The Tin God

by Chris Nickson

‘What?’ she asked in disbelief. ‘After that?’

  ‘We didn’t tell anyone. And I need you to keep it to yourself. Please. It’s vital that it stays quiet.’

  Annabelle turned away in a rustle of silk. He could see her breathing, making up her mind.

  ‘All right,’ she agreed finally. ‘I don’t like it, though, Tom. It’s not honest. It’s not fair to people.’

  ‘It’s reality. Even the candidates don’t know, and we’re keeping it that way. It has to stay under your hat.’

  ‘I just said I wouldn’t tell anyone,’ she snapped. ‘But what’s going to happen if you don’t discover a bomb and it goes off? Tell me that.’

  ‘You know the answer as well as I do,’ he said calmly. ‘But I trust the troops. You’ve met them; they’re good at their job.’ He needed to start her thinking about something else. ‘You really won them over tonight.’

  ‘Apart from cabbage man.’

  ‘He was out of there before you could say Jack Robinson.’

  ‘He won’t be playing for Yorkshire any time soon with an arm like that. Missed by a mile.’ She smiled wanly. ‘You’re sure no one was hurt?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘It did go well tonight,’ she admitted. ‘Oldroyd mumbled so often they kept asking him to repeat things, poor lamb. And they wouldn’t even give Wilkinson the time of day. What do you expect, a Tory round here? All Moody could come up with was how long he’d been a Guardian. When I asked him about his ideas and plans, he hummed and hawed and said just carry on.’

  ‘Sounds like you came out of it the winner.’

  ‘I’m not going to gloat. And I’m not going to get my hopes up. I’m not. There’s still a long way to go.’

  ‘I know.’ Weeks of it ahead of them, trying to keep everyone safe. ‘I know.’

  TEN

  He thought he’d reached Millgarth early, but Ash and Fowler were already in the detectives’ office, hard at work. The inspector was completing a report, while the sergeant pored over a pile of folders, pausing often to push the glasses back up his nose.

  ‘No other incidents last night, I hope?’

  ‘All went smoothly, sir,’ Ash said.

  ‘We need to be particularly careful from now on. I want those Engineers going over the halls with a nit comb. And every bobby at a meeting needs to be alert for anyone resembling our friend.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He gave a small cough. ‘I gave that room where he’d hidden the bomb a proper going-over. I came up with this. It was far enough away that it wouldn’t have been destroyed.’ He picked a piece of paper from his desk. Torn from a notebook, just like the others. The handwriting was the same.

  Then let me this my life wear out,

  And turn my harmless wheel about

  ‘Do you know it?’ Harper asked.

  ‘I do.’ Fowler raised his head and spoke. ‘It’s from a song called The Spinning Wheel. My mother used to sing me to sleep with it when I was little.’ He gave a quick, embarrassed smile and returned to work.

  Ash raised an eyebrow. ‘Odds-on it’s in Mr Kidson’s book,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not enough of a fool to take that bet. He’s offered to help us, if he can.’

  ‘What have you learned about smuggling, Sergeant?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Not that much, sir.’ Fowler frowned, and the lines on his face transformed him into the old man he’d become in a few decades. ‘I’ve still got a long way to go, but there doesn’t seem to be a great deal to know, at least as far as Leeds is concerned.’

  ‘That might be why I’ve never heard about it.’

  ‘It happens, right enough. The Excise people haven’t caught anyone here selling smuggled goods in a bit over three years, though. And there was a gap of four years before that. Of course,’ he said with a grin, ‘they might just spend their days sitting in the office and playing pontoon.’

  ‘Three years?’ Suddenly Harper felt very alert. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘A few people rounded up. Cases of French brandy, no duty paid on them.’ He dug through the files on his desk. ‘Here we are. Nothing very important. A publican, two shopkeepers. They caught the chap who’d sold it to them, but not his contact.’

  He’d never asked Annabelle about smuggling. She’d been too wound up, too full of politics and pain, all touched with anger. The time hadn’t been right. Tonight, he thought.

  ‘Who were they?’

  But when Fowler read the list of the guilty, it contained no names he recognized. Terrier John Millgate wasn’t among them.

  ‘You know, when I was going through Terrier’s past, a name cropped up, sir,’ Ash said from across the room. ‘John Rutherford.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Harper had never heard the name.

  ‘A wholesaler of spirits. That’s what the sign on his warehouse door says, anyway. He and the Terrier grew up together, been friends all their lives, evidently.’ He shrugged. ‘Might not mean anything at all.’

  But perhaps it might. Rutherford …

  ‘Do you know where the Excise office is?’ he asked Fowler.

  ‘Me? I haven’t a clue, sir. Besides, it’s Sunday. There won’t be anyone on duty today.’

  He’d forgotten that. Just over a week since the first bomb. So much had happened in that time. They’d made progress, but not enough of it. The memory of the blast he’d seen – the roar, seeing the caretaker’s head with the rubble strewn all around – would stay with him for the rest of his life.

  Who the hell was behind it all?

  No answer at Kidson’s house. He left a note and strode back towards town. Every spare wall was plastered with election posters. For council seats, for the school board, for the Poor Law Guardians. Heavy black type on white paper that was rapidly losing its colour from all the soot and the chemicals in the air.

  With no machinery running, the city was cleaner today. Quieter, too. A rest for his ears. Each day all the noise of Leeds grew more wearying. By evening, all he craved was silence. But with a small, talkative child and a wife like Annabelle, Harper knew he had no chance. Sometimes he believed a solitary walking holiday up in the Dales was exactly what he needed. No traffic, hardly any people. Nothing more than nature and his own footsteps.

  He’d never do it. He belonged in a place like that as much as the Queen belonged on Noble Street. After a day he’d be itching to come back. A nice idea, but … Billy was the one who’d put his dreams into practice.

  He’d been shocked when he heard that Reed was moving to Whitby. How could he, after so long in Leeds? The man had kept his application quiet. He hardly said a word about it, even after the news of his appointment was out. He’d heard more through Annabelle nattering with Elizabeth than he had from Billy himself.

  Even the official leaving do had been quite muted, over early so Reed could pack his trunk and catch the early train the next morning.

  In the weeks after, Elizabeth had been a regular visitor to the rooms above the Victoria, sitting and talking with Annabelle, going over sets of figures as she sold the bakeries. Those had been Annabelle’s once. She’d founded them. Elizabeth Reed had built on that, making them even more successful.

  They went down to the station to see her off, the children with her looking so tall now. A new life. Starting over.

  Perhaps a visit to Whitby was a good idea. Once the election was over, win or lose. Maybe even over Christmas, while there was no school. He had time due, and plenty of it. Walsh would be broken in by then and Ash was quite capable of handling things without a worry.

  In winter, Whitby would be quiet. He could wander a little. That might be the ideal answer. Harper smiled to himself as he walked on.

  ‘Smuggling?’ she asked as if she hadn’t heard him properly. ‘I thought that was all in storybooks. Like pirate treasure.’

  Mary lifted her head, suddenly interested. ‘Treasure?’

  ‘Not really,’ Harper told her. ‘It’s just a tale.’

  With a pout, she returned to
her drawing.

  ‘It’s big business in some places,’ he said. ‘Turns out some people were convicted of selling stolen brandy here a few years ago.’

  ‘I don’t remember it.’ She raised her feet from the bowl of warm water and towelled them dry. ‘That’s better. They felt like they were on fire after delivering leaflets all afternoon.’ She paused. ‘I suppose some of it must go on, but no one’s ever mentioned it to me. They never tried to sell me anything that wasn’t right. Just as well, too, I’d give them what for. Why do you want to know, anyway? What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing much. It might tie into that letter Billy sent, that’s all.’

  ‘No luck on …’ She glanced down at their daughter, not wanting to say the words.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I don’t have a meeting until Wednesday. None of us does. That gives a breathing space, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ He ate a slice of buttered malt loaf and a mouthful of cheese. A break also offered a few evenings when he could simply sit at home with his family. Annabelle should be exhausted by the relentless pace of the campaign, but her face was full of life, eyes twinkling. For all her complaints and aching feet, she seemed to thrive on it. The crackle and the excitement of the election blazed all around her. ‘What do you have tomorrow?’

  ‘Knocking on doors,’ she replied. ‘There are plenty of streets I haven’t been near yet. It’s hard to believe; I feel like I’ve tramped over every inch of Sheepscar in the last week and a half. I’ll be swimming in tea by the time I’m done.’

  ‘How can you swim in tea, Mam?’ Mary asked. ‘You drink tea, you swim in water. Everybody knows that.’

  ‘A right clever clogs, aren’t you?’ She smiled. ‘It’s a saying, that’s all. It means you’ve drunk so much that you think you’re full of it.’

  ‘Just make sure you have someone with you,’ Harper said. ‘Two would be even better.’

  ‘Tom …’ she began, then stopped. They rarely had words, and never in front of their daughter. ‘You should be getting ready for bed, young lady.’

  ‘Mam,’ Mary complained, but in a moment she was in her room.

  ‘I’ll make sure I’m safe,’ Annabelle said softly. ‘Now, you go and tell her a story. Maybe the one about the policeman who caught the bad, bad criminal.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in fairytales.’

  ‘This is Detective Constable Walsh,’ Harper said. ‘That’s Sergeant Fowler and Inspector Ash. The man on the front desk is Sergeant Tollman. Be nice to him, he’s the most important man at Millgarth; he’s forgotten more than the rest of us will ever know. If you’re stumped on something, ask him.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

  Walsh was wearing a black working man’s suit of thick, serviceable wool, a collar and a dark tie. He kept turning an old bowler hat in his hands as he stared around.

  ‘Fowler, you show him the ropes. Are you still delving into smuggling?’

  ‘Just a few more files to read, sir.’

  ‘Let me know if Terrier John’s name comes up. John Millgate’s his real name. Ash, in my office, please.’

  ‘Have you found anything on our bomber?’

  ‘Other than to confirm what we already knew, no, sir,’ the inspector answered, twitching his heavy moustache in annoyance. ‘Whatever he’s doing, he’s working alone. No one knows anything about it. If they did, I think they’d dob him in. Even crooks don’t like innocent people being hurt.’

  That was true enough. They might slash and maim and kill each other, but there was an odd code to violence among criminals.

  ‘We’re stuck, then. We can’t announce that he’s trying to wreck the election or we’ll cause a crisis in town. But that just makes him so much harder to find.’

  ‘We did put out a description after the attack on Mrs Pease. But none of the tips panned out.’

  ‘He’s probably someone that nobody would suspect. Very mild and polite.’

  ‘And completely barmy inside,’ Ash said. ‘As long as he hides it well, we’re going to have a difficult job.’ He paused. ‘You were asking about Terrier John and smuggling, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know something?’

  ‘I remember that case. I knew someone who used to work for the Excise people. He told me back then that they believed there was someone who’d done well out of it. And the crooks genuinely didn’t seem to know who he was.’

  ‘John was never that smart.’

  ‘People learn, sir. A little luck never hurts, either. He was due some of that.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Harper agreed thoughtfully. ‘Takes his profit and gets out of the way? I’ll pass it on to Billy. And if you’re thinking about luck, why not say a prayer and hope ours holds so no one else is killed during this election.’

  The Excise office was small, only three men, with Captain Burt in charge. No uniforms; the whole place felt curiously informal and careless.

  ‘We cover all the West Riding,’ Burt explained. ‘Truth is, though, not much finds its way here. That’s probably why you’ve never heard of us. We’re almost like the forgotten men.’ He gave a laugh with an edge of bitterness, the sound of someone who craved some action and praise.

  He went through the case from three years earlier. Everything had hinged on a tip-off. The Excise men watched long enough to allow the goods to be distributed, then swooped. Not a grand haul, prison for those guilty, all done and dusted.

  ‘Does the name John Millgate mean anything?’ Harper asked. ‘He’s known as Terrier John.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Superintendent, it doesn’t. Should it?’

  ‘No. I thought I’d try on the off-chance. What about John Rutherford?’

  ‘We know him, of course,’ Burt replied. ‘In this line of work, you’re bound to come across every spirit wholesaler. We perform spot checks of his warehouse but we’ve never found anything amiss. He seems as honest as the day is long. Why? Do you know something?’

  ‘No. It’s just a name I heard. Thank you for your time.’

  So much for that. The office seemed very lax to him. And there was something in the way the man had described Rutherford. Too glib, perhaps. Nothing to say Burt was lying, though. But he had some word to pass to Billy, certainly a little more than they’d had before. He could pick up the traces from there. Finding this bloody bomber was far more important.

  He’d almost finished the letter to Whitby when Tollman knocked on the door.

  ‘A gentleman and a lady to see you, sir. Name of Kidson.’

  ‘Thank you. Show them in, please.’

  They sat side by side, Kidson with his hat in his lap, Ethel carefully taking in every detail of her surroundings.

  ‘You left a note at my house, Superintendent,’ Kidson said.

  ‘I did, sir. About a song.’ He’d checked the night before; The Spinning Wheel was in Traditional Tunes.

  ‘Another piece of paper with some of the words?’ Ethel Kidson asked.

  ‘Yes. Here.’

  ‘The Spinning Wheel.’ Kidson glanced at his niece. ‘Another woman dying. I wish I understood what it meant.’

  ‘You said you’d like to help us, sir. I’ll be honest, we can use every bit of help we can get to find the man who’s writing these. He’s dangerous.’

  ‘Certainly. But if he’s copying them from my book, I don’t see how that will help.’

  ‘We do know someone was going around the pubs in Leeds asking about old songs. Not you,’ he added with a smile.

  ‘I see. Then the chances are that he doesn’t know very much, Mr Harper. Leeds isn’t fertile ground for song collecting. Most of the traditions died out a generation or more ago. People don’t sit around and sing any more.’

  Ethel chimed in. ‘What my uncle means is we’ve had more luck in rural communities where the old ways still exist. We do have one or two sources in Leeds, but they’re few and far between. And not usually in the public houses. They’re older gentlemen.’

 
‘I can think of some people to ask, if you like,’ Kidson offered.

  ‘I’d be grateful, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘I’ll try to have an answer for you in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you. One more thing, sir: you were going to check whether there are any more references to women dying in your book.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kidson replied. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t had chance yet. I should tell you, though, there are plenty of songs that mention death, especially women. I only printed a very few in there. I’ve dealt with more in my columns for the Leeds Mercury, if that helps.’

  Harper nodded.

  Ethel Kidson lingered in the doorway for a moment.

  ‘Harper,’ she said, running the name over her tongue, ‘is it your wife who’s running for Poor Law Guardian in Sheepscar?’

  ‘It is,’ he told her with a smile.

  ‘I hope she wins, Superintendent. I’d like to see that.’

  ‘How was your first day, Mr Walsh?’

  The detective constable had put on his mackintosh, ready to leave, when Harper caught up with him. The day had dulled and they stood in the doorway at Millgarth studying the sky for rain.

  ‘Different, sir. Definite change from walking a beat.’

  ‘You’ll develop a feel for it. The hours can be long sometimes.’

  ‘I’ve never minded hard work, sir.’

  ‘You’ll get your share in this job, I can promise you that. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Da?’ She’d been full of questions all evening. He’d hoped to have time to read the paper, but Mary wasn’t giving him any peace. ‘If two and two makes four, and three and three is six, what’s a million and a million?’

  ‘Two million.’

  She considered his answer. ‘So it’s like starting at one and one again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  That seemed to satisfy her for the moment, and she returned to her book. Annabelle was down in the bar, talking to a pair of her volunteers and making plans for the next fortnight. When he arrived home she’d handed him the Evening Post, folded over to show an editorial about the grace of women and their standing in the home, how they should be above the dirty rough and tumble of politics. He glanced at the writer’s name: Gerald Hotchkiss. The same man who’d penned the piece when the election race began.