by Jim Eldridge
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Bickerstaff.
‘You know what I mean,’ sneered Grimley. ‘We know about you and lower-class women. Hanging around them, trying to get off with ’em. Was that what happened here? Did one of ’em finally get sick of you pestering her and tell you off for the sick worm you are? Was that it? So you taught her a lesson, showed her she couldn’t do that to you and stuck a knife in her back. And then you bumped off the other one because she happened to see you do it.’
‘How dare you!’ snarled Bickerstaff, moving menacingly forward towards the inspector.
Grimley smiled. ‘Come on,’ he invited the reporter. ‘Lay a finger on me and I’ll have you inside for assaulting a police officer.’ He gestured towards Daniel and Abigail. ‘And I’ve got witnesses. Independent witnesses, so you can try and twist things as much as you like, but you’ll be inside.’ He gave a menacing leer at Bickerstaff as he added threateningly, ‘In my jail.’ And he smacked his right fist pointedly into the palm of his hand.
Bickerstaff hesitated, then thrust a finger towards Grimley’s face.
‘You haven’t heard the last of this, Inspector,’ he promised.
With that, he turned on his heel and left.
Grimley turned and gave Daniel and Abigail a broad smile.
‘Reckon I touched a nerve there, wouldn’t you say?’ he chuckled. He shook his head, still smiling. ‘My constables know what goes on with him. If you’re such a good detective, Wilson, ask around about your friend Bickerstaff. It might put a different dimension on things.’ He turned to his sergeant. ‘Come on, Merton. Back to the office so we can get on with some real work.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bickerstaff was waiting for Daniel and Abigail outside the station. By the way he paced agitatedly around he was obviously angry.
‘What else did Grimley say?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing much,’ said Daniel.
‘It’s all nonsense!’ said Bickerstaff. ‘Just because I do my best to offer my help to those poor, unfortunate women, as I do with everyone in that dreadful situation, the police spread gossip and slander about me.’ He scowled. ‘Well, this time Inspector Grimley has gone too far. He needs to be shamed into investigating these murders properly. In fact, he needs to be shamed, full stop.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I didn’t tell you this before because we’ve been keeping a lid on it, and I didn’t know you well enough.’
‘We?’
‘My editor at the Guardian and me. As I said before, there are good officers on the Manchester police, but there are also rotten apples.’
‘Inspector Grimley?’
‘He’s one, along with a coterie of some uniformed officers. Anyway, at the Guardian we’re planning an exposé of the rotten apples in the hope it gets rid of them. To be honest, I wasn’t sure where you’d stand on that, as an ex-police inspector yourself.’
Daniel regarded the reporter coldly. ‘In my view, there’s no room for those sort of people in the police force.’
‘But you had them in the Met,’ said Bickerstaff. ‘I remember the reports in the London papers about four years ago.’
‘I can assure you we had no such people in Abberline’s crowd,’ said Daniel firmly. ‘Admittedly, there were some dubious officers in the Met. There always will be in any organisation. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. Money speaks. All the clichés come from somewhere. But it’s usually just a small proportion.’
‘Which can be tolerated?’ suggested Bickerstaff.
‘Providing they don’t draw attention to themselves,’ said Daniel. ‘But, as I say, even one such person would have been too many for my old guv’nor. Fred Abberline ran the cleanest ship ever.’
‘And I believe that’s true of most of the Manchester force,’ said Bickerstaff. ‘The trouble is the rotten apples here lean on the poorest people, the most vulnerable, while the real crooks get off scot free.’
‘Who do you mean by the real crooks?’
‘The ones who run prostitution. Extortion. Large-scale robberies. But many of them are untouchable because they’re paying off the local police officer.’
‘And you’re suggesting that Grimley …’
‘I can’t pin it down that high,’ admitted Bickerstaff. ‘The stories I’ve got involve constables, sergeants, all uniforms, all operating in the poorer areas of the city. But one sergeant who’s been mentioned has a link with Grimley. Sergeant Merton, the one you saw with him today.’
‘What about the senior officers?’ asked Daniel. ‘Surely they’re aware of what’s going on?’
‘I’m sure they are,’ said Bickerstaff. ‘Superintendent Mossop, for one, seems honest. The trouble is the watch committee and the board that run the police are dominated by some very rich people, including some of the mill owners, and they find it useful to have certain police officers in their pocket to stop what they term “sedition and industrial sabotage”.’
‘Is there much of that going on in the mills here?’
Bickerstaff looked at them thoughtfully. ‘How much do you know about Manchester as a cotton town?’ he asked.
‘Not a great deal, to be honest,’ admitted Daniel.
He looked at Abigail, who gave a rueful look. ‘It’s not something I’ve ever thought about,’ she said.
‘Most people in the south don’t,’ said Bickerstaff. ‘They wear the clothing made here, but they don’t think about how it’s made, or the people who make it.
‘Cotton rules Manchester. Not just Manchester, the surrounding towns as well. This area was known as Cottonopolis. The world’s first ever steam-driven textile mill was here, in Miller Street. And that opened the floodgates. Now there are hundreds of such mills.’
‘The main employer,’ observed Abigail.
‘But on the mill owners’ terms. They use the smallest children to crawl under the machines, while they’re still working, to gather up the loose cotton.’
‘It sounds dangerous work.’
‘Is it. Many die when they get caught up in the machines. Those that don’t end up with their bodies wrecked from having to keep crouched so low. Their lungs get ruined.’
‘I’m not sure how this relates to the murders of two women,’ said Daniel carefully.
‘Because they came from Ancoats, which is the death black spot of Manchester. It’s got the highest death rate in the city, much of it connected to the mills, and that makes people angry.’
‘You’re suggesting that they were killed because they were seen as a threat to the mill owners?’ asked Abigail, bewildered.
Bickerstaff let out an unhappy groan, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he admitted. Then added, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Is there a great deal of radical politics in Manchester?’ asked Daniel.
Bickerstaff gave a derisive snort. ‘Considering the conditions the mill workers live under, I’m surprised there hasn’t been a revolution here. People rising up and attacking the machines and the mills and demanding fair pay and better conditions.’ Abruptly he stopped and forced a false smile. ‘I think we’re getting off the subject of the murders. As I said before, Superintendent Mossop’s hands are tied. Although he does what he can.’
‘Which doesn’t sound much,’ commented Daniel sourly.
‘I’m sure if he had some solid ammunition he’d be able to start to weed the rotten apples out. The problem I’ve got is that no one is willing to talk, or name names, for fear of reprisals. And without concrete evidence I can’t go into print. It wouldn’t surprise me to find that Grimley takes his cut from the pay-offs Merton and the constables pick up. At the moment all I can do is lean on Grimley when I can, put pressure on him. Which is where the idea of shaming him in the pages of the Guardian over these murders comes in. It lets him know he’s being watched.’
‘I think, from what he said, he’s already got that idea,’ said Abigail.
‘What I’d like to do is go and see Mr Steggles at the museum and tell him I’m going to run a
piece about the murder of Kathleen Donlan and Eileen O’Donnell and demand why the police refuse to investigate. I’d like to mention that you two are involved. There’s a chance it may help your enquiries.’
Daniel looked doubtful. ‘I don’t know if he’d agree to that. Yes, the museum is our client, that much is obvious. But Mr Steggles has stressed to us how important it is that the museum doesn’t get attached to any sort of scandal.’
‘There wouldn’t be any scandal the way I’d write it,’ persisted Bickerstaff. ‘And you’re not getting very far. Yes, you now know who the dead women are, and that was the result of the piece appearing in the paper. The more information that we can put out – done with discretion, I promise you – the bigger the chance you have of getting some crucial evidence coming to you.’
Daniel looked at Abigail, who gave a slight nod of approval. Yes, thought Daniel, it makes sense. But first they’d have to persuade Steggles it could be done without harming the museum’s reputation.
‘We’ll talk to Mr Steggles and see what he says.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s possible he may still be at the museum. If he is, we’ll talk to him now, and then come and find you at the Guardian offices.’
They watched as the reporter nodded in agreement and hurried off, then they set off towards the museum.
‘What did you think of what Bickerstaff said about the possibility of a radical connection?’
‘I think it highly unlikely,’ said Abigail. ‘Eileen O’Donnell had enough to deal with looking after her family. And Kathleen had only been in Manchester a few days, so there was no time for her to become involved in anything. I think far more interesting are the allegations Inspector Grimley made about Mr Bickerstaff and women.’
‘What’s your opinion?’ asked Daniel. ‘Do you get any feeling from him about his attitude towards women?’
‘He’s been perfectly courteous to me,’ said Abigail.
‘The inspector specified lower-class women,’ Daniel pointed out. ‘If that’s the case, then I doubt if you qualify.’
Abigail let this register, then said thoughtfully, ‘I suppose it’s a possibility.’
‘If so, could he have killed Kathleen because she refused him?’ asked Daniel.
‘It depends on how she refused him,’ said Abigail. ‘I’ve known of many men, educated men, who feel inadequate around women of their own class and so they prey on women lower down the social scale.’
‘It sounds similar to where our investigations into Jack the Ripper were leading us,’ said Daniel. ‘Upper-class men who took revenge on the whole female sex for some imagined slight.’ He frowned. ‘But if he’s the guilty one, why would he press Inspector Grimley to go on with the investigation rather than disregard it?’
‘Pride,’ said Abigail. ‘He wants to prove he’s more intelligent than the police. He’s frustrated because they’re ignoring him.’
‘That’s quite complex,’ said Daniel.
‘Too complex?’ asked Abigail.
‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘In its way, it makes perfect sense. We might need to look into Mr Bickerstaff a bit more closely.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Steggles studied them from across his desk.
‘You believe that the deaths of these two women are connected?’ he asked.
‘We do,’ said Daniel. ‘Kathleen was staying with Eileen O’Donnell in Ancoats. We believe both women were killed here on the Thursday.’
‘But you feel that Inspector Grimley is not going to investigate.’
‘Which is why Mr Bickerstaff has suggested an article about the murders in the newspaper might bring forward information which would lead to uncovering the motive for their murders and the reveal of their murderer,’ said Abigail.
‘We’ve found in the past that reports in a newspaper can be of enormous assistance,’ added Daniel. ‘Providing the reporter works with us, that is.’
Steggles weighed this up, his expression showing his concern.
‘We want this mystery solved, that’s why we brought you in. But I’m concerned about the tone of the story Mr Bickerstaff will write. He tends to produce rather purple prose in support of the radical cause. I don’t want his report to suggest that the museum is in any way advocating a particular political stance. Our aim is for the widest possible social groupings to use this museum, for it to benefit society as a whole, not just be favoured by narrow sections.’
‘We will certainly stress that to Mr Bickerstaff,’ said Abigail.
‘In fact, I’d suggest that he lets you see the article he writes for approval before it goes into print,’ added Daniel.
Steggles looked thoughtful, then he asked, ‘You believe making this story public in this way will lead to a successful conclusion?’
‘There’s no guarantee,’ admitted Daniel, ‘but it could very well be read by someone who’s unaware that the information they may have could be vital in us finding out why the women were killed. Once we know that, finding out who becomes much easier.’
‘Very well,’ said Steggles. ‘You may tell Mr Bickerstaff to write his article.’
‘And for him to bring it to you for approval?’ asked Abigail.
Steggles looked uncomfortable. ‘To be honest, although I believe Mr Bickerstaff to be sincere, I also find him to be an overwhelming young man. I feel he is about to lecture me at length whenever we meet. I’d prefer it if he gave the article to you for you to bring it to me.’
‘That’s no problem,’ said Daniel. He smiled. ‘We have also been at the end of Mr Bickerstaff’s views. There is one other thing.’
‘Oh?’
‘On the Thursday when the women were killed, do you know if anyone reported seeing anyone military in the museum?’
‘Military?’ Steggles frowned. ‘A soldier?’
‘A soldier or perhaps an officer,’ said Daniel.
Steggles shook his head. ‘Not to my knowledge. Though I’m in my office most of the time. Mr Hawkins or Mr Arkwright or one of the attendants would be more likely to tell you if anyone in uniform was here.’ Then he gave a frown and said, ‘Actually, one high-ranking officer was supposed to be here that day. I had an appointment with Brigadier Wentworth for that morning to discuss the army exhibition we’re planning, but on the day he sent a note offering his apologies. He’d been called elsewhere at short notice.’
‘Who delivered the note?’ asked Daniel.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Steggles. ‘It was left at the desk at main reception. Might it be important?’
‘At the moment we’re just gathering information,’ said Daniel. ‘Sifting through everything. But if anything comes of it, rest assured, we’ll keep you informed.’
As they left the museum, Abigail asked, ‘What was that about did anyone see an army officer on the day they were killed? You really believe the army are involved?’
‘They’re certainly involved,’ said Daniel. ‘The question is, to what degree?’
‘So what are we going to do about it?’
‘Once we’ve seen Bickerstaff, we’re going to do what Steggles suggested: have a word with the museum staff and see if anyone did notice any army people there on that day.’
Bickerstaff was waiting impatiently for them by the reception desk at the Guardian offices.
‘What did Steggles say?’ he demanded. ‘Did he agree?’
‘Yes, but with the proviso that you give your copy to us to take to him first for his approval.’
Bickerstaff looked unhappy at this. ‘That’s hardly supporting the freedom of the press,’ he complained.
‘Mr Steggles just wants to make sure there’s nothing in your article that smacks of political bias. He’s concerned about the museum’s reputation.’
Bickerstaff hesitated, then he gave them a smile. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘If that’s what he wants, that’s what he’ll have. I’ll leave it at your hotel shortly for you to pass on to him.’
Bickerstaff was about to leave, when Daniel stopped
him. ‘There’s one more thing you may be able to help us with, Mr Bickerstaff. Do you have any contacts with the soldiers at the barracks?’
‘In what way?’
‘Where do the soldiers go when they are off-duty? Which pubs or drinking dens? We’re trying to find out what Kathleen was after that provoked such a defensive response at the barracks. All we know is it’s something that happened about eighty years ago.’
‘In that case I doubt if a loose-mouthed drunken soldier will be much help to you,’ said Bickerstaff. ‘You’d be better off with a local historian interested in military affairs.’
‘Yes,’ said Daniel thoughtfully. ‘Mr Steggles mentioned to us he was having discussions with one. A Hector Bleasdale. Do you know him?’
Bickerstaff looked at him in disapproval. ‘To be honest, Bleasdale and I are poles apart in political terms. We don’t really have anything to do with one another. I’ve read articles he’s written about the local military in magazines, and they’re well-written, if a bit dry. But they’re very much supporting the status quo.’
‘Still, he sounds like he might be our man. I’ll ask Steggles to arrange an introduction.’
Bickerstaff scowled, then added, in an angry tone, ‘While you’re with Bleasdale, ask him about Peterloo.’
‘Mr Steggles mentioned Peterloo to us,’ said Abigail. ‘He described it as a tragic incident.’
‘Tragic?’ Bickerstaff gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘I suppose that’s one way to describe the deliberate massacre of peaceful civilians by the military in a major city in England.’
‘What exactly happened?’ asked Abigail.
‘You don’t know?’ demanded Bickerstaff.
‘Only what Mr Steggles told us.’
‘One of the most infamous things to ever happen in this country, and you don’t know about it!’ There was no mistaking Bickerstaff’s anger now. ‘I thought you were supposed to be enlightened people.’