He held her, feeling her body shake with anger and fear.
Harper took the second page of the list, ten men to talk to about Henry White. He was about to leave when Kendall called his name. The superintendent was sitting behind his desk, hair greyer than ever, thinning on the top. His cheeks had grown hollow; after so long in the job he was beginning to show his age.
‘Come back later and tell me what you’ve found.’
‘Of course.’
‘I want a word with you about something else, too.’ He smiled and drew the pipe from his pocket. ‘This afternoon.’
Curious, he thought as he walked through the outdoor market. Never mind; he’d find out later. Harper squeezed between the wives and servants, eyes open for pickpockets. Out on Kirkgate he climbed the worn stone steps between two buildings that led to Waterloo Court. It was a dank, airless place, mortar crumbling between the bricks of the buildings, weeds edging through cracks in the flagstones, half the windows missing their glass.
Adam Godfrey had a room at the top of a house, up two treacherous flights of stairs. At seventy-five, the miracle was that he could still manage them. But he was spry, as light on his feet as a dancing master, with a twinkle in his eye, constantly amused by life.
‘Mr Harper.’ A smile crossed his face as he opened the door. ‘Come in before you let in the winter.’
The room felt no warmer than the outdoors. No hearth, not heat of any sort. Godfrey picked a pile of blankets from the bed and wrapped them around himself as he sat and cocked his head.
‘Now, what brings you here?’
‘Henry White.’
The old man looked up at him. His gaze was clear and bright. ‘Got himself killed, didn’t he?’
‘I know. I found his body, Adam.’ He leaned forward until his face was just a foot away from the old man’s. ‘Think about it for a minute. Not even out for a day and he gets a knife in the chest.’ He let the words stick to Godfrey’s imagination. ‘Six months in jail and that’s his payment for keeping his mouth shut. Does that seem right to you?’
‘Course not.’ There was indignation in the man’s voice. Godfrey had served enough sentences in Armley in his time; everything from fencing goods to being caught climbing out of a window with a pocket full of jewellery. But there’d been no word of him doing anything wrong in the last few years. Either age had put him on the straight and narrow, Harper thought, or he’d finally become good at hiding his tracks.
‘Then tell me who set him up, Adam. Who had him too scared to speak?’
‘I’ve no idea, Mr Harper, and that’s the truth.’
‘You knew Henry. You taught him half of what he knew. Come on,’ he said, half-pleading, half-threatening. ‘Doesn’t he deserve that?’
‘I’m out of that game.’ The way he said it, the inspector believed him. A mix of wistfulness and triumph. ‘I hadn’t seen him in a long while before it all happened. I told you all this when you arrested him.’
‘You might have heard a whisper.’
But Godfrey simply shook his head. ‘Part of the problem with living at the top of the stairs. Whispers don’t reach this high.’
‘Ask around. If you hear anything …’
‘You know what Henry was like, Mr Harper. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. What they did to him was wrong.’ It was as close to a promise as the man was going to make.
Jonas Fox, Tobias Johnson – both of them claimed to know nothing, and he believed them. By dinner he could feel frustration starting to burn in his gut. He was close to Whitelock’s First City Luncheon Bar. John Whitelock had done a good job on the place; it was pulling in trade. Noon on a Saturday and it was full. Men in good suits, escaping shopping with their wives. Working men, caps and tired eyes and a deep thirst, their week just ended. All and sundry.
The tables were busy so he stood at the bar, eating a sandwich, a glass of beer in front of him. He was lost in his thoughts. Making his plans. More inquiries, then talk to Ash. See what Superintendent Kendall needed that was so important. Out to Burmantofts to visit Billy Reed and learn what he’d discovered about the acid attack. And if he was very lucky, not too late home.
Maguire’s death had hit Annabelle hard. She was taking the blame on her shoulders, as if she could have stopped it. They were friends, no doubt of that, with a history that ran all the way back to Leather Street on the Bank. But she couldn’t see that Maguire had kept her at arm’s length, the way he had with everyone else. He would never have let her come close enough to save him.
‘White had to go. That’s what Willie said, that’s what he was told.’
He caught the words at the very edge of his hearing, but even with his bad ear he was certain he’d made them out properly. Harper jerked his head around, looking for the speaker. Just a press of men in the small room, chatting in twos and threes. No faces he knew from his work. No one glancing about furtively or trying to slide away. Everyone innocent and nobody noticed him. Desperately, he strained, trying to pick out that voice again. Anything to identify the man.
Nothing.
He knew how bad his hearing had become. But he was sure of what he’d heard. Those exact words. They seemed so clear, so sharp.
Finally, Harper pushed his way through the crowd, out into the cold air of Turk’s Head Court.
Could he have imagined it? Twelve short words.
He looked over his shoulder, through the window and into the place. Maybe it was another White, he thought; the name was common enough. The reference could have been meant something entirely different.
Could. Maybe. Perhaps.
Not the kind of words a policeman wanted to hear. But deep in his gut he felt the truth.
More people to talk to during the afternoon. Plenty of questions but no more answers. Folk had liked Henry White; no one had a bad word to say about him. Men who’d go to his funeral and take a drink to remember him. Yet not a single one of them willing or able to say who’d been behind the robbery that put him in jail, or his murder. And Harper believed that none of them knew.
‘Who’s Willie?’ he asked. Blank responses, shakes of the head. One or two ventured names the inspector immediately dismissed. Another mystery.
It was after five when he returned to Millgarth. Ash was still out. That meant he’d learned nothing; any information and he’d have been back quick enough.
Harper knocked on the superintendent’s door. Time to see what the man wanted. He’d been too preoccupied to give it any thought.
‘Close it behind you, Tom.’
Just the two of them, the noises of the station muffled. Kendall puffed on his pipe, staring out of the window.
‘Tell me something – what do you want to do?’ he asked.
‘Do?’ He didn’t understand. Do? ‘What do you mean?’
‘In the force.’
‘I don’t know.’ The question took him aback. He had to scramble for an answer that made sense. ‘The same as now, I suppose. Solve crimes. Why?’
‘Because someone’s going to have to run all this after I leave.’
‘Leave?’ Harper stared at him blankly. Kendall was part of the place. He’d trained Harper as a detective, guided him. He was the officer who commanded at Millgarth.
The superintendent gave a weak smile. ‘You’re supposed to be the detective, Tom. Use your eyes. See.’
He looked again, and in a moment he realized. For God’s sake, how could he have failed to notice? The pale skin, the hollow cheeks. The haunted eyes.
‘I—’
‘Don’t start with sympathy,’ Kendall warned. ‘I’ve had enough of it to float a barge. I’ve already talked to the chief. I was back at the doctor. Turns out it’s worse than they thought. Going faster than they expected, so I’m leaving next Friday.’ He shook his head. ‘For whatever that’s worth, anyway. Maybe it’ll give me a little more time with the wife. But he asked me who I thought should take over here.’ The superintendent’s gaze was steady.
‘Me? But … come
on, sir.’ The brass would never accept him. A parcelful of reasons. His political sympathies for the working man rather than the bosses. His background, growing up in a terraced house in the Leylands. Married to an outspoken woman, a publican, a Suffragist speaker …
‘You,’ the superintendent told him. ‘Before I talk to him I need to know if you want it, Tom.’
He knew what the job involved. Countless hours behind a desk. Meetings with political men who’d forgotten what real crime was, if they ever knew at all. He wouldn’t be a copper any longer, not the way he liked to be. He’d become a manager, sitting behind that desk and shifting piles of paper around.
And yet …
He could make changes here. He knew how Millgarth worked. All the ins and outs. He could improve things. He could fight.
Then there was Annabelle. What would she say?
THREE
‘Well?’ she said, eyes wide. ‘What did you tell him?’
For the first time since she’d heard of Maguire’s death, there was a spark in her eyes. Her face had fallen when he told her about Kendall’s illness, the short time he had left. But now she leaned over the table, eager to know, her meal half-eaten and the plate pushed aside. Mary watched the pair of them, intent and curious. He let the moment linger.
‘Honestly, Tom, if you don’t say, I’m going to throttle you and it won’t matter!’
‘I told him to put my name forward,’ he said finally.
She gave him the widest smile he could remember.
‘I’m so proud of you. Superintendent Harper.’ She rolled the title around. ‘It has quite the ring to it.’
‘It doesn’t mean it’ll happen,’ he reminded her. ‘The chief will never go for it.’
Before she could answer, Mary said, ‘Da? What’s a supa-indendent?’
‘Well, you know I’m an inspector now?’ he began, and she nodded solemnly. ‘Superintendent is the next rank up.’ His mind raced for a way to make it clear. ‘It’s like one rung higher up the ladder.’
Mary looked at him, confused. ‘Will you have to climb ladders, Da?’
‘No.’ He laughed. ‘I hope not. Most of the time I’ll be sitting on a chair.’ He tousled her thick hair. ‘Anyway, it probably won’t happen.’
Later, when the little girl was asleep, he and Annabelle sat by the fire. She’d been leafing through Maguire’s book of poems, stopping here and there to read one. Her other books, all the political volumes and suffragist pamphlets, stood in a tottering pile by the chair, ignored for a few days.
‘Maguire and Kendall …’ She closed the cover and stared into the flames. ‘It makes you realize how fragile everything is, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ But he hadn’t been thinking of them. His mind was on Henry White again. Ash had brought nothing back with him, no thread they could pull. And neither of them knew anyone named Willie who ran a criminal gang.
‘The only one I can think of is Willie Binns, sir,’ the sergeant said eventually. ‘And he’d be hard pressed to lead himself, never mind anyone else.’
He must have misheard. Some other White, not Henry at all. That had to be the explanation. Still, he turned it over and over in his brain.
After Millgarth he’d gone up to Burmantofts. As he passed, he saw two men working in the bakery. Reed was at the house, in his shirtsleeves, no collar or tie, braces dangling at his sides. He’d put on a little weight in the last few years, the inspector thought. Not portly, but filled out. It suited him.
‘Found much?’ Harper asked once they were settled in the kitchen. A copy of the Leeds Mercury was folded on the table, Henry White’s murder the glaring headline.
‘You’ve heard how bad the attack was?’ Reed said. He took a cigarette from a packet of Capstan and lit it.
‘I saw the report. The lad’s blinded?’
‘He is. Poor Arthur.’ He sighed and shook his head at the hopelessness of it. ‘I sat down with his father this morning. I could hear the mother crying up in the bedroom. Too upset to talk.’
‘Was he able to tell you much?’
‘Not really. He was still in shock. You can imagine.’
Harper knew how he’d feel if someone hurt Mary. He’d rage for revenge; he’d destroy whoever was responsible. From the determination on Reed’s face, he felt the same about Elizabeth’s children.
‘Did he have any idea at all why it happened?’
‘No. He just looked baffled.’ He smoked in silence for a moment. ‘Elizabeth was down at the infirmary. That girl who works for her is going to be disfigured. Scarred for life.’
‘It couldn’t be anything to do with the girl, could it?’ Even as he spoke he knew it was a waste of breath; Reed was already shaking his head.
‘Not a chance. I talked to her mother. Annie has nothing to do with it.’
‘Then what do we have to go on?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘Mistaken identity?’
‘I’ve considered that. I just can’t see it. The attack was too precise.’ He shrugged. ‘But I’ve barely started digging.’
‘Let me know what you turn up.’
He didn’t mention Kendall’s illness or the possibility of his own promotion. No need. The word would pass soon enough. Instead he walked quickly back to Sheepscar and home.
After Harper left, Reed stared out of the kitchen window at the small yard. He exhaled, a wreath of smoke billowing around his head. There was one thing he hadn’t mentioned. It seemed too small, too hard to put into words. But he had the feeling that something wasn’t quite right, quite true, when Arthur Crabtree’s father talked. Maybe it was just his imagination. He was rusty on investigations like this. But he’d find out.
‘You’re miles away, Tom.’
Annabelle was standing by his chair, holding out her hand. He took it and rose, seeing that she’d banked the fire for the night and locked the door. He’d been drifting in thought.
‘I went over to the Bank this afternoon,’ she said as they settled in bed. Her head was against his chest; he seemed to feel her voice as much as hear it. ‘I wanted to see Maguire’s mother. She remembered me from all that time ago, can you believe it? And she made a right fuss of Mary.’ He could sense her smile. ‘Did you know he supported her?’
‘No.’ He’d known little about the man’s life. Giving money to his mother might explain why he lived with nothing.
‘The coffin will be there on Monday. Lying-in, and the funeral a week tomorrow.’
That would be big, he thought. Plenty of working men in Leeds owed Tom Maguire a debt. He’d fought hard for them, won them time, money, respect. They’d come out in their hundreds to pay their respects.
Morning. Harper scraped the frost from the inside of the window. A clear sky outside, brilliant blue, the sun pale as lemon above the horizon.
A heavy coat, gloves, muffler, and finally his soft felt hat, pulled down by his eyes.
Sunday, and the world was quiet. All the factories were closed. The bellowing roar of machines was silenced for a day, the only sound in the morning the click of his hobnail boots on the pavement.
The only life was in the Leylands, where the Jews made their home. Their Sabbath had ended the evening before. Now they were back to work, the buzz of sewing machines coming from the sweatshops as he passed.
Ash was already at Millgarth, poring over an old file. The ink had faded but the copperplate script was clear enough.
‘Henry White’s father, sir,’ he said. ‘I went down and dug it out. Looks like he was a bit of a character in his time. Made a little money and lost it, that seemed to be the story of his life. I just wondered if he might have created some enemies.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘People who might have seen Henry as a target.’
‘And?’
‘All I’ve found is ancient history,’ he answered with a smile. ‘But there might be something. A few pages to go yet.’ Ash gave a small cough. ‘There’s been a little talk, sir.’
‘Oh?’ Ha
rper perched on the corner of his desk.
‘The word is that Mr Kendall’s leaving.’
‘Is that right?’
‘And that you might be taking his place.’
Where in God’s name did they hear all this? The door had been closed when he and the superintendent spoke. The only person he’d told was Annabelle. But the rumours were running wild around the station.
‘It’s true that he’s going. Friday will be his last day.’ The inspector picked his words with care. ‘He’s ill. Very ill, it turns out. He probably doesn’t have too long left. But I don’t know who’ll be running this place after that.’
It was hardly a lie. He had no idea who’d be in charge. His name would be one of several, probably men with far more experience and less abrasive personalities than his. It wasn’t as if he expected the job. Right now all he wanted was to find Henry White’s killer.
‘First things first,’ Harper said. ‘Let’s keep looking.’
But Sunday was never a good day for searching. Businesses were closed, none of the beer shops or gin palaces open until evening. By ten he felt as if he’d wasted hours scuffling around Leeds for no result. Finally, as the clock sounded the hour at the Parish Church, he crossed Crown Point Bridge into Hunslet.
Dr King was the police surgeon, widowed, in his eighties, but still with a reputation as a ladies’ man, always flirting and paying court. He worked when he chose these days, but he was usually in the mortuary and laboratory under the police station on Hunslet Lane. His place. King’s Kingdom.
The smell of carbolic was strong, and other chemicals made his throat feel raw as Harper pulled open the door at the bottom of the stairs. Whistling, meditative and off-key, came from a room at the end of the corridor.
‘You took your time, Inspector. I expected you yesterday morning. Lost your eagerness?’
What remained of King’s hair was white. The jowls of his face grew larger and ruddier each year.
‘The body that came in on Friday,’ Harper began.
‘What do you want me to tell you?’ He put down the glass vial he’d been watching. ‘If you’ve seen him, you know how he died.’
On Copper Street Page 3