She began to cry, and this time she let it trickle down her cheeks.
‘How do you feel now, Mam?’ Mary asked.
‘Right as rain. Honest, I’m fine.’ She tried to smile. Her mouth curled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. ‘It was probably just a blip. I was tired or excited or something. It scared me, but that forty winks has seen me right.’
She was talking too much, Harper thought. Too fast. Trying to make excuses, so it seemed like nothing. But it had terrified her. Maybe it really was a blip. But he didn’t think so. And neither did she.
‘You should go and see the doctor.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I told you, I already feel better.’
‘It would still be a good idea.’ He knew better than to try and force things.
‘Da’s right, Mam. I know it’s probably nothing, but please let them take a look at you and make sure.’
‘Monday,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘I’ll see how I’m feeling by then.’
Sunday, but there was going to be no rest for anyone on the force this weekend. All leave cancelled, uniform and plain clothes officers gathered at Millgarth.
Harper stood on a box in the parade ground behind the building to address them.
‘Someone thinks they can do what they like in Leeds. They believe they can rub our noses in it by attacking someone just a few feet from here. Is that how you want them to treat us?’ He saw the bitter looks; even with his poor hearing, he could make out the undercurrent of muttering. ‘Barney Thorpe is still hanging on, but we’re treating this as murder. You understand that? Murder. You’ve all been given your assignments. I want whoever did this. So do you, because he’s laughing at every bloody one of us. I want you out there, talking to people and finding everything you can.’ He raised a hand to quieten them. ‘There’s one man in particular we want to question. His name’s Davey Mullen. His description is posted by the desk and there’s an old photograph. Look at it. He hasn’t changed much. One or two of you know him. He’s American and he’s vanished. He’s dangerous. He’s killed people in New York. If you spot him, blow your whistle. You do not try to bring him in on your own. We don’t need any heroes. Use your brains. Any questions?’
He waited, but there was nothing. Harper dismissed them, picked up his hat and set out for the town hall. The chief would be in, no doubt about that. Even the brass would be working today.
He’d meant everything he said. But it all felt like empty words rattling inside his head. Next to his worry about Annabelle, he couldn’t care about crime and cases. First thing that morning, Ash had tried to ask, but he’d brushed it off. All fine now. A false alarm.
He remembered how Annabelle had cuddled up to him in bed. He’d put his arm around her, keeping her close. But he couldn’t protect her from something like this. What good was a husband who couldn’t look after his wife?
‘We’re supposed to be going to Len’s parents tomorrow, aren’t we?’ he said.
‘What about it?’
‘We could rearrange it.’
‘No.’ She was firm.
‘Tell them it’s because of my work. It would be true.’
‘We’ll go,’ she insisted. ‘It’s nothing. And we won’t tell anyone about any of this. Just keep it between the three of us.’
A blip. Nothing. And if she kept telling herself that, she might believe it.
Mary had stayed at home; she hadn’t gone on her Sunday ride with the Clarions. Work was her excuse, but they all knew the real reason. To keep an eye on her mother. None of them said a word. Len would come over for his Sunday dinner. Everything perfectly normal.
Or as close as it would ever be again.
‘It’s all horror and outrage in the newspapers,’ Parker said. He looked older, careworn and tired. ‘The London ones picked it up, too. I suppose it was inevitable. All the usual things in there – how could this happen? – and the like. We need something to give them, Tom.’
‘We don’t have anything yet. Mullen’s still on the run. With the number of men we have on this, we should be able to turn up something today.’
The chief kept a steady stare. ‘Should? You expect or you hope? Be honest with me.’
‘Hope,’ Harper admitted after a small hesitation.
‘What else can we do, Tom? Is there something we’ve missed?’
‘I honestly don’t believe so, sir.’
‘Then carry on.’ He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Let me know what we find.’
Before returning to Millgarth he stopped at his office on the ground floor of the town hall. Already it felt musty.
He picked a report from the pile on his blotter. Miss Sharp must have taken care to place this on top. It had been sent by Ripon police. The Pilgrimage march had stopped there. It was the day of the agricultural show and the town was filled with farmers and labourers. One of the men had insulted and tried to manhandle a marcher named Miss Ida Beaver. She’d landed a blow in retaliation and sent him tumbling to the floor. The police hadn’t filed any charges, but they had asked the ladies to move on from the town in order to keep the peace.
He couldn’t help but smile at the idea of a woman decking a big farmer. Harper folded the paper and slid it in his jacket. Something to entertain Annabelle later.
Harper sighed. The Pilgrimage. She couldn’t go; surely she’d realize that. But he knew how much it would hurt her to stay in Leeds and miss the chance. She’d been looking forward to this like a child anticipating Christmas. Yet what choice was there? What would happen if she had another episode when she was out on the road? He knew full well what she’d tell him: see what the doctor says. This time, he decided, he was going to argue the point with her.
Leeds was empty. The Sabbath, and all the businesses were closed, the streets quiet; only a pair of trams passed as he walked along the Headrow. The sky was a pale, hopeful blue, the air gently warm.
A summer of murder. Two dead, a third barely hanging on.
Had he been so completely wrong about Mullen? Was he behind everything? Could he have killed his own father? He didn’t know what to think any more. They needed Davey Mullen in the interview room and answering questions. Keep hammering at him until they were certain he was telling the truth.
First they had to find him.
FIFTEEN
The mood at Millgarth had changed. He felt it as soon as he walked through the door. Hushed, sombre.
He looked at Sergeant Mason, standing behind the desk.
‘Thorpe, sir. The infirmary rang; he died less than an hour ago. Didn’t regain consciousness at all.’
It was definitely murder now. Three gone.
‘Any other word?’
Mason pressed his lips together. ‘The superintendent’s men have been hauling villains in and out. That’s about all I can tell you, sir.’
It looked as if every spare corner was being used for interviews. He recognized the faces of men he’d arrested over the years. Petty crooks, a few of them with a reputation for violence.
‘Anything useful yet?’ he asked Ash.
‘Yes and no. Plenty of words and hot air.’ He rubbed his thick moustache. ‘You heard …’
‘I did. No sign of Mullen?’
‘None, sir. We’ve had all his friends here; they don’t know a thing.’
‘You believe them?’
‘I do, more’s the pity.’ He sighed, then smiled. ‘But we’ve had one piece of good news, sir.’
‘What’s that? We need something.’
‘Teddy Duncan turned up the minute he heard his boss had died. Gave us chapter and verse on the Metropole shooting.’
Finally. They had that something. ‘Thorpe was behind it?’
‘Yes, sir. Hard to credit, isn’t it?’
Hard? It was bloody impossible. This wasn’t the way Barney Thorpe had ever worked. And yet it seemed to be true … Harper stared out of the window and exhaled slowly. Just like that, the crime was solved. So simple. But t
hat was how it happened at times. Things could turn on a word, on someone deciding to come clean.
‘Teddy’s down in the cells,’ Ash continued. ‘He gave your Metropole squad the name of the man with the gun.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Nobody local. Someone called Driscoll. From Sheffield.’
‘Sheffield?’ He didn’t understand. Why there? Maybe there was no one in Leeds who fitted the bill, but … ‘What about Francis Mullen?’ Perhaps they could kill two birds with a single stone. ‘Was Thorpe behind that, too?’
‘Duncan still swears it was nothing to do with them, sir.’
He sighed. ‘At least we have an answer on one thing. The chief’s going to be happy to hear it. May I?’ He gestured at the telephone.
It relieved a little pressure. It would calm the public. But there were still three bodies and no killer. And by evening, still no sign of Mullen.
He hadn’t left Leeds on a train, that was definite; there was a tight watch on the railway stations. And his father’s corpse was still at the morgue, waiting to be buried. Mullen would want to take care of that; it was family. He was still here. Somewhere.
Teddy Duncan had said that Thorpe didn’t even try to contact anyone nearby for the Metropole job. He’d gone straight to this man Driscoll from Sheffield; Teddy had no idea how the pair knew each other. Before he left Millgarth, Harper had telephoned the head of their CID. Tomorrow they’d have the man in custody, the gun as evidence, and he could find out the details.
Harper stretched after the driver dropped him on Roundhay Road. He’d started early, and now it was late afternoon. He felt bad that he was leaving the men to work. But today he daren’t be late home.
Annabelle was bustling round, packing clothes into a small trunk as if nothing at all had happened. Mary was sitting at the table, a ledger open in front of her. She flashed him a questioning look. He answered with a small nod; he’d take care of things.
He stood by the bedroom door and watched Annabelle moving piles of clothes. She truly believed she was going.
‘Anyone would think you were off on your travels for a year.’
‘I need to be prepared. If all you’re going to do is mither, make yourself useful and get ready. Change your collar and put on a different tie. I’m not letting Len’s parents think Mary’s father is a ragman.’
Home, he thought as he undid his collar stud. Nothing like it for clearing the head and making a man understand what was truly important in life.
They walked over to Cross Green.
‘We don’t want to turn up in a motor car and look like we’re putting on airs,’ Annabelle told him. Harper didn’t mind. He preferred being on foot, the easy stride he’d developed during those years on the beat. It gave him a chance to see things properly, to watch.
They strolled arm in arm up through the Bank. The area seemed strangely subdued, as if a hush had descended. But by the time they reached St Hilda’s Road, everything was normal; maybe he’d imagined it. It was a street of well-kept back-to-back houses, each with a tiny front yard. At number seventeen, Harper knocked on the door. He’d barely lowered his hand before it was opened by a woman with a sharp face and warm eyes.
‘You must be Mary’s parents. Mr and Mrs Harper. Come in.’
They were shown into the front room. The furniture smelled of beeswax and the window shone. Being treated like royalty, he thought. A man stood as they entered, burly, broad-shouldered, with short hair that was starting to turn grey.
‘Harold Robinson,’ he introduced himself. The man looked uncomfortable in his suit and tie, awkward and constrained. As they shook hands, Harper could feel the roughness of his palms, as tough as old leather. ‘We like your lass.’
‘We’re fond of your Len, too,’ Annabelle said. That was enough to break the ice.
A cold supper of sandwiches and cake. The women discussed the wedding. When they began, Robinson raised an eyebrow.
‘I’ve seen your name in the paper a few times,’ he said.
‘Don’t believe everything you read,’ Harper told him with a laugh.
‘Nay, I’ve nothing against coppers. You knew Tom Maguire, didn’t you?’
‘I did. I liked him.’ He hadn’t heard that name in a few years. The socialist who’d organized strikes. A major political figure from Leeds who’d died of pneumonia in a room with no food or coal for heating before he could turn thirty.
‘I had a lot of time for him,’ Robinson said. ‘He talked sense.’
‘Annabelle knew him better than I did. They grew up just a few streets apart. What do you do, Mr Robinson?’
‘You might as well call me Harold if we’re going to be related. I’m at Hunslet Engine, same as Len. Started out stoking boilers and taught myself a few things. I’m a foreman in the foundry now.’
‘I’m Tom. That must be hot work.’
‘It is. But I enjoy it. And Len’s going to go further than I ever did.’
‘He was telling us that the company might help him with a degree.’
‘Yes.’ The man’s eyes shone with pride. ‘Wouldn’t that be something, eh? Can you credit it? My lad at a university.’ He looked around the room. ‘Not something I ever expected, I’ll tell you that. And your Mary – she’s made something of herself, hasn’t she?’
‘I enjoyed that,’ Annabelle said as they strolled back to Sheepscar. ‘That Edna Robinson, she has her head on straight.’
‘They seem down-to-earth.’
‘I think Mary’s marrying into a good family.’
‘No doubt about it. None at all.’ He let a long moment pass. ‘About you going to the Pilgrimage? I—’
‘We’ll see what the doctor says tomorrow.’
Monday morning. For most people it marked the beginning of a new working week. Not for a copper, though. Glancing out of the window on the drive into town, Harper felt as if he’d lived this all too often, that he was repeating yesterday, the day before and the one before that.
Millgarth didn’t help. The Sheffield coppers hadn’t traced the shooter yet. Nothing like starting the day with a dose of frustration. The men all looked exhausted, but there wasn’t going to be much rest until they found the killer. Or was it killers? He didn’t know. He truly didn’t know.
At the close of the division heads’ meeting, Harper gave his update, feeling all the eyes on him. As he finished, the chief constable said, ‘Are we prepared for this suffragist march, or whatever they’re calling it?’
‘The Great Pilgrimage,’ Harper said. ‘Everything’s in place. They’re due tomorrow. Rally in Roundhay Park in the afternoon, then a bigger one on Woodhouse Moor in the evening. We have uniforms set for both of those and the march across town.’
‘Do you expect any trouble?’ Parker asked.
‘Not from the women, sir,’ he replied. ‘There was an incident in Ripon, but they didn’t start that.’
‘Very good.’ The chief studied the glowing tip of his cigar. ‘I don’t need to tell you, gentlemen, that we need this Thorpe business concluded as soon as possible. We have three murders to solve, and Mullen has vanished without trace. I want it done and dusted.’
He spoke thoughtfully and didn’t raise his voice, but none of them doubted it was a command. The men gathered on the town hall steps, lighting pipes and cigarettes. Another sunny day, with the thin, oily haze of industry in the air.
‘Much progress, Tom?’ one of them asked.
‘Not enough,’ he admitted, seeing their nods of understanding. They’d all worked their way up from being constables in uniform. They’d experienced every obstacle themselves. Many times over.
‘What next?’
Harper looked at Ash. The big man was restless, ready to stride back to Millgarth and get on with directing everything. The last few days seemed to have aged him. His face was drawn, the lines in his skin carved deeper and sharper. Worst of all, the bright twinkle that made him appear as if he never took the world too seriously had vanished from his eye
s.
‘We find Mullen. If any of you come across him …’
He had to fight the urge to telephone the Victoria. To ask Annabelle if she’d managed to see the doctor and what he’d said. But even more, perhaps, to check on her, to be certain it hadn’t happened again.
‘You can’t be here all the time,’ she’d said over breakfast as she looked at him and Mary. ‘Neither of you.’
He knew she was right.
‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘it’s probably nothing.’
Maybe. He’d find out later.
The police in Sheffield finally found the man involved in the Metropole shooting. Simon Driscoll. The gun was still in his pocket when they arrested him. At least there was some progress.
‘What’s the serial number on the weapon?’ Harper asked. The line was so poor that he had to shout into the receiver to make himself heard. Through the crackles he made out the answer. It matched one stolen from Harewood Barracks.
‘I want to know who sold Driscoll that pistol,’ he told Ash. ‘Once we get him here, squeeze him until he says.’
‘Very good, sir.’
He’d dispatched two of the hotel squad to bring the prisoner back to Leeds. They had the man, but now there were even more questions. Still, he’d take his victories where he could find them.
Davey Mullen? He’d found some rock to hide under.
‘Have we checked every rooming house in the city?’ Harper asked Sissons.
‘All of them, sir.’
‘They need to go back and do it again.’
‘Have you considered talking to the newspapers? If they print his description—’
Brass Lives Page 13
