The Tin God

by Chris Nickson

  ‘If he was any more sentimental he’d be bringing out the hearts and flowers,’ she said in disgust.

  ‘I see he managed to evoke the beauty of motherhood.’

  ‘Twice.’ She shook her head. ‘Honestly, it’s pathetic. No one believes this tosh, do they?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he assured her. But plenty were easily swayed. Too many.

  She was planning, and he needed a scheme of his own, some way to catch the bomber. So far the chief was standing back and letting him handle things. But Harper had no illusions. If he succeeded, the chief constable could take credit for giving him free rein. If he didn’t, Crossley wasn’t tainted by the failure. He had his chance, but like everything in life, it came with a price.

  Maybe Kidson would have some luck, or some glittering insight that opened everything up. There was certainly no predicting what the bomber’s next move would be; that was the problem. He seemed to like explosives, but that wasn’t the only trick up his sleeve. It was impossible to edge ahead of him.

  ‘Da?’ Mary said again, and he was happy to be shaken out of his thoughts.

  ELEVEN

  ‘Mr Kidson, Miss Kidson. Please, sit down.’

  Like the day before, the man settled nervously on the chair, while the young woman appeared far more composed.

  ‘Have you found something?’

  ‘I talked to a couple of people I know last night,’ Frank Kidson said. ‘It turns out there has indeed been someone asking about old songs, as you said.’

  ‘Do the people you know have a name for him? Or a description?’ Harper held his breath.

  ‘Both, Superintendent,’ Kidson said triumphantly. ‘He’s apparently in his late forties or early fifties, balding. Oh, and quite well-dressed.’

  It didn’t sound like their man. He was greying, not bald, and he was younger than that.

  ‘You said you had a name?’

  ‘Hardisty. Dr Hardisty.’

  They should be able to track down a doctor very easily.

  ‘Excuse me a minute.’

  Ash was still in the office. He passed on the information, seeing doubt flood into the inspector’s face.

  ‘I know,’ Harper said. ‘I’m not sure it’s him, either. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to give his real name anywhere. But follow up on it. Maybe this Hardisty will have heard about someone else.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Back in the office, he nodded at Kidson. ‘That could be very useful, Thank you.’

  ‘We promised you more information, Superintendent,’ Ethel Kidson said. ‘The other songs in the book that mention death.’

  He hadn’t forgotten.

  ‘Yes.’ Nothing else, and maybe the man wouldn’t strike again. Then it would be almost impossible to catch him. One more and they’d have a chance. But people might die.

  ‘There are a few more,’ she said. ‘Lord Thomas and Fair Eleanor, Mary of the Moor, and The Drowned Sailor. They all specifically mention dead or dying women. That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?’

  Three, he thought. Three. Too many.

  ‘It was. You said “specifically”. What do you mean?’

  ‘Others imply death, and beyond the songs in the book there are many that touch on the subject. Too many to count. Folk music can be quite violent, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I see.’ Dammit. Too much opportunity. The real test would be if some words came from a song that wasn’t in Kidson’s book. He glanced at the pair of figures across the desk. ‘I appreciate what you’re doing.’

  ‘I hope you catch him,’ Kidson said earnestly. ‘He’s giving our brotherhood a terrible name.’ He realized what he’d said and blushed. ‘Of course, what he’s doing is awful, but …’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Harper told him with a smile. ‘I know what you mean. If you can keep asking around and pass on anything you learn, that would be helpful.’

  ‘I intend to,’ the man promised. ‘We feel involved. We’d both like to see him caught, wouldn’t we, Ethel?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘We would.’ She stood and extended a hand. ‘Good day, Superintendent.’

  It was Kidson’s turn to stay behind.

  ‘You said your wife knows some old Irish songs?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve no idea how rare they are.’

  ‘Perhaps I might call and see her? Both of us, of course.’

  ‘You probably want to wait a few weeks. She’s fighting an election.’ When Kidson raised his eyebrows in surprise, Harper added: ‘Ask your niece, sir. She knows about it.’

  He heard the soft fall of the letter on to the tiled floor in the hall and padded through to collect it. From Leeds.

  Billy Reed ripped open the envelope and read the words quickly. Elizabeth came through from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

  ‘Anything important?’

  ‘It’s from Tom Harper. I’d asked him about that chap I recognized. Turns out there was a prosecution for smuggling a bit over three years ago in Leeds. It was the Excise people handling things. The police weren’t involved, that’s why he didn’t know. They never got a sniff of the man behind it, not even a name. But it turns out that the chap I’m looking into is an old friend of a spirit wholesaler in Leeds.’

  ‘Do you think this man you’ve seen here might be the one pulling the strings?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He frowned. It was hard to think of Terrier John as a successful criminal. ‘But it’s worth trying to find out a bit more.’ He looked through the rest of the letter. ‘Annabelle’s election campaign is going well, but the force has had problems with a man who doesn’t like women candidates—’

  ‘Typical,’ she muttered.

  ‘Mary’s blooming. He sends you all their best. Oh.’ He paused in surprise. ‘He says they might come to Whitby for Christmas. Wants to know if there’s a good guest house that would be open.’

  Elizabeth was grinning with pleasure. ‘It would be wonderful to see them again, wouldn’t it, Billy love?’

  He wasn’t so certain. At one time he and Tom Harper had been close friends; Reed had been his sergeant when Tom was still an inspector. But they’d had their differences and Billy had moved to the fire brigade; it seemed like the easiest resolution. Time had healed some of the problems. They were civil enough. But they both knew it had all changed, that there could never be the easy intimacy between them again. Elizabeth and Annabelle, though … they’d been almost like sisters from the start.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It would be good.’

  ‘I’ll start asking about decent places to stay. I’m not going to recommend a hovel. I’d have them here if we had more room.’

  Thank God they didn’t, Reed thought. He liked his privacy, and his home to be his home. He didn’t want guests underfoot. At arm’s length was much better; he could plead duty and slip away.

  The weather promised squalls as he walked down to the police station bundled into his mackintosh. Down below, he could see the River Esk winding out to the sea, and hear the raucous gulls on Pier Road. The air smelled fresh, the brine sharp in his nostrils. On top of East Cliff, the ruins of the abbey stood stark against the sky. Would he ever grow tired of it all?

  He hoped not. He was in his middle forties now, finally feeling settled and content. He had a wife he loved, who loved him, and he enjoyed the responsibility for the children from her first marriage. The years of heavy drinking were all behind him, along with the flashes of temper that could spark into violence. These days he could enjoy a glass of beer then walk away without needing another. Life was calm.

  He tapped his chest, making sure the letter was still there. A little over three years since the smuggling case, a little over three years since Terrier John had shown up in Whitby with money. They had to be linked. Proving it, though, was going to be difficult. The Terrier had dug himself in well. He looked as if he had friends. And if smuggling was involved, then he was going to be tangling with some dangerous people.

  At the bottom of
Brunswick Street he changed course, walking down Baxtergate and across the bridge to the Custom House. Harry Pepper was already in his office, puffing on his pipe.

  ‘Good morning. You’re out and about early today.’ He picked up a mug of tea and drank. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’

  ‘Who’s the best person to talk to about John Millgate and smuggling?’

  ‘I could have brought him in, sir, but it would have been a waste of everybody’s time.’ Ash sat in the superintendent’s office. Outside, the rain was belting down, runnels sliding along the glass. ‘Dr Hardisty used to be a surgeon at the Infirmary. He had to retire because he started with tremors in his hands. Not what you’d want if you were making bombs.’

  ‘No,’ Harper agreed.

  ‘On top of that, he’s a small man and closer to sixty than fifty. I don’t see how he could have moved Mrs Pease around.’

  ‘Never mind. It was worth investigating.’

  ‘He did give me one thing, though, sir.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He said there was someone else asking in the pubs around about old songs. Much like I found, if you recall, sir. It quite surprised him; he imagined he was the only one with an interest, apart from Mr Kidson.’

  ‘Does this man have a name?’

  Ash shook his head. ‘He’s going to see if he can find one. But since what we had before was false, anything else probably would be, too.’

  Harper glanced at Fowler. He had the other chair, Walsh standing with his back against the wall.

  ‘Do you two have anything?’

  ‘We went to the public library and looked through Kidson’s book. There’s nothing in these songs, other than the fact he collected them in Yorkshire. Nothing in the words link to the crimes at all, other than they mention dead women.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Right.’ Dead women; that was a connection enough. Too much of one, a taunt and a threat. ‘We’re back to meetings for the candidates tomorrow night, gentlemen. What else can we do to keep everyone safe without scaring them?’

  An hour of talking and they’d only come up with a single idea. Fowler would spend the evenings at Millgarth, while Ash and Walsh would move from one meeting to another on a set schedule. With Harper at Annabelle’s events, if reports of trouble came in, Fowler would be able to locate everyone else very quickly.

  By then it would be too late, of course, Harper reflected as he waited for the tram. The damage would have been done, and their man would be far away. But it was what they had, and they needed to make the best of it.

  ‘Da! Da!’ He was barely through the door when Mary was running up to him with an exercise book in her hand. ‘Look, Da!’

  ‘Let him hang his coat up first,’ Annabelle shouted from the parlour. ‘It’ll still be there when he’s done that.’

  He picked his daughter up, groaning in exaggeration at her weight, and carried her through. ‘Right. What is it?’

  All the letters of the alphabet neatly written out in pencil. Underneath, in pen, a star from the teacher.

  ‘It’s for my penmanship.’ Mary spoke the word slowly, making sure she had it right.

  ‘That’s excellent,’ he told her. Sitting by the table, Annabelle was beaming proudly. ‘Keep on doing this well and you’ll be able to earn enough to support your mam and da when we’re too old to work.’ He felt in his pocket and pulled out a halfpenny. ‘That deserves a special prize.’

  Mary studied the coin, then bunched it in her pudgy little fist and smiled.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and turned hopefully to her mother.

  ‘No. We’re eating soon. If you buy sweets from the shop now, you’ll ruin your appetite. You can spend it on the way home from school tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, Mam.’ Mary didn’t try to hide her disappointment.

  ‘She can be such a little madam sometimes,’ Annabelle said quietly after the girl had gone into her bedroom.

  ‘Give her a minute and it’ll all be forgotten. Had a good day in the election race?’

  Suddenly she was smiling again. ‘Listen to this: Hope Foundries have given ten pounds to the campaign and are backing me. And the chemical works at the bottom of Meanwood Road have put in a fiver.’

  Very handsome contributions. Those would pay for quite a few more posters and leaflets and hall rentals. More importantly, it meant that they believed in her. They felt that she could take the race, and both of them were big companies in Sheepscar. They bet on winners.

  ‘That’s as good as Mary’s star.’

  ‘I know. But you’d better not try to fob me off with a ha’penny to spend on sweets, Tom Harper. I’m going to expect something more in the way of congratulations.’

  ‘You might have to wait until later.’

  ‘Patience is my middle name. Didn’t you know that?’

  He’d had enough of reading and signing reports. Didn’t they ever end? Half past three in the afternoon and he’d been at it since morning. Didn’t they ever end? He felt almost grateful when the telephone rang.

  ‘This is Superintendent Harper.’ The instrument crackled and buzzed against his ear, a woman’s voice he didn’t recognize.

  ‘This is Dr Gordon’s surgery calling.’ Just up Roundhay Road from the Victoria, by Enfield Street, right next to Mary’s school. ‘Your wife is here with your daughter, sir. She asked me to ring. Can you get here as soon as possible?’

  ‘What?’ He could feel his heart thudding hard in his chest. ‘What’s wrong? Are they all right?’

  ‘Everyone’s fine, sir.’ The woman sounded calm and cool. ‘But if you could come, sir.’

  ‘Of course. Yes. As quickly as I can.’

  He grabbed his mackintosh and dashed out of the office. As he passed the front desk, Tollman said, ‘Sir!’

  ‘What is it? I have an emergency.’

  ‘Just had a report come in. Someone tried to snatch a child on Roundhay Road. Didn’t manage it, but he got away.’

  Now he understood.

  ‘I’m on my way there. Tell Ash to join me. I want uniforms out taking statements. You know the drill.’ He thought quickly. ‘If I’m not there, I’ll be at the Victoria.’

  TWELVE

  The doctor’s surgery stank of carbolic soap. There was an atmosphere of fearful hush in the waiting room; faces jerked up as he dashed in, out of breath and panicking.

  ‘I’m Superintendent Harper.’

  The woman behind the desk nodded at a closed door. ‘They’re in there.’

  It was a sparse room, no more than a couple of chairs and a barred window that looked out on to a small flagstone yard. Annabelle sat, cradling Mary on her lap. The girl looked very small, pale and defenceless, legs like little white twigs, grazes on her knees where she’d fallen.

  ‘She’s …?’ he began, scared to say more.

  ‘She’s fine, Tom. Not hurt.’ He stared at her. As his wife looked up he could see the lines where tears had run down her cheeks, and all the colour was gone from her face. ‘Honest. She’s just shaken up and very, very scared.’

  He stroked Mary’s hair, but she didn’t raise her head. Harper could feel anger so tight in his chest it might crush him. He’d find whoever did this and he’d make sure they suffered.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Ellen started to worry when Mary was half an hour later than usual coming home. We went out looking. She wasn’t in the playground. Mr Barber said she’d been in the shop with Maisie and Anna. I was on my way over to their houses when I found her. Some of the women on Armenia Place were looking after her. They’d come out when they heard a girl screaming. A man was trying to drag her toward that land by the dye works. They chased him off.’ She managed a faded smile. ‘Mary had been fighting him.’

  ‘You’re very brave,’ he told her.

  ‘I’m cancelling tonight’s meeting. I can’t … not with this.’

  ‘Yes.’ He agreed without hesitation. He squatted and looked into Mary’s face. ‘You’re safe now. And your
mam or Ellen will go to school with you from now on and see you get home with no problem. All right?’

  The girl nodded dumbly. He’d seen this reaction so often before, the numbness of shock. But it was plain torture to see it in his own daughter’s eyes. He had questions he wanted to ask her, but they could wait. Forever, if need be.

  ‘Do you want me to come home with you?’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Annabelle said. ‘I think we’ll just sit here a little while longer. You go and find him, Tom. If it’s …’

  She didn’t try to finish the sentence. They both knew the answer already.

  The bobbies were already out in the Armenias and the Renfields that ran off Manor Street. It was the normal procedure for any attempted child snatching. Flood the area and find as much information as possible. It was about the only time that people were eager to help the police. The uniformed sergeant directing the men saluted as Harper approached.

  ‘Sir. We’re starting to piece it all together. As best we can tell, he must have been lurking outside the school and followed the girl.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The lass stopped at the shop over there with a couple of her friends.’ He nodded towards the corner of Enfield Street. ‘After they left, the others went off home together, and this little one started down Manor Street. Her name is …’ He looked in his notebook.

  ‘Her name’s Mary Harper. She’s my daughter.’

  The sergeant reddened. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I hadn’t realized.’

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘He must have tried to grab her as she crossed by the top of Armenia Place. Looked like he was going to drag her along. But she fought him and started screaming. Made enough of a racket to bring the women out from their houses. As soon as they saw what was going on, they were on him. He scarpered down there, through the stables and over Gipton Beck into the rhubarb fields. Could have gone anywhere from there. People were more concerned with the girl. No harm, I understand?’

  ‘No,’ Harper answered. ‘Do you have a description of the man?’