This time the moderator didn’t call on Annabelle first. He’d learned that lesson. Instead it was Wilkinson, then Oldroyd. That gave the crowd a chance to barrack and shout, to be ready for the main attractions.
Harper circulated, inside the hall and out. The constable kept an eye on the crowds, ready to step in if things grew too rowdy. The streets were quiet, nobody lurking around.
The hustings had pulled in at least two hundred and fifty people. The hall was crammed and hot, women fanning themselves with Annabelle’s leaflet; at least it was doing some good, he thought wryly. Plenty were here for the politics, but the crimes surrounding this election had attracted more.
Not the killer, though. He hadn’t spotted anyone resembling their man. Not a soul acting suspiciously.
Moody’s crew tried to give Annabelle a rough ride as she spoke. They attempted to drown her out, but she wasn’t having any of it. The years speaking for the Suffrage Society had taught her well; she could modulate her voice without effort, making sure she was heard, and she had stinging comebacks for all the hecklers. She made people laugh and think at the same time. It was a rare quality, Harper thought. Very rare. And she spoke with passion. She believed.
He found himself caught up in her voice. Not because she was his wife, but because she had things to say. Real things, important things. She listened to the questions that were asked and tried to offer honest, straightforward answers. None of the usual guff that edged around the topic and ended up saying nothing at all.
She had them. He looked at the other candidates’ faces. They knew it, too. Even Moody looked worried, his usual, complacent expression scrubbed away. Now he was no more than a portly old man in a frock coat and high collar. No importance about him at all as he stood at the lectern and smoothed out his notes like a man already defeated, someone seeing an era change before his eyes and not understanding why.
His supporters were loud in their cheers. Then a voice cried out, ‘Let’s make her wish she’d never run!’ and the mayhem began.
He couldn’t pick out the man who’d yelled, but before he’d even finished, Harper was wading into the group. He’d brought his truncheon and now he used it, hoping the bobby was doing his bit.
Fists hit him, but they didn’t do any damage. Bruises, nothing more. But he was trained, and he was ruthless. He had someone worth defending.
By the time it was done, he was covered in sweat and panting as if he’d run five miles. His jacket was ripped, and he could feel a small trickle of blood down his cheek. The men who could still walk had fled. Some lay groaning on the floor. One was out cold, another cradled a broken wrist. More were bleeding and dazed. Harper didn’t care; they’d brought it on themselves.
How long had it lasted, he wondered? It felt endless, but it couldn’t have been more than two minutes at most. He looked around. The hall had cleared, chairs were knocked over, the doors stood open wide. The candidates had all vanished from the stage. Where was Annabelle?
He took a pace and felt a hand on his arm. The copper, looking the worse for wear but grinning widely and nodding at the group nursing their wounds.
‘Do you want me to get a wagon to take them away, sir?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and hurried off. In his head, the panic was rising.
She was out on the pavement, her supporters gathered around her. Guarding her. Harper closed his eyes and felt relief wash over him.
‘Tom,’ she said, concern growing on her face as she made out his injuries. ‘My God, are you all right?’
‘Fine.’ He realized he was still gripping the truncheon tightly, and slid it into his jacket, wiping his damp palm. ‘Did they hurt you?’
‘I came out the back way.’ She had a stunned expression. ‘What happened? I heard that man, but …’
‘He came to start a riot,’ he told her. ‘Moody’s people.’
‘I thought it was him,’ Annabelle said. ‘It made my hair stand on end.’
‘You’re safe now.’
She nodded absently, pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, spat on it, and dabbed at the cut on his temple.
Had it been the killer behind all violence? He hadn’t seen the speaker, but he could still hear the voice clearly. And he could have sworn no one resembling their man’s description had been in the hall. All it took, though, was to miss one small thing.
Most likely he’d never know the answer. Tempers flared at political meetings. Violence was common enough. He’d waded into far worse before.
‘Why?’ Annabelle asked as they walked home. ‘Why do they need to do it? Why can’t they just talk?’
‘You already know the answer,’ he said.
‘Because they’re men and it makes them feel like they’re someone.’
‘Partly.’ Nothing was ever quite that cut and dried, he’d learned. They were angry, frustrated at their own lives, and they were powerless to change things. Win or lose, fighting gave a momentary outlet. The physical satisfaction of bone on flesh. And for men who’d never had a chance to learn the words to express how they thought and felt, it was the only way.
By the time they reached the Victoria all the glow of battle had faded; only the aches and pains remained. He ushered Annabelle inside, then wandered round to the ginnel. Bryant was there, standing so still he might have been made of stone.
‘Nothing?’
‘Not back here, sir. Sounds like they’ve been having a high old time inside, though.’ He caught a glimpse of Harper’s appearance. ‘Ructions at the hustings, was it?’
‘A bit of a scrap.’
‘I miss those,’ Bryant said wistfully. ‘We used to have plenty of ’em in the old days. Do you remember, sir?’
He could recall it well enough, but he didn’t miss those times at all. Policing by sheer force. It wasn’t that long ago.
‘You’d better keep a sharp watch tonight. After that, he might be in the mood to try something.’
‘Having an extra man to watch Mrs Pease’s house turned out to be a good idea, sir,’ Ash said.
‘Why? What happened?’ He could feel every part of his body this morning. Aches and soreness where he’d forgotten he even had joints and muscles. The bruises had bloomed on his face. His skin had been tender as he shaved.
‘The constable on duty spotted someone walking around the neighbourhood just after midnight. A well-dressed man. He didn’t look as if he belonged there. But as soon as he approached him, the chap ran off.’
‘Did he chase him?’ Harper asked. ‘Did he catch him?’
But they were pointless questions. The answers were obvious.
‘It was PC Cannon, sir. He’s not quite built for running. And he said his orders were to stay at the property.’
God save him from coppers with no initiative, Harper thought. ‘Did he at least get a decent look at him?’
‘The man was careful to stay clear of the gas lamps. Cannon says he couldn’t see much.’
Cautious, dangerous, going for a vulnerable woman, running off at the first sign of danger … it sounded like their man.
‘I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies.’
‘At least this time we were one move ahead of him,’ Fowler added.
That was true, but he couldn’t find any satisfaction in it. They hadn’t arrested him. Next time he’d have another idea.
‘I want the area searched,’ he said. ‘Maybe he dropped something from one of his songs. The same with the hustings hall from last night. The caretaker should have cleaned it up. Walsh, you can handle that. The new man gets the dirty jobs.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Seems to me we’ve got him on the run a bit,’ Ash said once they were alone. ‘Nothing he tries is working any more.’
‘He’s clever. He’ll come up with something different,’ Harper told him. ‘It’s not over yet. Not by a long chalk.’
‘Da,’ Mary said when she saw him that evening. ‘Have you been fighting?’
She stood on tiptoe, pe
ering at his face and frowning. She’d been asleep when they returned the night before, and he was gone before she woke.
‘I’ve been doing my job,’ he explained. ‘Sometimes it can be rough.’
‘Miss Mobley said it’s wrong to fight. She told us all when Clem and Arthur started in the playground.’
‘She’s right,’ he agreed. ‘But being a policeman means that sometimes you have to stop people fighting, even if they don’t want to.’
She considered that. From the corner of his eye, Harper could see Annabelle in the kitchen, listening to the conversation.
‘Couldn’t you punish them? Keep them in after?’
He tried to hide his smile.
‘That’s what we do sometimes. Going to jail is a bit like that, but worse.’
‘What did you do to the ones who hit you?’ For a fraction of a second, her eyes glistened with excitement. ‘Did you batter them?’
‘That’s enough of that, young lady,’ Annabelle called out sharply. ‘Your da doesn’t batter people.’
But that was exactly what he’d done. They’d threatened his wife and he’d relished his revenge. Not that he’d ever say so to Mary. Or to Annabelle.
No meeting tonight, and he wasn’t going to be tempted out of the house. All day long he’d been looking forward to a hot bath to soak away all the pains of the night before. A few years earlier, Annabelle had spent money on a boiler. Hot water from the tap instead of heating pan after pan. It had seemed like a luxury, but this evening he’d gladly indulge himself.
He’d barely settled in the water, just starting to feel the heat soak into his joints, when she opened the door.
‘Detective Constable Walsh is here,’ Annabelle said.
Never a moment’s peace, Harper thought. The responsibility of rank.
‘What does he want?’
‘He says it’s important, Tom.’
‘Hell.’ All he wanted was a little peace and quiet. But he knew the man wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t urgent. ‘Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.’
‘Leave the water,’ she said as he climbed out and began to towel himself dry. ‘I’ll have a bath myself. It’d be a shame to waste it.’
He remembered growing up. Bath nights when the zinc tub was taken down from the wall in the kitchen. His father first, then all through the family. He was the youngest, and the water was filthy and almost stone cold by the time his turn arrived.
‘I saw your eyes when you came out of that hall last night,’ Annabelle told him. ‘You enjoyed it, didn’t you? You did give them a battering.’
‘I was trying to keep order. I wanted to look after you, to make sure no one hurt you.’
She had an ocean of sadness in her eyes. ‘That’s one of the reasons I’m fighting this election. To show that women can do things, that we don’t need men taking care of everything. I’ll tell Mr Walsh you’ll be ready soon.’ She turned abruptly and left the room.
He tried to do the right thing, Harper thought. But even then it turned out wrong.
‘You’d better have something important.’
His hair was still wet, slicked down on his head, but his clothes were fresh and he felt clean. Walsh looked around with a start as the superintendent spoke. He was standing by the piano, examining the sheet music on display.
‘Sorry to disturb you at home, sir. But I thought you’d want to see this.’ He held out a wadded piece of paper. Harper didn’t even need to ask what it was. Part of a folk song.
‘Where was it?’
‘In the hall where the hustings were held. I caught the caretaker just before he was going to burn everything. It wasn’t too far from here, so …’
‘Thank you.’ Why hadn’t he noticed the man in the crowd? How could he have missed him?
‘The inspector’s given me the evening off since there are no meetings.’
‘Then make sure you enjoy it.’ He nodded at the piano. ‘Do you play?’
‘Not really. I had a few lessons when I was young, when we could afford it. I keep thinking I’d like to start again, but we don’t have the room for one.’
‘You’re always welcome to come over and use this,’ Annabelle told him as she appeared from the kitchen with a teapot and cups. ‘Isn’t he, Tom? It’s just decoration here, really.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, surprised. ‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’ He stood. ‘I’ll be on my way, sir.’
‘I’ve just made some tea.’
‘I’d better not, ma’am. My missus will be happy to see me. Goodnight, sir.’
‘What did he want?’ she asked after he’d gone.
‘To bring me this.’ He showed her the paper. ‘It was our killer who started that riot last night. He left it at the hall. Probably slipped out as soon as he’d shouted.’
But soon this pretty damsel she lay down by his side
And in a few moments she kissed him and died
A dead woman again. Harper leafed through Kidson’s book. There it was. The Drowned Sailor. Set on Stowbrow, near Robin Hood’s Bay. Billy Reed’s territory, he thought idly.
Annabelle stood still, the cup in her hand, breathing slowly.
‘I just … that he was there, in the same room. So close.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’
But why hadn’t Harper spotted him?
TWENTY-FOUR
Reed stood on the bridge over the Esk, looking out along the estuary to the sea and breathing in the thick salt air. A cloudy day, but still no real sign of winter cold.
‘Hard to get sick of the sight, isn’t it?’ Harry Pepper leaned on the railing and puffed at his pipe.
‘What do the fishermen do all winter?’
‘Hope they’ve made enough money to survive until spring,’ Pepper replied with a shrug. ‘Some might try a spot of smuggling if the weather’s kind.’
‘Have you found out anything more about that?’
‘Did you know your friend Millgate’s been down to the Bay a couple of times in the last four days?’
The Bay. Robin Hood’s Bay.
‘No.’ He’d heard nothing about Terrier John since their brief encounter on the pier. ‘Any idea why?’
‘More smuggling there than anywhere along this coast.’
Reed thought back to his last visit to the place and the old man who’d told him that it was still rife, how it helped the town survive.
‘Can’t you stop it?’
Pepper snorted. ‘We had a man down there a few years ago. On his first day he was warned that if he didn’t leave, he’d be dead in a week. He was back here before the Sunday. You might as well try and stop breathing as end the smuggling down there.’
‘You think Terrier’s tied in to that?’
‘It makes sense, doesn’t it? I hear you talked to him the other day. What did you say?’
‘That I’d enjoyed our conversation and we’d continue it soon.’
‘Someone must have passed the word. Our Mr Millgate was probably summoned to answer some awkward questions.’ He puffed smoke for a few moments. ‘Shame, eh?’
‘Worried for his life, do you think?’
‘That depends if they believed him. Seems to me they’ve done a lot for him.’
‘Maybe I’ll have another chat with Terrier John,’ Reed said thoughtfully. ‘See what that brings.’
‘Remind him that he’s always welcome to turn Queen’s evidence. That might help.’
It took an hour to find him, traipsing all over town, up and down the steep hills of West Cliff. He was sitting quietly at a table in the far corner of the Inglenook Tea Room, a half-eaten piece of cake pushed away.
A worried man, Reed thought. A very worried man who looked like his world might be crumbling. Good.
‘Hello, Terrier,’ he called out. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’
Trapped. Reed saw the man’s eyes dart around, searching for a way to escape.
‘Inspector.’ He tried to smile, bu
t his heart wasn’t in it. ‘Here’s a surprise.’
Reed took a seat across the table and ordered a cup of tea when the waitress approached.
‘I hear you’ve been visiting the Bay,’ he said with a smile.
‘Maybe he wore a disguise of some kind,’ Fowler suggested. ‘That’s why you didn’t spot him at the hustings, sir.’
‘We’ve mentioned that possibility before,’ Ash pointed out. ‘He must know we have a good description of him.’
‘Possibly.’ In his mind, Harper tried to search through the faces he’d seen the night before. But there had been too many jammed into the hall to remember every one of them. He’d been there, no more than a breath away. And once again he’d slipped out. Set things in motion then vanished. Probably not a mark on him.
He’d struck again, and in a way none of them had anticipated. Not to kill this time, but to disrupt.
‘I hear he left his calling card,’ Ash said.
‘Another folk song. The Drowned Sailor this time.’ The superintendent sighed. ‘I’m starting to feel like we’re the ones going down for the third time.’
Criminals usually had their ways of operating and stuck to them. But this one was too slippery. Just when they hoped they’d blocked his path, he found another.
‘We could …’ Walsh began, then shook his head.
‘What?’ Harper asked.
‘I was going to say we could offer a reward for his arrest, sir. But we’d probably end up with so many tips he might slip through the net.’
‘The chief would never go for it. If we do that, we might as well admit defeat.’ He looked up. Sergeant Tollman was standing in the doorway.
‘Just had a report of a fire, sir. The brigade is on its way.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s in the hall where your wife is supposed to be speaking tonight.’
By the time he arrived, the blaze was out. Half the building was destroyed; the rest looked almost normal, except for the choking smell of charred wood in the air. Harper spotted the arson investigator, Inspector Binns, walking around the perimeter of the wreckage, stopping to peer more closely here and there.
‘Deliberate?’
The Tin God Page 19
