She never mentioned Maguire these days, but he knew she thought about him from time to time. Harper did, too; the occasions they’d sit over a cup of tea in the market café, and he’d enjoy the man’s sense of humour. But Maguire had gone too early, coughing out his life with pneumonia all alone in his empty room. A sad, terrible end.
A few stragglers remained in the bar at the Victoria. Dan was already wiping down the table, most of the glasses washed and stacked. A quick goodnight and they were up the stairs. Annabelle was asleep as soon as she lay down.
‘It looks like we had another quiet night,’ the superintendent said, then saw Fowler glance awkwardly at Ash. ‘What is it?’
‘Not completely quiet, sir,’ the sergeant told him reluctantly.
‘Mrs Morgan, one of the candidates in Holbeck, was robbed on her way home.’ Ash took over. ‘She was one who hadn’t wanted a copper with her all the time. Even refused an escort from the one on duty at her meeting.’
‘Was it our man?’
‘Her description’s a bit confused, but it sounds like him. He told her she’d better stay at home where she belongs from now on. Made off with her reticule. No violence, though, no threats of more.’
‘Why wasn’t I told?’ Harper kept his voice cold and hard. ‘You had your orders: any trouble and I was to be informed. You know how badly I want this man.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ash agreed. ‘But there was nothing you could have done. He was long gone. At first we weren’t even sure it was him. I’m still not completely convinced. It seemed like an ordinary robbery. I told Sergeant Fowler not to disturb you.’
‘An order is an order, Inspector. As far as I’m aware, it’s not optional.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I take full responsibility.’ At least he had the grace to look abashed.
‘In future you let me know about the smallest things. Anything that might involve him. Dismissed.’
Alone, Harper had to laugh to himself. How many times had Kendall given him a similar dressing-down? All those occasions when he realized the super’s presence would add nothing, and the news could wait until the morning. Now the boot was on the other foot and it didn’t feel comfortable.
Ash was right. There was nothing he could have done. He’d have ended up standing around in the dark and feeling like a spare part.
He waved the inspector back into his office.
‘What was in Mrs Morgan’s reticule?’
‘Not much, sir. A comb, some pennies, that’s about it. Rubbish, really. Like in Shakespeare.’
‘What?’ Harper stared at him, confused.
‘There’s a quotation, sir – “Who steals my purse steals trash.” It’s from Shakespeare. Othello.’
Shakespeare. Ash was full of surprises. ‘I see. Did he leave a little bit of paper, by chance?’
‘Nothing we’ve found so far. But it was windy.’ Ash shrugged.
A thought struck Harper. ‘Did he run away after the robbery?’
‘He must have.’ The inspector stood and tried to remember. ‘Took off, she said. Yes, I’m sure of it.’
‘How was she?’
‘Very shaken, upset. What you’d expect, sir.’
‘Go back and see her this morning. Find out if he ran off. And how? Loping? Sprinting? Somehow I haven’t pictured our man as an athlete. How many men in their forties can run fast?’
‘He did it the other day, sir, after he …’
Yes, after he’d tried to snatch Mary. Like the hounds of hell were after him, the stable hand had said.
‘Have you gone round the neighbourhood? Maybe someone saw something.’
‘The uniforms over there are doing that, sir.’
Harper nodded. ‘And thank you for reminding me of the way I used to be.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Just don’t make a habit of it.’
‘No, sir,’ Ash said with the barest of grins.
Meetings, meetings. The bane of his life. They served no purpose beyond generating enough hot air to warm Leeds all winter. Without them he’d have been able to keep on top of his work and have enough time to go out and do some real policing. This one, though, offered something worthwhile: sitting with the superintendents from the other divisions, working out ways to keep the women candidates and the public safe.
Harper was wearing a dark blue suit Moses Cohen had made up for him. After his promotion Annabelle had insisted he bought one appropriate for his rank. Two years on, he only dragged it out for occasions like these. Most of the time he was stuck at Millgarth, where appearance hardly mattered.
In the end they hammered out one or two small ideas. But the simple fact was that much of it would be down to luck. Old Pemberton from E Division had suggested a plain-clothes officer following the women who refused protection. The chief looked at him, aghast.
‘Good God, man, you can’t do that. They’ll be screaming for a bobby and your copper will end up arrested.’
By the time he left the Town Hall, Harper had a headache. He stood on the steps, by the lions, and buttoned his overcoat. The balmy weather had lingered so late in the year they’d all hoped it would last longer. But now the season was changing with a vengeance. There was a bitter edge to the breeze. Soon enough all the children would be out chumping, gathering wood for the bonfires, then stuffing old clothes with straw and asking for money for the Guy. One of those rituals that never changed.
The air felt thick as he walked. He could taste soot in his mouth and see some of the smudges on his clothes. Years of it had left all the buildings dark as the devil. Even the Town Hall looked as if it had always been black, although he could remember the pale glow of the stone when he was young and it was still new. Industry brought money along with all its dirt. And jobs. Muck was the price they paid for brass, but there weren’t many here who’d refuse the bargain.
‘What have you found?’ he asked as he stood in the detectives’ room at Millgarth.
‘Our man definitely ran, sir,’ Ash told him. ‘Like he’d been entered in the mile, according to Mrs Morgan. She’s calmer today. And this isn’t going to put her off being a candidate, she says.’ Under his moustache, the inspector’s mouth flickered into a smile.
‘But I don’t suppose she’s willing to have one of our lot with her all the time now?’
‘Actually, she is. Walsh persuaded her.’
‘Really?’ He turned to look at the detective constable. ‘Well done.’
‘Bit of the blarney, that’s all.’ He grinned. ‘My Irish charm and good looks, sir.’
‘Maybe I’ll send you to talk to the other holdouts, see if you can work your magic on them. It would make our lives a lot easier.’
‘Any time you like, sir. My pleasure.’
‘There’s been time to search the area. Any pieces of paper?’
‘Not yet, sir,’ Ash said. ‘But like I said, it was windy. Blew all night, too.’
There could have been something and it vanished. And, he reflected, he’d probably have learned nothing new from it.
‘What do we have tonight?’
‘I’m manning the fort here, sir,’ Ash told him. ‘Fowler and Walsh will be out and about.’
‘I want a special eye on Mrs Pease. After he grabbed her and threatened rape, he might see her as a weak link. And after last night, Mrs Morgan.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The inspector gave a small cough. ‘What about your wife, sir? How’s she?’
‘Staying strong. She’s not going to let him win.’
‘And your little girl, sir?’ Fowler asked.
‘Acting as if nothing had happened.’ He walked towards the door; he didn’t want to discuss that. ‘And remember …’
‘Anything at all and we’ll let you know, sir.’
FOURTEEN
The days crept past. The man tried nothing new. The candidates made their speeches and delivered their leaflets. Harper was out every evening with Annabelle at her meetings. A few hecklers, someone who tried to start a fight, but nothing important
. By political standards, mild stuff: he’d seen too many broken heads and pools of blood when he’d worked at these events, with bruises as badges of honour. This was polite by comparison.
Autumn was here to stay. The day before had brought another heavy wind that whipped through the branches and threw showers of leaves to the ground. Today, drizzle persisted, leaving him grateful for once that he was stuck in the office.
He was putting the finishing, frustrating touches to the station budget when Sergeant Tollman knocked on the door.
‘Mr and Miss Kidson to see you, sir.’
‘Show them in, please.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘And do you think you could find three cups of tea, please?’
‘I’m sure I can manage that, sir, don’t you worry.’
The superintendent kept the conversation inconsequential until the tea arrived. The door closing behind Tollman was the signal to become serious.
‘Have you found something for us?’
‘I might have,’ Kidson said warily. ‘Whenever I’ve seen people I know, I’ve kept asking if others have been looking for songs. There are only a few of us, up and down the country. And certainly not many around here. I’ve tried to make it sound very casual.’
‘That’s good,’ Harper told him with a smile.
‘This week, two different men said they’d been approached by someone. It was three months or so ago.’
‘Go on.’
‘He seemed like an educated gentleman, from what they told me. But definitely not a scholar. He didn’t seem to know what pieces had started out as broadside ballads. Those are—’
‘I’m sure Superintendent Harper doesn’t need to know the history of broadsides, Uncle,’ Ethel interrupted him gently.
‘Yes, yes. Of course.’ Kidson composed himself. ‘He was interested in songs about death. As I told you before, there are a fair few.’
‘Did he give his name?’ Harper felt his body tense, praying for some good news.
‘Yes,’ Kidson began, then paused. ‘That is, he gave each of them a different name.’
‘What were they?’ Harper picked up his pen.
‘Mr Carter and Mr Worthington. But I’m certain it’s the same man. How many can there be with those specific interests? Two of them appearing at the same time?’ he said. ‘That would be too much of a coincidence.’
‘It would,’ the superintendent agreed. ‘What did he look like, sir? Did you ask your friends?’
‘I did, and he sounds just the way you described your …’
‘Bomber.’ Ethel Kidson supplied the word.
‘Yes, your bomber.’
‘Did he give an address at all?’ Harper’s chest was tight. It was him, beyond a shadow of a doubt. All they needed was something, one fact, one solid lead to start prying things open.
‘No,’ Kidson said. ‘There was no need, was there?’
‘Why was he interested in these particular types of songs, sir? Did he say?’
‘No one asked. Why would they? People all have their own fascinations, Superintendent. I’m sure you understand that.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ He felt disappointment rise as hope ebbed away. ‘Have your friends seen anything of him since he approached them for songs?’
Kidson shook his head. ‘No. A single session each, that was all. But he did ask if they knew others familiar with old songs. That’s how we work, you see. Passed from person to person like a parcel. They told him about two other men. I’m going to see them.’
‘Thank you. Be careful, though.’
‘Oh, I will, of course. But he’ll have been and gone by now, I imagine.’
‘I can’t make head nor tail of this song angle, sir,’ Fowler said. ‘Why leave these little bits at the scene for us?’ He smoked a cigarette, waving his hand in the air.
‘Taunts? Clues? A signature?’ Harper said, and looked at the others. ‘Any other suggestions?’
Both Walsh and Ash shook their heads.
‘After that first letter I thought he was a bit barmy,’ the inspector said. ‘So far I’ve seen nothing to change that theory. Quite the opposite.’
‘I agree. Something’s broken inside him,’ Harper said. He held up the fragments of paper the man had left at his crimes. ‘These aren’t normal.’
‘I think it’s his way of letting us know who did it, like you said, sir,’ Walsh suggested. He leaned against the door jamb, arms folded, frowning with thought. ‘Like someone signing his work. He has the notebook in his jacket, and leaves a sheet. He can do it quickly, then go. It identifies him, that’s all.’
It made as much sense as anything he was likely to hear, more than some of the thoughts that had wandered through his head.
‘He’s done nothing since he robbed Mrs Morgan. If that was him.’
‘I’m positive it was, sir,’ Ash said. ‘I’d put good money on it.’
‘Then we’ll include that. He hasn’t given up, people like that never do. They become more obsessed. We need to keep a very careful watch. None of the women have withdrawn from the race. He’s not receiving the results he wants.’
‘Where should we be tonight, sir?’ Fowler asked.
‘I’ve arranged to have a uniform monitoring messages so we can all be out. We all know where I’ll be,’ Harper said with a grin. ‘One of you with Mrs Pease, so that leaves two to float around. Any questions?’ He looked at a row of shaking heads. ‘And anything at all, you let me know. You know I have a very personal interest in finding this bastard. Don’t forget it.’
‘At least I don’t have any meetings tomorrow,’ Annabelle sighed as she sat back in the hackney. The coach bumped over the tram tracks, bouncing them up and down.
‘Still have to be out and about, though.’
‘I think my feet must have grown a layer of steel, with all those miles I’ve walked.’ She closed her eyes and let out a long, slow breath. ‘I feel like I could sleep for a week.’
He glanced out of the window. ‘We’re almost home. You can have eight hours’ rest, anyway.’
‘Good.’ She put her head on his shoulder and yawned, hand covering her mouth. ‘I hope I win after all this.’
She was the likely victor. Even if she didn’t see it herself yet, it was clear to him from the way audiences reacted. They believed her, as if they knew that everything she said was more than just another politician paying lip service to ideals. People had come up to him on the street to tell him with pride that they intended to vote for her.
It was a small election, really. Whoever paid much attention to the Poor Law Guardians? He couldn’t name a single one of them, he’d never given them a moment’s thought. But having women involved had made it into an important issue in Leeds. The newspapers still carried their editorials, urging voters to support the male candidates. But in Sheepscar, at least, not many people appeared to be listening.
The cab drew up outside the Victoria and he shook her gently awake, paying the driver as she unlocked the front door. It was late, but a light still burned in the bar. A policeman sat at one of the tables, his hat in front of him.
Annabelle glanced worriedly at Harper.
‘You go on up,’ he told her. ‘I’ve a feeling I’m going to be a while.’
He was quick enough to flag down the hackney before it turned around. The constable had said little, only that the Superintendent was needed, and he didn’t know what had happened.
At the station, Harper paid the cabby and dashed in, leaving the uniform behind. Ash and Fowler were in the detectives’ room. The sergeant’s jacket hung over the back of a chair, his sleeves rolled up to show thick, dark hair on his forearms.
‘What is it?’
‘As bad as it gets, sir,’ Ash told him. ‘Murder.’
‘Who?’ The question came out in a parched croak. He had the image of one of the female candidates lying dead in the street.
‘Mr Cain, sir. His wife is running to be a Guardian.’
‘But …’ It took him complete
ly by surprise. She’d been one of those who’d accepted police protection, happy to feel safer. Ash told the tale: her husband worked the late shift at a boot factory in Meanwood. The constable had escorted her home. She’d barely been inside the house for five seconds when she started to scream. Moments later the bobby was back outside, blowing furiously on his whistle.
‘How did it happen?’
‘Knife, sir, at the kitchen table. Pot of tea there and two cups.’ He picked up a scrap of paper from his desk. ‘And there’s this.’
They cry out that poor Mary died,
With the wind that blew o’er the wild moor.
The same ink, the same writing. Another dead woman in the words. No doubt about the killer.
Could he have guessed it might happen? No. Nobody could have predicted this. Nobody could have prevented it; that was more to the point.
‘Where’s Walsh?’ he asked.
‘With Mrs Cain, sir. He has a touch with women, I thought he could calm her down. She was in a bad way when I was there.’
Christ, anyone would be. Coming home to find that someone had murdered your husband in his own kitchen?
‘House-to-house?’ Harper asked.
‘Already going on, sir. When I left, nobody had mentioned anything strange. No noises.’
Cain must have invited the man in. Made him tea, asked him to sit down. Was it someone he knew? The Superintendent tried to think, to work out the possibilities.
‘Check with the constables who’ve been guarding Mrs Cain. Was anyone hanging around? Men passing by too often, things like that.’
‘They’re already under orders to report anything like that,’ Ash told him. ‘I asked, and there’s nothing.’
‘Whoever he is, he did his homework. He knew where she lived, he knew her husband would be home and there’d be no copper there.’
‘The address could be easy to find,’ Fowler pointed out. ‘They’d be in the street directory.’
The Tin God Page 11
