On Copper Street

by Chris Nickson

  ‘A couple of the local lads have gone to bring this John,’ Ash said when he returned. ‘Seems he’s quite well known around here.’

  ‘Now we have somewhere to begin.’

  Armley only had a police sub-station, too small for all the men on the investigation. Instead they’d taken over the empty second floor of a grocer’s shop, a room that stretched back a good thirty feet from the street. Not perfect, but it was on the spot and it had gas lighting. From the window, Harper could look down and see where Conway had been shot.

  Gravedigger John didn’t come willingly. A pair of grim-faced bobbies dragged him up the stairs, holding his arms tight to keep him upright. The man was rank, with uncombed, greasy hair and a beard that hung all the way to his belly. Ragged clothes and filthy hands, his nails torn. He stank of spirits, so drunk his eyes couldn’t focus. Useless.

  ‘Sober him up,’ Harper ordered. ‘I want him back here and coherent in ten minutes.’

  John’s hair was dripping and he shivered from the cold water when he returned. But at least there was something besides alcohol in his gaze.

  ‘Henry White,’ the superintendent began, shouting out the name when the man said nothing.

  ‘Dead.’ John mumbled and looked down at the ground.

  ‘I know that,’ Harper yelled. ‘Tell me what you had to do with him.’

  ‘I used to look after things for him.’ The man mumbled so low he could barely catch the words. He took hold of John’s chin and dragged his head up.

  ‘What things?’ he said slowly, clearly. ‘Where did you keep them?’

  The liquor was powerful on his breath. ‘Things he stole.’

  ‘When did you see him last?’ He could feel the pulse pounding in his neck, his fingers tight on the other man’s jaw. ‘When?’

  ‘Before he went into jail the last time.’ John’s eyes were open wide now, the whites large around the pupils. He was becoming more sober by the second. Scared. Petrified.

  ‘Did he leave something with you?’ A nod. ‘What?’

  ‘A sack. I buried it.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘Still there. He never came back for it.’

  Harper felt a surge of hope. He tried to steady his breathing, to calm himself down a little.

  ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘Burglary, of course.’

  ‘Where?’ He stared into the man’s eyes.

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Who was he going to sell to?’

  John looked uneasy, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘Said someone wanted to buy it, but they didn’t want to pay him enough.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me. Just J.D. this, J.D. that.’

  ‘J.D.?’ Harper asked, feeling a sharp jolt right through his body. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Yes,’ John answered, then looked at him. ‘Why?’

  He had it. The connection.

  ‘Who’s J.D.?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He could feel John starting to panic and draw in on himself. ‘Never heard it before he said it.’ His eyes moved around, searching for help. ‘Honest.’

  Harper believed him. The gravedigger was so terrified he’d have given them the world if he had it.

  ‘You’re going with Inspector Ash and a pair of constables, and you’re going to dig up that sack.’ John started to open his mouth, but the superintendent didn’t give him the chance to speak. ‘Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. You’ll do as I tell you and then you’ll make sure you don’t go far. Understand?’ He waited. No nod. No answer. He took the man by his lapels. ‘I said, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ John answered grudgingly.

  TWENTY-THREE

  What did it all mean? He had a definite link between this J.D. and Henry White. And the initials were in the papers Willie Calder had put in his deposit box. That linked the three of them together. But what did it prove? Where did it take them?

  Gravedigger John didn’t have the wit to lie, and he couldn’t have made up the name J.D. So White was hiding the silver from J.D. after agreeing to sell it to him. Holding out for a better price.

  A short while after that, Henry White had gone to jail rather than name any names after he’d been arrested carrying stolen silver. That part didn’t make sense, and the superintendent couldn’t immediately see his way through the haze; but somewhere behind it all there had to be a pattern.

  Conway must have learned that John knew something.

  Harper scribbled notes of passing thoughts and ideas as he tried to make sense of it all. Where had Conway found his information? How had his killer found out? Had someone already been following him? Why? What did they suspect? Was it J.D.? Questions, more questions, and no bloody answers.

  Ash’s boots banged on the steps, followed by the jangle of metal as he tossed the sack to the floor. Some of the hessian had disintegrated, and dark earth clung to the material.

  ‘He buries things deep, I’ll give him that,’ the inspector said with admiration. ‘No wonder it was still there.’

  But Harper was already on his knees, fingers working on the knot that kept the bag closed. Finally he tipped everything out on the floorboards.

  Five pieces, none of them particularly large.

  He brushed the dirt away. The silver was tarnished, but the craftsmanship glowed. There was quality here. Someone had spent a lot of money on these items.

  The superintendent bit his lip, trying to recall. No, he was absolutely certain; no one had ever reported these items stolen.

  But why not?

  ‘Good God,’ he said as he turned each one in his hands. A snuff box on tiny, dainty legs. A small, two-handled cup. Other items he couldn’t identify. He dug down in the sack, scrabbling around and hoping for something more. But it was empty. ‘What do you make of that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ash said. ‘We need to get it all identified and valued, don’t we, sir? Maybe we’ll have a better idea after that.’

  He wasn’t about to entrust the silver to a constable and the inspector was needed to co-ordinate everything here. He’d take it himself.

  ‘We know that Conway had talked to Tolliver. Find out where he was before that,’ Harper said. ‘It could be the key.’

  ‘I’ll keep looking.’

  It felt ridiculous to be carrying expensive stolen silver in a brown paper package tied with string. But it was all he could find, watching as a helpful grocer wrapped it for him. The hackney jolted and bounced over through Leeds, dropping him off on Commercial Street.

  People milled around. He squeezed through the press of folk on the pavement and into Noble’s, the silversmith. The man was an expert; he’d helped the police before.

  ‘This is beautiful work,’ Noble said as he examined each piece. He had a loupe carefully screwed into one eye, holding the silver in the light as he stared. ‘Simple and perfect. Very good indeed. I’ll need to clean it up, but it’s definitely the real thing and it’s worth plenty of money.’

  ‘How much?’ the superintendent asked.

  ‘A very conservative estimate?’ Noble considered the sum for a moment. ‘I’d say two hundred pounds. Probably more than that.’

  A small fortune, Harper thought. ‘I need to know what you can tell me about it all. We’ve found it but I don’t recall anything like this going missing.’

  ‘I know.’ Noble removed the magnifier and gave a satisfied smile. ‘Believe me, I’d have heard about silver of this quality being stolen. Off the top of my head, I don’t know where these are from. I’m happy to try and find out.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’ He calculated quickly. ‘Come back this time tomorrow and I’ll see what I can do. I’ll clean these up properly, too.’

  To Millgarth again, keeping an eye on everything and making sure everyone had the latest word. Then it was over to the Town Hall to brief the chief constable. It felt as if he was constant
ly on the move. And back to Armley by half past eight.

  Lights illuminated the room. Someone had brought tables and chairs, and coppers worked, their shoulders hunched. Ash strode around like a schoolmaster, stopping to answer questions or ask them. A fever seemed to burn in the place. Everything was urgent. Everything was now.

  ‘Any progress?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Not that you’d notice, sir. There are still some men out asking questions.’ Ash brought a half-hunter from his waistcoat pocket and flicked the lid open. ‘They should be done by ten.’

  ‘Nothing from the search?’

  ‘We had to stop when it grew too dark. We’ll start again in the morning.’

  ‘Go home,’ Harper told him. ‘I know Conway was your friend, but you won’t be much good here if you’re dog tired.’

  ‘In a little while, sir.’

  ‘Make sure you do,’ he said. How often had Kendall given him the same order? And how often had he obeyed?

  ‘I went to see Mark’s wife.’

  ‘How is she coping?’ But even as he spoke, he knew it was a stupid question. For god’s sake, her husband had just been murdered, her world had fallen apart. He should really have gone himself, he was the senior officer. But his mind had been on the investigation, not the widow and family. Now the guilt began to gnaw at him.

  ‘As well as you’d expect, sir.’

  ‘I’ll visit her in the morning. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Just make sure the force takes care of them.’

  ‘I will.’

  He was home by midnight, the cab drawing up outside the Victoria. The pub was dark, the streets empty, with only the eerie, bobbing glow of the gaslights along Roundhay Road. Harper glanced in at his daughter, caught in the innocence of sleep, then settled into his own bed.

  ‘Have you caught him?’ Annabelle asked, her voice completely awake.

  ‘We don’t even know who did it. Got a description, that’s all.’

  ‘I was downstairs in the pub earlier. It was all they were talking about.’

  No surprise, he thought. It was the first time a policeman had ever been shot in Leeds. It was the kind of event people would remember. The centre of conversation for weeks.

  She snuggled against him, quickly drifting off to sleep again. Harper’s thoughts eddied and swirled as he lay. He didn’t know when he finally rested, but he was awake before five, washing and dressing quickly, catching the first tram into town.

  Papers were waiting on his desk, but they were nothing that related to the killing; they could wait. There was no new gossip among the beat bobbies; nothing had happened overnight. He took a hackney to Armley.

  Ash was already there, giving commands to a full complement of men. Some were assigned to the investigation; others had finished their shift and arrived to volunteer their time. It was something they could do, the way they could help.

  The inspector’s suit was brushed, he’d combed his hair and shaved. But the dark rings stood out under his eyes and his voice sounded exhausted.

  ‘I told you to go home last night,’ Harper said.

  ‘I did, sir.’ Ash shook his head slowly. ‘Couldn’t slow my mind down enough to sleep. In the end I gave up and came back. My Nancy’s gone over to the Conways to do what she can.’

  ‘Do we have anything new?’

  ‘One possible. The men were in the public houses last night. Someone swore they saw Sergeant Conway coming out of a building a mile up Town Street earlier yesterday.’

  ‘Who lives there?’ Harper asked urgently. ‘Get them in here.’

  ‘That’s the problem, sir: it’s empty. Hasn’t been anybody living in the place for a couple of years.’

  ‘Wrong address?’ he asked. ‘What about the places either side?’

  ‘We’ve tried all around. No one remembers seeing Conway or anyone else.’

  ‘What about the man who told you?’

  ‘I went round to his house first thing, sir, dragged him out of bed. He swears it’s true, he saw it with his own eyes. And Mark Conway had arrested him before. He knew him.’

  Two steps forward, one step back. It wasn’t the dance he wanted.

  ‘Keep trying.’ The superintendent looked around at all the willing faces with pride. ‘No shortage of people.’

  ‘Hardly surprising, is it, with a murdered copper. He’s family. I’ve had to send half a dozen home because I’ve nothing for them to do. They’ll get some sleep and come back later.’

  ‘We need progress.’ He heard the echo of Kendall in his words, all those times the man had said that exact thing to him. He saw Ash push his lips together and set his jaw, the way he’d done so often himself. ‘I’m sorry. I know you’re doing everything you can.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking sir. Mark was killed with a gun. A revolver. There aren’t many who could have them, sir. As far as I can tell, anyway. We ought to look into gun owners. Just in the background, in case we can’t get anywhere else with the investigation.’

  The superintendent nodded. ‘You’d do well to go through items taken in burglaries.’ He paused, trying to remember. ‘I think there was one last year when a pistol was taken. But I’m sure we found it and arrested the man.’

  Ash’s face fell. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Never apologize for having ideas,’ Harper told him. ‘We need to try everything.’

  ‘What we need is success.’

  ‘No one could be doing a better job for Sergeant Conway than you.’

  Ash gave a quick nod and returned to work.

  Outside, a young reporter was waiting in his cap and heavy coat, clutching a notebook and pencil. He looked weary; God only knew how long he’d been standing there.

  ‘Superintendent!’ he called. The poor lad had hope in his eyes. Harper thought. And people needed to know what was going on. The killing of a policeman would have shocked them all. Maybe they’d be willing help the coppers for once.

  ‘Come on. I’ll give you twenty minutes over a cup of tea.’

  It was closer to half an hour in the end, the newspaperman scribbling away between questions.

  Harper was open in his answers; at least, he sounded that way. It was an act, the senior officer’s trick Kendall had suggested to him. Sleight of hand, as much as any magician working the music halls. He kept back many details, quite deliberately, things only the killer and the police would know.

  All too often bobbies would blab to the papers for the price of a drink. But for once they’d all been tight-lipped, too stunned, too horrified to talk. That body on the cobbles could be them.

  By the time the superintendent finished, the man was grinning. He knew he had a good article, and the competition wouldn’t even come close today.

  ‘We’re doing everything we can,’ Harper finished. ‘We’re going to find whoever killed Sergeant Conway, we’ll put him in court and we’ll see him hang.’ He paused to let the reporter’s pencil catch up. ‘But we also need all the assistance that members of the public can give us.’

  Of course it was a brazen appeal. But it was true. Anything, everything would help. It was better to have leads to chase down, even if they came to nothing. Right now, they were scrambling, hunting for scraps, although he was never going to admit that.

  The reporter lapped up the words like cream, full of gratitude as he left. Now he just had to hope the article did some good. It would be on the front page this evening, read all over town.

  He counted out his coins for the waitress, but she wouldn’t take them. ‘I heard you. You’re one of them trying to find that bobby’s killer, aren’t you?’ When he nodded, she continued, ‘Your money’s no good here, luv. None of you.’

  He thanked her and left it on the table anyway. People would never stop surprising him with their kindness.

  Another hackney back into the city centre. Time to find out about the items that had been buried.

  Noble the silversmith took him through to the workroom behind th
e shop. The silver was there, glittering, hypnotic in its beauty. The superintendent bent and looked close, admiring it.

  ‘What can you tell me about it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the most remarkable thing. Every piece of silver carries a hallmark to say who created it. An identification of the maker.’ Noble paused, waiting until Harper nodded his understanding. ‘The hallmark here is BB. It took me a while to find out who that was.’ He gave a smile of anticipation.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘These were done by a Leeds man, late seventeenth century.’ Noble paused and frowned. ‘There’s a problem, though, a big one. We only have one piece that we know is by him. A spoon. Nothing like these. There’s no record of these at all.’

  ‘But …’ Harper began, and realized he didn’t know what to ask. ‘Are they genuine?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m positive of that. But I’ve no idea where they came from. These are a great discovery, but out of the blue. As far as anyone knows, these don’t even exist.’

  ‘I see.’ God, this grew more and more tangled. But perhaps there was someone who could help.

  The tram took him out along Woodhouse Lane, past the Moor, all the way up Otley Road to the bustle of suburban shops around North Lane. He walked down until he stood outside Willie Calder’s old house, on the cusp between Headingley and Kirkstall. Very respectable, three-storey villas.

  Through the window he could see the place was empty. No curtains, and he could imagine the way his footsteps on the bare boards would echo around. The place had held secrets, he knew that in his bones. But they’d all gone now. It was just wood and plaster and brick, and soon enough it would be filled with other memories.

  The woman had a new home in Holbeck, she’d told him that. He needed to see her. Soon. He thought about Willie Calder, and his mind moved to Henry White, remembering the way the man looked as he was released from Armley, walking out of the gate with a dazed expression, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was real. The superintendent could hear his own words as he pressed Henry, giving him a day to come up with the names. It would have been kinder to insist on getting them there and then. Who knew how many more might have been alive if Harper had done that?