘Why?’

  ‘There was someone in last night mentioning his name.’

  ‘Last night?’ She felt a prickle down her spine. ‘Who?’

  ‘A girl. She was only here a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Blue-grey coat, blue hat with sequins?’

  ‘That’s her.’ Nancy raised an eyebrow, impressed. ‘How did you know? Who is she?’

  ‘Ronnie’s sister. What did she want?’

  ‘That makes sense, I suppose. She was looking for some man who’d known him. But she didn’t know his name. All she had was a rough description.’

  ‘Can you tell me?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘About six foot tall, black hair, widow’s peak. I told her it sounded like Gerry White, but he hasn’t been around here in weeks. When I turned round she was gone.’

  ‘How did she seem?’

  ‘Scared. Looking around all the time. Jumpy. Someone bumped into her and I thought I was going to have to scrape her off the ceiling.’ She shrugged. ‘I just thought I’d tell you.’

  ‘I’m glad you did.’ She put her hand over Nancy’s for a second. ‘You might have helped.’

  ‘Don’t let it get round I’m helping the coppers or my reputation’s shot. Off you go, back to work.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  SHE caught up with Cathy at the back of the Corn Exchange, talking to a pair of boys not old enough to have left school yet.

  ‘You and whose army’s going to make me go?’ one of them said to her. He didn’t hear Lottie come up behind. But he felt the clout she gave him.

  ‘We are,’ she told him. ‘And you’d better say sorry for your cheek.’

  ‘Sorry, miss.’ Looking down, red-faced, he rubbed the spot.

  ‘I’ve got their names and addresses. They go to York Road School.’

  ‘We’ll be having a word with your headmaster,’ Lottie warned them. ‘He’ll be seeing you after. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll be back in class this afternoon.’

  The pair didn’t need another hint. They took off running, not even looking back to shout an insult.

  ‘Lucky it was us and not the truant officer,’ Cathy said. She finished writing it up in her notebook. ‘I’ll send the school a letter this afternoon.’ She packed everything away, looking expectantly. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to tell me what it was all about this morning?’

  ‘While we walk. I need to see Sergeant McMillan.’

  He was standing outside the hotel, nodding absently as he listened to a constable with a heavy moustache. He saw Lottie, held up a finger and heard the man out before dismissing him.

  ‘Have you found her?’ McMillan asked.

  ‘No. But there’s something you need to know.’

  ‘Gerry White,’ he said thoughtfully when she’d finished. ‘I know him well enough. Time to pay him a visit, I think.’ He noticed the look on her face. ‘Alone. Sorry.’

  By Friday afternoon she’d heard nothing more. Rumours usually flashed around the station like a wildfire. But this time people had nothing to say. Doors were carefully closed. Lottie hadn’t even seen McMillan to try and discover the truth.

  She reported for the end of her shift then slipped on her mackintosh. Cathy had left quickly, going to meet Jimmy down on Hunslet Lane when he finished work. At the doorway of the station she raised her collar against the rain and began to walk down the street.

  Lottie felt frustrated, not knowing what was happening. She’d done a lot on the Walker case and now she felt locked out of it. And patrol had been quiet. A pair of drunken women, a gaggle of prostitutes down in the Dark Arches. Everything routine. The excitement seemed to be receding to a distant horizon and it left her feeling flat.

  She kept hoping that McMillan would pull alongside in his Peugeot, tapping the horn impatiently, apologising and needing her help. But he hadn’t appeared by the time she stepped on the tram.

  If the weather remained there wouldn’t even be an outing on the motorbike tomorrow afternoon. Geoff had a heavy tarpaulin tied over the machine and sidecar; a puddle of water had gathered in one of the dips. Never mind.

  She’d almost cooked the tea when she heard a knock on the door. Lottie turned off the gas under the food, untied her apron and pulled it over her head. Not the muffin man; she’d have heard the bell streets away. And a neighbour would come to the back door.

  It was the detective sergeant who stood in front of her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ McMillan said. ‘You must think I’d abandoned you.’

  Lottie felt flustered. Strange, she thought, careening around Leeds in his car, seeing a dead body with him, those things hardly worried her. So why did having him on her doorstep send the butterflies fluttering around her stomach?

  ‘You’d better come in.’ The curtains would be waving all along the street.

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t stop. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. It’s been too busy and we’re keeping everything hush-hush.’

  ‘That man, Gerry White. Did you find him?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ A dark smile crossed McMillan’s face. ‘But I probably shouldn’t even tell you that. He’s in custody now, but it’s nothing to do with this case.’

  ‘Still no word about Irene Walker?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’ He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  She saw Geoff turn the corner, marching at his usual brisk pace, briefcase weighing down his arm, bowler hat perched neatly on his head, umbrella unfurled. The two of them were just going to have to meet.

  It was simple; she barely had time to make the introductions before the men shook hands, said ‘How do you do,’ and Geoff vanished through to the kitchen.

  ‘I probably came at a bad time,’ McMillan apologised again.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Lottie told him. ‘I appreciate it. But it sounds as if you won’t need me.’

  ‘Not until we find Irene. Or something else comes up. That’s not a hint,’ he added, then jangled the car keys. ‘I’d better get back. No early knocking-off for me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and meant it.

  ‘That’s the sergeant, is it?’ Geoff seemed unconcerned, trying to tune in 2LS and the BBC.

  Lottie struck a match and relit the gas under the pans. ‘He felt guilty for not keeping me up to speed.’

  ‘Looks like an efficient chap.’

  ‘He is. At least he doesn’t mind a woman doing something.’

  ‘Why would he?’ Geoff grinned. A small flourish of his wrist and the music started, the sound of an orchestra emerging from the crackles. ‘I was thinking: if it clears up tomorrow, why don’t we go to Chesterfield?’

  ‘Chesterfield?’ He’d never mentioned the place before. ‘What for?’

  ‘The train went through there when I was being shipped out. There’s a huge leaning spire on the church.’ His eyes seemed to turn towards memories. ‘I’ve always had a hankering to see it properly.’

  ‘Of course. Why not?’ How could she refuse a wish like that?

  ‘My Jimmy’s taking me to a matinee,’ Cathy said as they left Millgarth. The week was over. For all Saturday morning had brought, they might as well have stayed in bed.

  ‘Anything good?’

  ‘Beau Brummel.’ She winked. ‘It’s got John Barrymore, that’s enough for me.’

>   Down the street a motorcycle engine roared into life.

  ‘We’re going out on the bike.’

  ‘So I see. You’re in the sidecar?’ Cathy stared at it doubtfully. ‘It doesn’t look very safe.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Lottie brought a pair of goggles from her pocket. ‘Put these on, a scarf around my hair and it’s all the joy of the open road.’

  ‘If you say so. I’ll stick to a film and canoodling on the back row of the Plaza.’ She waved at Geoff then left.

  ‘Ready?’ He asked. The grin on his face was as broad as a boy’s.

  ‘Ready,’ Lottie told him.

  ‘How was the bike trip?’

  ‘Fun.’ Chesterfield had proved to be a sweet little market town, full of history and hidden streets. ‘How was the cinema?’

  ‘Didn’t go in the end.’ The corners of Cathy’s mouth turned down. ‘Jimmy was asked to work overtime. I ended up standing around waiting for him and looking like a good time girl.’

  Lottie kept the comment on the tip of her tongue.

  Kirkgate Market was quiet, just a few early Monday shoppers. She nodded to the faces she knew, the butchers and the bakers and the flower sellers.

  The whole area seemed hushed. Not many people around, nothing at all that needed a pair of policewomen. By noon Lottie felt as if she was wasting her time out on the streets.

  ‘We’re close to Millgarth. We could eat in the canteen,’ she said.

  ‘You know what that place is like.’ There was a reason they avoided it. The men staring and whispering to each other. Leering grins. A few catcalls. Sometime a man trying to grope. They were on display. And Lottie knew her run-in with Berwick had left policewomen even more unpopular with the male constables. The only advantage was that the food was cheap and filling.

  ‘I’ll brave it if you will. We can’t let them think they’ve won and scared us off.’