The Tin God

by Chris Nickson

  ‘I noticed that, sir.’ Ash pursed his lips. ‘If I had to guess, though, I’d say it’s a man acting on his own.’

  ‘I agree. Still …’

  ‘Better safe than sorry, sir.’

  ‘Exactly.’ A death threat. He could see why Annabelle had destroyed the letter. Not to keep it away from Mary; she could manage that by hiding it in a pile or on the mantelpiece. No; she was frightened. It was hard to believe that words scribbled on a page could terrify her. She always seemed so strong, so fearless. But this election campaign was already putting a strain on her and it had hardly begun. ‘No signature again. Handy, isn’t it? He can just pop it in the post, then sit back and stay anonymous behind the paper.’

  ‘Any ideas for catching him, sir?’

  ‘None,’ Harper said with a sigh. ‘We’ll just stay on our guard and hope he doesn’t have any bigger ideas.’

  ‘How was your dinner the other night, sir?’ The inspector smiled slyly. ‘Big affair, from all I hear.’

  ‘Big?’ Harper snorted. ‘Pointless, more like. Tasteless food that was barely warm by the time it reached the table, followed by an hour of mumbled speeches.’

  ‘The perks of rank, eh, sir?’ Ash’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

  ‘You’d better be careful, or I’ll start sending you in my place.’

  ‘My Nancy would probably enjoy it.’ He grinned, slapped his hands down on his knees and stood. ‘I’ll go out and ask a few questions. Who knows, maybe we’ll be lucky and our gentleman writer isn’t as discreet as he should be.’

  ‘If you really believe that, I’d better check out of the window for a herd of pigs flying over the market,’ Harper told him.

  ‘Stranger things have probably happened, sir.’

  ‘Not in Leeds, they haven’t.’

  ‘Was your letter like this?’ he asked. Mary was tucked up in bed, exhausted by a day of school and an evening of telling them every scrap of learning that had gone into her head since morning. Harper was weary from concentrating, trying to make out all she said with his poor hearing.

  Annabelle read it. ‘Word for word,’ she said, quickly folded it and thrust it back at him.

  ‘Ash and Fowler are after him.’

  ‘Doesn’t help if you don’t know who you’re chasing,’ she said. They were in the bedroom. He sat by the dressing table while she counted election leaflets into rough bundles, ready to be delivered in the morning. She raised her head. ‘I’m not a fool, Tom. There’s not enough in there for you to find him.’

  ‘We can ask around. And I’ll make sure there’s a copper at the meetings.’

  Annabelle stopped her work and stared at him. ‘Would you do that for the male candidates?’

  ‘Yes,’ he told her. ‘If I believed things might get rowdy.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s wrong that women should need special protection? We’re in England, for God’s sake. A civilized country.’

  ‘Of course it’s wrong,’ he agreed. ‘But when there are men like this poison pen writer, it’s better than something bad happening.’ He let the idea hang in the air. ‘To anyone.’

  Her gaze gradually softened to a curling, twinkling smile.

  ‘Well, if you think looking after me is so important, Superintendent, perhaps you could offer me some very close guarding of my body.’

  He grinned and bowed. ‘My pleasure, madam.’

  ‘They all received identical letters,’ Fowler said. He pushed the glasses back up his nose and produced the papers from his pocket. ‘Three had burned them. But it’s the exact same wording and the handwriting as Mrs Bolland’s.’

  ‘And like the one my wife received,’ Harper confirmed. ‘What do you two have on your plates at the moment?’ he asked Ash.

  ‘Next to nothing, sir. We’ve been too successful, that’s the problem.’ He smiled. ‘They’re all too scared to commit crimes these days.’

  ‘Don’t get over-confident,’ the superintendent warned. ‘We could be up to our ears tomorrow. But while you have the chance, spend some time with this. Do you have a list of where and when these women are holding meetings?’

  ‘I do,’ Fowler said. ‘There are four tonight.’

  ‘Make sure there’s a uniform at every one of them. And I want him visible.’

  That should deter any troublemakers, he thought. If it didn’t, the weeks until the election were going to be long and difficult.

  ‘Mr Ash and I have been talking, sir,’ the sergeant began. ‘We thought perhaps we could each go to a meeting. You know, stay quiet and keep an eye out for anything suspicious.’

  ‘A very good idea. Not my wife’s, though,’ he added. ‘I’ll take care of that.’

  He’d grown used to the routine of running a division, of being responsible for everything from men on the beat to the number of pencils in the store cupboard. But it still chafed. So much of the work was empty detail and routine; a competent clerk could have managed it in a couple of hours.

  Official meetings were the worst; every month, all the division heads got together with the chief constable. So far they’d never managed to resolve a single thing. Then there was the annual questioning by the Watch Committee, the council members who oversaw the force. Several of them had no love for him. They thought he was a lucky upstart from the lower classes. But he’d managed to fox them. The crime figures kept falling, and he stayed well within his budget. He hadn’t walked away with their praise, but he’d been happy to see that his success galled them.

  Small, worthless victories. Had he really been reduced to that? Sometimes two or three days passed when he barely left Millgarth. It felt as if an age had gone by since he’d been a real detective. That was one reason he was looking forward to tonight. He smiled. Standing at the back of the hall, watching the faces and the bodies, thinking, assessing, alert for any danger. At least he could feel like he was doing some real work.

  On the stroke of five, Harper pulled on his mackintosh and hat and glanced out of the window. Blue skies, a few high clouds, and a lemon sun: a perfect late autumn afternoon. Saturday, and a day away from this place ahead of him. Not free, though; he’d promised Annabelle he’d spend tomorrow walking round Sheepscar, delivering leaflets for her campaign.

  Ash sat at his desk in the detectives’ office, writing up a report.

  ‘Did you find anything yet?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird, sir.’ He sighed and scratched his chin. ‘You weren’t banking on it, were you?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘If there’s any trouble tonight, make sure you let me know.’

  ‘I will, sir. Let’s hope it’s peaceful, eh?’

  It was warm enough to walk back out to the Victoria. Even if the air was filled with all the soot and smoke of industry, so strong he could taste it on his tongue, it still felt good to breathe it into his lungs after a day in a stuffy office.

  ‘Do you think I look all right, Tom?’ Annabelle stood in front of the mirror. She was wearing a plain dress of dark blue wool. It was cut high, to the base of her throat, modest and serious, a cameo brooch at her neck. Her hair was up in some style he couldn’t name but had probably taken an hour to engineer so it looked nonchalant.

  ‘I think you look grand,’ he told her. ‘Like a member of the Poor Law Board.’ He nudged Mary, who was sitting on his lap, staring in awe at her mother.

  ‘Da’s right. You’re a bobby dazzler, Mam,’ she said. ‘I’d vote for you.’

  ‘That’ll do for me.’ Annabelle picked up her daughter and twirled her in the air. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

  ‘Positive,’ Harper replied. He pulled the watch from his waistcoat. ‘We’d better get going. That meeting starts in three-quarters of an hour.’ It wasn’t that far – the hall at St Clement’s, just up Chapeltown Road – but he knew she’d want to arrive early, to prepare herself, and put leaflets on all the chairs. Ellen would bring Mary shortly before the event began.

  It was a fine evening for a stroll, Indian summer,
still some sun and a note of warmth in the air. The factories had shut down until Monday morning, the constant hums and drones and bangs of the machinery all silenced. The chimneystacks rose like a forest, stretching off to the horizon, the dirt leaving its mark on every surface around Leeds.

  Annabelle took his arm as they walked. He’d put on his best suit, the fine dove-grey worsted she’d had Moses Cohen tailor for him seven years before. It was still smart, but growing uncomfortably tight around the waist.

  ‘It’s going to be fine, isn’t it?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course it is.’ He glanced over at her. ‘It’s not like you to be so nervous. You usually dive right in.’

  ‘This is something new, that’s all,’ she replied after a moment. ‘And if I fail, well, it’ll be obvious, won’t it? I’d be letting everyone down who’s helping.’ She nodded at the hall, just visible behind the church, its low outline stark against the gasometers. ‘All of them who turn up tonight. If anyone does.’

  ‘You’ll do well.’ He kissed her cheek and grinned. ‘Trust me, I’m a policeman.’

  ‘I thought you lot were only good for telling the time.’

  The words had hardly left her mouth when he heard the low roar. It grew louder, then a deep, violent explosion ripped out of the ground. A column of smoke plumed up from the hall, throwing wood and roof tiles and bricks high into the air.

  ‘Christ.’ They stared for a second, not knowing what to say. He didn’t have the words for this. ‘Stay here,’ he told her, then changed his mind. ‘No. Go home.’

  Before he’d finished speaking Tom Harper was running towards the blast.

  THREE

  Rubble, broken glass and splintered wood littered the ground. He hurdled over them. The sound of the blast seemed to echo through his head. Three of the windows in St Clement’s had been blown out, he noticed as he passed.

  Already people were appearing on the doorsteps of the houses close by. A few grim-faced men were dashing towards the scene. One of them tried to stop him.

  ‘Tha’d better not get too close, mister. Could be dangerous.’

  ‘Police,’ Harper told him as he dodged by.

  The air was choking with smoke and the smell of cordite. Tiny fragments of paper kept falling like a shower of blossoms. Half the hall had gone; the rest looked in danger of toppling.

  ‘Was there anyone in here?’ he shouted.

  ‘Caretaker, most likely,’ a man answered, already shifting bricks and stones. Harper joined him, then others arrived. Together, they heaved at a large block of concrete until it began to move and they could push it aside.

  By then, it seemed as if every man and boy in the neighbourhood was there; the ground was thick with them. Some formed a chain to clear spaces. Others used spades, shovelling away all they could.

  ‘Over here,’ a voice called and the superintendent slid between groups towards the sound. Two men were looking down, not saying a word.

  They’d uncovered the top half of a man’s body. His legs were still trapped under the rubble, but there was no hurry to free him. He was already dead.

  ‘Do you know him?’ Harper asked.

  ‘That’s Roy Harkness,’ one of the men answered. He brought a pipe from his waistcoat pocket and lit it with shaking hands. ‘Caretaker here. He was probably getting everything ready. There was supposed to be some political meeting tonight.’

  He looked at the one who’d spoken.

  ‘I’m Superintendent Harper with Leeds City Police. Is there a telephone nearby?’

  ‘The doctor up the road has one.’

  ‘Go there. Tell him to ring Millgarth Station. Say I want some officers here.’ He paused and looked around the scene. ‘Have them get a message out to check all the other places where there are meetings tonight. We need the fire brigade, too. Got that?’

  The man nodded and dashed off.

  Harper knelt by the body, trying to take in everything around him. Harkness’s skull had been crushed; he never had a chance. The stink of gunpowder lay heavy all around. It looked as if someone had planted a bomb.

  ‘Tom.’ He turned his head and saw Annabelle staring down. Her mouth was open in horror. ‘Is he …?’

  ‘Yes.’ He stood and wrapped her in his arms, feeling the shivers rack her body. ‘If it helps, he wouldn’t have felt anything,’ he whispered. ‘The force is on its way.’

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, unable to turn away from the body. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘Not yet.’ It wasn’t a complete lie. He still needed confirmation. ‘Why don’t you go home?’

  She had no colour in her face, and her hands were trembling, but she shook her head.

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘His name’s Roy Harkness. He was the caretaker.’

  ‘Does he have a family?’ she asked. ‘Where does he live?’

  When he didn’t answer, she raised her voice and asked again.

  ‘Over there.’ An old man pointed to the house at the end of the terrace. ‘His daughter lives with him. I think she must be off somewhere. I haven’t seen her since Monday.’

  ‘Poor man,’ she said quietly. ‘Poor, poor man. God, Tom, if this had happened an hour later …’

  He’d already considered that. The hall would have been full of people. Dozens might have died. She started to shake again and her teeth began to chatter. He took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders.

  ‘You should go back to the Victoria,’ he told her softly. ‘There’s nothing you can do here. You’ve had a bad shock.’

  ‘I can help the women make some tea for you lot.’ She tried to make her voice bright, in control, but the words came out brittle and fragile.

  ‘Yes. We could do with some.’ He smiled at her. Maybe it would be good for her to do something, to take her mind off all this. He knew the sight would haunt her for a long time.

  By the time the arson investigator finished his examination it was full dark, an autumn chill growing in the air.

  ‘You’re right on the money, sir,’ Inspector Binns said. He’d replaced Billy Reed during the summer, but this was the first time Harper had met him. ‘Definitely a bomb, under the stage here. You can make out the radius of the blast on the ground, that black circle. Without the fuse, though, I can’t tell if it was meant to go off later, or if it was a warning.’

  ‘A warning?’ Harper asked in astonishment. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A threat, maybe,’ Binns corrected himself. ‘You know, set off the bomb when the hall was empty. I’ll come back and search properly in the morning, but we might never know.’

  ‘Was there anything at any of the other places?’

  Binns shook his head. ‘All clean.’

  The coppers had already been and gone. They’d taken statements from those at the site, not that anyone had much to tell. Tomorrow he’d make sure the uniforms were back, going house-to-house for witnesses. Harkness’s body had been freed and taken to the police surgeon for the post-mortem.

  Annabelle had finally left, still pale and quiet. One of the local women had walked back with her.

  A warning. A threat. He let the idea play in his mind as he strode down Chapeltown Road to the Victoria. This had moved far beyond letters penned in an educated hand. It didn’t matter what the bomber intended. The result had been murder.

  She was in the living room, sitting in the dark. The grate was empty, neatly swept; it was still too warm at night to need a fire. He placed his hands on her shoulders and kneaded them lightly.

  ‘Where’s Mary?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s spending the night up in Ellen’s room. I thought it was best.’ Her voice was raw. He could hear her hesitation. ‘Tom, was it my fault?’

  ‘Yours?’ At first he wasn’t sure he’d heard her properly. ‘How could it be your fault?’

  ‘If I wasn’t standing for election. If I hadn’t been holding that meeting there. Would that poor man still be alive?’

  What could he tell her, he
wondered. She knew the answer every bit as well as he did. There could only be one reason for placing a bomb in that hall.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

  Annabelle reached up, taking tight hold of his hands.

  ‘I’ve been sitting here wondering about it,’ she said quietly. He noticed an empty gin glass on the table beside her chair. ‘Whoever did this, he wants to terrify me, doesn’t he? He wants me so frightened that I’ll stop. Not just me. All the women who are running.’

  ‘Yes,’ Harper agreed quietly. ‘He does.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said slowly. ‘If I give up, I’ve let him win. And I really believe I can do something that makes a difference to people if I’m elected. But I can’t stop thinking about that poor man.’ She turned her head to look at him helplessly. ‘How do you do it? How do you cope with seeing that all the time without going mad?’

  ‘You get used to it.’ It sounded like a hollow answer, but it was true. Death was part of the job; if you couldn’t take it, you left. ‘And it’s not that often.’

  ‘It’s still …’ Her voice trailed off into silence.

  ‘Come on,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s go to bed. I’ll be working tomorrow after all.’

  ‘Yes.’ A new resolution entered her voice. ‘And I have a meeting tomorrow night.’

  They had the letters spread on the desk, going over them again for the smallest clue. He was due to meet Binns in an hour, to go through the scene of the blast once more.

  ‘There are threats in these,’ Ash said finally. ‘But we’re looking at them after the fact. We couldn’t know how serious they were when we read them.’

  ‘No hint of what or where, though,’ Fowler added. ‘The bomber might not even be the same man who wrote these, sir. Have you considered that?’

  ‘I have, but it would be too much of a coincidence,’ the superintendent said. ‘How many could actually set off a bomb? How many would even know how to make one?’

  ‘Can’t be more than a handful,’ Ash replied.

  ‘Dig through Records. See if you can find any, then go and talk to them. Drag some more names out of them.’