Modern Crimes

by Chris Nickson

  Cathy sighed. ‘All right. I had my heart set on Wray’s, though.’

  ‘Another time,’ Lottie promised.

  The meat in the stew was tough and chewy, but the jam roly-poly with custard was hot and sweet, the tea dark and strong. They sat by themselves, backs against the wall. Lottie knew men were watching them, and tried to ignore it.

  They were passing the front desk, ready for the long afternoon, when the sergeant called, ‘Armstrong!’ He had a face like thunder, mouth a thin line under the moustache, thick hair slicked down with pomade.

  ‘Sarge?’

  ‘Message for you.’ He pushed a piece of paper across to her. ‘Don’t make a habit of it. I’m not your secretary.’

  She read it quickly.

  ‘How long ago did this come in, Sarge?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Two hours or so.’

  She turned to Cathy. ‘I’ll catch up with you.’

  The soles of her shoes clattered as she dashed up the stairs and threw open the door of the CID room. Empty. A cough from next door: Inspector Carter was in his office. She didn’t have any choice. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on his door.

  There was no kindness in his gaze.

  ‘Well?’ he asked as he looked up from the stack of papers in front of him.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb, sir, but I got a message that CID ought to know about.’

  He steepled his fingers under a thick, fleshy chin. ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s from Mr Donough’s housekeeper, sir. I knew her during the war. She took a telephone call this morning. Someone wanting to talk to him.’

  ‘Go on. Or is this a guessing game?’

  ‘It was Mr Walker, sir. She heard part of the conversation. They’ve arranged to meet tonight.’

  ‘Where?’ He’d picked up a pen and was scribbling notes.

  ‘She doesn’t know, sir. Donough didn’t mention a place. Walker must have suggested somewhere. But it’s at eight o’clock.’

  ‘I see. Good job,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I’ll pass the information to Sergeant McMillan.’

  ‘If you follow Walker you’ll find where they’re getting together.’

  ‘Thank you for that insight, Constable.’ He kept his voice even, staring at her. ‘I’d never have come up with it myself.’

  Lottie felt the heat on her face. Put in her place. Humiliated.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ Stupid, she thought. She should know when to keep her mouth shut.

  ‘I’ll pass the word and see you receive the credit,’ Carter told her. ‘Now you can go back to work.’

  She felt deflated as she descended the steps. Outside, a wind had started to blow. She needed to keep a hand on her skirt to stop it blowing up.

  Cathy was at the top end of Kirkgate, taking the details from a dazed woman who’d had her handbag snatched.

  ‘He was just a lad. Ran off up Briggate. I shouted, but no one paid attention. The world’s coming to a right pass when no one wants to help an old woman who’s been robbed.’

  There was little the police could do. No real description of the thief. The woman wasn’t even sure what she’d had in her bag. All she could say with certainty was what it looked like: black leather with an old gilt clasp. That didn’t help much.

  ‘We’ll keep our eyes open,’ Cathy assured her, taking a few pennies from her uniform pocket. ‘That should take care of your bus fare home. If we find it we’ll bring it to you, all right?’

  They set off along Briggate, poking into all the alleys and lanes that led off the street. He might have taken the cash and thrown the bag away, out of sight. As soon as they turned away from the bustle, the world seemed like a distant place.

  They worked their way up the street: nothing.

  ‘Let’s try the far side,’ Lottie suggested. They had nothing better to fill the time.

  They searched along New Briggate as far as Merrion Street before turning back. No luck. Slowly, they turned, ready to return to patrol.

  ‘There,’ Lottie said. She pointed: a woman in a blue-grey coat and cloche hat. ‘Look.’

  ‘Who?’

  The figure was on the other side of the road, her back to them, passing the entrance to St John’s churchyard.

  ‘Irene Walker,’ Lottie called over her shoulder. ‘Come on.’

  She started to dodge through traffic, trying to keep her eye on Irene. A lorry sounded its horn as it screeched to a halt, the driver yelling. She moved behind a bus, in front of a tram. Then, breathless, she reached the pavement and began to run.

  Cathy was ahead of her; God knew how she’d managed it. But there was no sign or Irene Walker. No coat in RAF blue, no dark hat.

  ‘She could have gone up Mark Street or through the churchyard,’ Cathy said as she caught her breath. ‘We’re never going to find her. Too many places she could be now.’

  Lottie nodded sadly. It was true. There was a maze of streets less than a hundred yards away. But they’d definitely seen Irene; she’d bet her badge on it. And it was the second time she’d been spotted on New Briggate. There had to be something that kept bringing her back here.

  ‘What do you want to do now?’ Cathy asked.

  ‘Wait here a moment.’ There was a telephone kiosk by the Grand Theatre. ‘I want to ring in with the sighting.’

  Grudgingly, the desk sergeant agreed to pass the message on to McMillan. Lottie stared up at the buildings. So many windows, so many rooms. So many people. Almost a hopeless task, she thought. But one of them knew Irene Walker.

  The constables had already gone round and asked questions. But half the men on the force were as useful as teats on a bull. Barely a brain between them. This needed a woman’s touch.

  ‘How do you fancy a little door-to-door?’ she said.

  Each of the buildings along New Briggate was a warren of small businesses and offices. Photographers, insurance agents, accountants who didn’t look as if they could add a column of figures. Manufacturers’ agents.

  But none of them knew anything about a girl named Irene in a grey coat the colour of an RAF uniform.

  After thirty offices Lottie was hoarse, sick of repeating the same questions. Cathy had started from the other end of the block. They’d meet somewhere in the middle, at the Central Hotel.

  This was a good idea, she knew it was. But after so many people shaking their heads and saying no, it felt frustrating.

  She walked down the steps and out into the daylight. The building had smelt of overboiled cabbage and old urine. Lottie breathed deep. The Leeds air was hardly pure, but it was cleaner than that.

  The Peugeot was parked outside the Grand. She could see Cathy standing by the driver’s window, chattering merrily. McMillan had obviously received the message.

  ‘You’re absolutely certain it was her?’ He kept his eyes on Lottie as she joined them.

  ‘Positive. The clothes, something in the way she walked. It was her.’

  He smacked the palm of his hand against the steering wheel. ‘Nothing yet?’

  ‘Only blank looks. You got the message about Donough and Walker earlier?’

  ‘The inspector told me. We’ll be keeping an eye on them. Let them have their meeting and we’ll pull them both in.’

  ‘Don’t tell Donough where you got the information, please.’

  ‘Not a word,’ he promised with a smile, opened the door and surveyed the street. ‘We’d better get to work. There’s still plenty left to cover.’

  The office was on the top floor, a window gazing down at the road. A name was painted on the glass door: Maurice Hartley, Theatrical Agent. Lottie turned the knob and entered.

  The man was younger than she’d expected. In his middle twenties, at a guess, and so slick she felt her words would slide right off him. A little too handsome, with a cheap, easy smile, a thin moustache, and carefully arranged hair. But his suit was good quality and he appraised her with intelligent eyes.

  ‘Can I help you?�
� A lazy drawl. ‘Thinking of a career change, are you? You don’t have the look for music hall and you’re definitely not film star material.’

  She knew. She could feel it inside. He’d given nothing away, no flicker of his eyes, no sign of nerves. But she knew this was the man Irene Walker had visited. Lottie just had to make sure she didn’t give the game away just yet. Think fast. Fast.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir.’ She put on her brightest smile. ‘We’re chasing a lad who snatched a woman’s purse. He was seen heading along the street. You haven’t noticed anything, have you?’

  He gave her a condescending smile. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m on the top floor.’

  ‘Of course. But you didn’t hear anything at all?’

  ‘Nothing.’ His attention was back on the papers in front of him. ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘No. Thank you for your help.’

  Lottie took her time going down the stairs, keeping her eyes open for back exits and letting her heart slow down. She believed she’d played it well. He didn’t look as if he suspected anything.

  Crowds were passing on the pavement, queueing for trams and buses, talking away or reading their newspapers as if nothing had happened. She spotted Cathy and waved her over. Now they needed McMillan.

  ‘What’s his name?’ the sergeant asked once she’d explained. His head was tilted back, glancing up at the building.

  ‘Maurice Hartley,’ Lottie said. ‘That was the name on the door.’

  ‘Young, good-looking?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know him?’

  McMillan snorted his disgust. ‘I’ve arrested him twice. He’s an invert. Notorious for it. Still, if Irene Walker’s going down to the Royal, it makes sense she’d know him. It’s probably home away from home for the likes of him. Top floor, you said?’

  ‘Yes. No back way out.’

  ‘Leave him to me. Thank you, girls.’ He tipped his hat. ‘You’ve done better than the men.’ And he was gone.

  ‘Is that it, then?’ Cathy asked as they strolled back to Millgarth. ‘Well done and goodbye?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Makes you wonder why we bother,’ she said.

  ‘It’s our duty. At least he said thank you. And it’s more fun than patrol, you have to admit that.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Armstrong, I need to speak to you for a moment,’ Mrs Maitland said as she dismissed them.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  The woman waited until Cathy had gone and the door was firmly closed.

  ‘Inspector Carter came to see me this afternoon. He had a complaint about you.’

  ‘Me?’ She couldn’t believe it.

  ‘He said your attitude left a great deal to be desired.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘You were telling CID how to do their job, apparently?’

  ‘I got a little carried away, ma’am.’

  ‘I asked him for the details. You gave them some information that could help solve the Walker murder?’

  ‘I don’t know if it will or not—’ she began.

  Mrs Maitland cut over the top. ‘I pointed out to him, very gently, that he ought to be grateful to the WPCs here, rather than finding some minor fault.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘Still you might want to keep out of his way for a few days. That’s all.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  AS soon as Lottie walked through the door at Millgarth the next morning she could sense the mood. Jumping, electric. The constables were striding as if they had a real purpose. Voices were hushed and focused.

  ‘McMillan brought in Hartley,’ Cathy said as she hung her coat in the locker. ‘And there was someone else last night, too.’

  ‘Donough?’

  ‘That’s it. They’re still questioning them both. Everyone seems to think they’ll wrap up the Ronnie Walker killing today.’

  Maybe they would. It would be good news and a little justice. But the pair who’d murdered him were still running free somewhere. It couldn’t be fully over until they were behind bars. Only then would there be something for Jocelyn Hill.

  It was the kind of day when Lottie wondered why she’d taken the job. The rain was coming down, just heavy enough to be annoying. Huddled in their capes, vainly trying to keep dry, they walked. The streets were almost empty. The only people who had to be out dashed from cover to cover or hid under wide umbrellas. There’d be next to no crime with weather like this.

  They were grateful for the steamy warmth of the Exchange Restaurant, shaking out the rain. Through the morning they’d barely spoken, too miserable and damp for idle chatter. With the first sip of tea Cathy leaned back and sighed.

  ‘I was ready for that,’ she said. ‘We could cover the indoor market this afternoon. Or go down to the Dark Arches. At least we’d be dry.’

  Lottie shook her head. This was the kind of day Mrs Maitland would come out and check they were working. It would be better to return to the station looking like a drowned rat.

  ‘You won’t melt.’

  ‘No, but I’ll be in a mood.’ She laughed. ‘Still, someone has to keep Leeds safe. But I’m going to make sure I have something hot inside me first.’ She drank a little more tea. ‘Do you think they’ve solved it all yet?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It had been on her mind all morning. CID should be able to get the information they needed. They’d been forced to hold back with Walker; they wouldn’t have the same constraints with the other two men.

  Lottie had heard what happened during interviews. She didn’t doubt it was true. But if that was what they needed… fine.

  And meanwhile Irene Walker was out there somewhere.

  ‘I have an idea,’ Lottie said suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘As soon as we’ve eaten I want to go somewhere.’ She saw Cathy’s suspicious look. ‘Don’t worry, it’s inside.’

  No policemen at the side entrance to the Royal Hotel. They’d finished searching and moved on. The lock gave easily enough and they were inside.

  ‘Do you think Irene might have come back?’ Cathy whispered.

  ‘She needs somewhere to sleep. It’s probably the last place anyone would expect.’

  Lottie started with Irene’s old room, but there was no sign anyone had been there in the last few hours. The same with Alice Sutherland’s. Clothes, cosmetics, magazines were all strewn across the floor, bedclothes thrown around. It seemed a shame. Alice had looked so secure here; could she ever feel that way again?

  Doors were flung wide everywhere, an indication that the place had been inspected. They worked their way down from the top floor. Nothing to indicate anyone had spent the night.

  ‘Oh well, it was just a hunch.’ She shrugged as they finished and emerged into the rain. Time to return to the rainy patrol.

  ‘A good idea, though.’

  No shortage of those, Lottie thought wryly. Just not always good enough.

  Hope Brothers stood on Briggate, just up from Marks and Spencer. A paper sign in the window announced a stocktaking sale. Inside, Miss Barker the manageress paced around the floor as she explained about the shoplifter.

  ‘She was so nicely dressed that I never gave her a thought.’

  ‘What did she take?’ Lottie asked. Her notebook was ready, but so far the woman hadn’t said anything useful.

  ‘Three pairs of silk stockings.’ Her fingers pulled at a lace handkerchief. ‘I didn’t even realise until she’d gone. They’d been out on the counter. At first I thought one of the girls must have put them away.’ She nodded at the two assistants; both were talking to Cathy. ‘When they said they hadn’t, I put two and two together.’

  ‘What did she look like?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Very well presented. An emerald green hat with a feather, fox stole, a pale grey dress.’

  ‘I mean her height, eyes, hair.’ Clothes could be changed in a minute. Other things were harder to disguise.

  ‘Well,’ Miss Barker began slowly, ‘
she was about normal height, I suppose. On the slim side, but not a rail like these girls nowadays. She was definitely in her thirties but she looked after herself, you could tell.’

  It wasn’t much. ‘Did she give you a name?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘I never ask until I’m filling out the receipt.’

  ‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ Lottie grumbled. They stood outside, under the awning.

  ‘Not completely.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘One of the girls said the shoplifter let her cut-glass accent slip for a moment and it came out pure Leeds.’ A smile twitched across her lips. ‘Ten to one it’s Pam Leech.’

  ‘Isn’t she still in jail?’ Lottie asked. ‘And three pairs of silk stockings? She usually does better than that.’

  ‘We can go to her house and find out.’

  Lottie looked up at the sky. ‘All right, but we’re taking the tram.’

  Pam Leech lived in a house on Brudenell Road, a minute or two from Woodhouse Moor. No one knew why she liked to steal. She had money. Not a fortune, but ample for her needs. By all accounts, her parents had provided well in the will, leaving her the house and an income. She simply seemed to enjoy the challenge of taking things. It was a compulsion. She never tried to deny it when she was caught, just giving her disarming smile.

  As they opened the gate into the tiny front garden and sidestepped a puddle, Lottie said, ‘She’s all yours.’

  Cathy beamed.

  Leech hadn’t even changed clothes from the shoplifting expedition. The stockings were draped over the back of a chair, along with a scarf and some filmy underwear, and a hat that looked as if it had come from Bridges shop on Lands Lane.

  ‘What are we going to do with you, Pam?’ Cathy asked, shaking her head. ‘How long have you been out, anyway?’

  ‘Last Friday,’ the woman answered quietly. ‘Today was my first day shopping.’

  ‘It’ll be your last for a while, too.’ She gave a sigh. ‘It’s probably just as well you didn’t decide to go into Ramsden’s. Even you might have had a problem pinching a piano. I’m going to have to take you in. You know the routine.’