The Leaden Heart

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Long overdue,’ Harper said. ‘But first let’s make that connection to the Smiths. I’ll tell you what Fowler and Walsh have discovered …’

  ‘One last thing, sir,’ Ash said after he’d finished. ‘I took the liberty of calling in and having a word with the manager of Beckett’s Bank.’

  ‘What did he have to say?’ He’d met the man at a do once. A prig, a stickler for everything just so.

  ‘The Smiths no longer have access to their accounts, sir. Business or personal.’

  He was astonished. ‘How did you arrange that?’

  A wink. ‘All done with a handshake, sir.’

  He laughed. Freemasons. The brotherhood. Quite a few coppers were members. But no one had ever approached him; they knew he’d refuse.

  ‘Very handy.’

  ‘Didn’t you have a meeting today?’ Harper asked. He was at home, jacket on the peg, collar and tie gone, but he didn’t feel any sense of ease. Everything kept worrying at him. The Smiths. The burglar. They were so close. For once he wanted the telephone to ring and bring him some news.

  And the looming snake behind it all, Councillor May. He’d tried to shake off the words. No one would dare to have a copper killed like that. But the idea had wormed its way into his head.

  ‘Mr Hardcastle,’ Annabelle answered. She was in her day dress, plain brown cotton, high at the neck and three-quarter sleeves. Working clothes. ‘You’ve met him, older, bald, half an acre of grey side whiskers. He’s the leader of the Conservatives on the Guardians.’

  ‘Did he survive the encounter?’

  ‘He was a little surprised that a lady would treat him to luncheon.’ A wicked grin crossed her face. ‘But he listened to my proposals and he didn’t reject them straight off the bat. I’d say that’s something.’

  ‘It is.’ More than he expected. It didn’t mean he’d go for them, though. ‘What next?’

  ‘I have the pleasure of entertaining one of the Liberals. Don’t worry, I know they won’t fall over and accept everything. A little would be a start.’ She stared at him. ‘What’s wrong with you, anyway? You look miles away.’

  He told her. Not about the cases, but May’s visit, every word he spoke, seeing her grow angrier and angrier.

  ‘He said that?’ She was on her feet, arms folded, stalking around the living room. ‘He really said that? That he could have you killed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you told anyone?’

  ‘Ash. It was done in whispers. It would be my word against May’s.’

  ‘I’ll kill him myself.’ He’d never heard her sound so angry. ‘I’ll see him swing.’

  ‘He called you jumped-up.’

  ‘I don’t care what he says about me. It’s you I’m worried about.’

  She burned with a cold, determined fury.

  ‘He won’t win. We’re making sure of that.’

  ‘It’s not about winning, is it, Tom? It’s about you staying alive.’

  TWENTY

  ‘A quick word, sir,’ Tollman said as Harper walked into Millgarth. Another close morning. Half past six and already the shirt was sticking to his back, the white cuffs covered in smuts. God only knew what it would be like by two.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Constable Osborne,’ the sergeant said as he followed Harper into his office and closed the door. ‘I’m fairly certain he’s the one giving information to the Smiths.’

  ‘How certain?’

  ‘I’d stake my pension on it.’

  That was good enough for him; Tollman was no gambler. ‘Is he on duty today?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I told him not to cover his beat, that you wanted to see him.’

  Harper glanced at the clock. ‘How long has he been waiting?’

  ‘About half an hour, sir.’

  Long enough for the worry to build.

  ‘March him in. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.’

  The man tried to show nothing, standing straight, facing the wall ahead of him. But fear was in his eyes as they flickered around the room.

  ‘How long have you been on the force, Constable?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Three years, sir.’

  He turned to Tollman. ‘Good record?’

  ‘Fair, sir. More slipshod lately. Late a few times, caught away from his beat once.’

  ‘What do you have to say for yourself, Osborne?’

  The guilt rolled off him in waves.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Why did it happen at all?’ Harper asked.

  ‘I’ve had some problems at home, sir.’

  ‘Problems a little money might help, perhaps?’ The police were underpaid. A man on the beat barely earned enough to survive. The surprise was that more of them didn’t turn bad.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Do you know who the Smiths are, Constable?’

  A fragment of hesitation. ‘I know plenty of people called Smith, sir.’

  ‘Brothers. Jack and John. Ever met them?’

  ‘I don’t think, so, sir.’ He was a poor liar, sweating now, drops glistening on his skin. But he didn’t dare move to wipe them away.

  Harper stood. He wanted to face the man as he damned himself.

  ‘Sergeant Tollman believes you’re on the take, that you’re the Smiths’ man here.’

  ‘No, sir!’ But there was no power behind the denial.

  ‘How much do they pay you?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. I’m not like that.’

  ‘How much?’ Harper insisted. No answer. ‘How did they get to you?’

  Osborne swallowed hard. ‘It was my wife, sir. She was poorly and she needed to go into hospital. We didn’t have the money. They heard and offered to lend it to me.’

  ‘We have a fund for that type of thing. Why didn’t you come to us?’

  ‘Pardon me, sir,’ Tollman interrupted. ‘He’s borrowed twice before. He’s been slow paying it all back.’

  ‘I see. Go on, Constable.’

  ‘They said I could keep the money if I slipped them word about things here.’ He looked almost relieved to let the truth pour out. ‘Gave me a little whenever I told them something. I didn’t think it would do any harm, sir, and we needed the money, since my Esme can’t work now.’

  ‘You know what you’ve done, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He hung his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I really am.’

  ‘I’m not going to prosecute you,’ Harper told him after a moment, seeing the relief, ‘even though you’ve harmed our investigation.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘How did you get the information to them?’

  ‘If I had anything, I’d write it down. There was a place, by one of the gravestones at the church on Kirkgate. I’d leave it under a stone there.’

  Tollman looked at the constable with disappointed eyes.

  ‘As of this minute, you’re no longer a member of Leeds City Police,’ Harper said to Osborne. ‘I’m going to put a bad reference on your record. Hand everything to the sergeant and get the hell out of my sight.’

  Tollman marched him out. One two, one two. The superintendent stood, breathing slowly. One more avenue closed to the brothers. Office gone, informant gone, bank account closed, their house under observation. It was just a matter of time now. And the sooner it all happened, the better. Before anyone else died.

  First, a talk with Fowler. The sergeant had arrived, unshaved, his clothes rumpled, looking weary to the bone.

  ‘Walsh and I are taking it turn and turn about to watch the Smiths’ house, sir,’ he said. ‘I drew the night duty.’

  ‘Any sign of them?’

  ‘Nothing. No lights during the evening, didn’t see any movement behind the lace curtains.’

  Were they even there? Or still one step ahead?

  ‘We’ll give it a little while longer. I’ll stop and take a look this morning.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Harper raised his voice,
speaking to the whole room. ‘In case you’re wondering how the Smiths seemed to know what we were doing, they had a man here. A man on the beat. I dismissed him. We’re almost there. Let’s get to work. Fowler, you go home and sleep.’

  ‘Happily, sir.’

  ‘Mr Sissons, let’s take a walk.’

  Raglan Road was a little north of Yorkshire College, veering off Woodhouse Lane at an angle, tucked behind the open gymnasium area across from the moor. Neat terraces of three-storey villas, the bricks all blackened by soot drifting over from the factories.

  ‘Which one is it?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Thirty-six, sir.’

  The house had a glossy black front door, exactly the same as its neighbours. A front garden hardly bigger than a postage stamp, the grass withered from the heat. Donkeystoned steps. No sign of anyone as they passed, walked to the next corner, then crossed the street to the shade of an oak tree. Hidden enough not to be seen, but with a clear view of the front door. Just being out of the sun felt wonderful, Harper thought, fanning himself with his hat.

  ‘I’ll warn you now, there’s very little excitement in what we do. For the next several hours you’re going to stand here and see who comes and goes from that house.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Report back to Millgarth at six. If you see them going out with climbing gear, call it in.’ He pointed to the tiny police station at the junction with Clarendon Road.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sissons gave a tentative smile, not certain if it was a joke.

  From there, it was a ten-minute walk to find Walsh in Hyde Park. Brudenell Mount was one street in a mass of them, acre after acre of grimy red brick. The kind of place where people could hope and start to believe they were making something of their lives.

  ‘Any activity?’

  Walsh had found a space, a small nook in a ginnel overgrown with weeds. He looked bored and uncomfortable.

  ‘No, sir. My guess is that they’ve gone.’

  ‘It’s possible.’ But where? The Smiths had run out of options. Harper pulled out his pocket watch. ‘Give it until noon, then start talking to the neighbours. Don’t go into the house, though. Not on your own.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘If I don’t hear from you, I’ll send some men up this afternoon. Then you can go through the place.’

  That brought a grin. ‘Very good, sir.’

  Back into town. His chest was so tight that every breath felt painful. It was all coming to a head.

  The conversation with May kept playing in his head. He wanted to forget it, he’d tried to wrench it loose, but it clung on. Just words, they had to be, the man couldn’t be stupid enough to do more. But they’d had their effect. As he walked, Harper kept glancing over his shoulder, straining his ear for footfalls behind him.

  May wasn’t going to win this one.

  He made a circuit of the public houses, from the old Cork and Bottle on the Headrow down to the Royal Hotel by the railway bridge on Lower Briggate. Hurried conversations with a few more figures. About time they repaid their debts. By the time he reached Millgarth, he felt a little better. Soon, perhaps, some solid evidence against a pair of corrupt councillors. Maybe even that connection to the Smiths.

  Ash stood in the doorway. ‘I’ve been thinking, sir, maybe you’d like to buy me my dinner.’

  The superintendent patted his pockets.

  ‘It’ll have to be the cafe over in the market. I don’t have much money on me.’

  ‘That’s fine, sir.’ Ash grinned. ‘They’ll have the cottage pie today.’

  They did, along with liver and onions and mashed potatoes. Tea the colour of mud in large, cracked blue and white striped mugs. But no ghost of Tom Maguire in the place any longer. One of the few honest men he’d known, a socialist and union organizer, dead before he was thirty in his bleak, empty room. Maybe he’d finally moved on and found some peace. The man deserved it; the world had become a darker place in the four years since his death.

  Harper pushed his plate away and took a drink.

  ‘What did you want to say that’s better away from the station? And why don’t you trust the place?’

  ‘It should be fine now we’re rid of Osborne, sir. But better safe than sorry.’ His thick moustache twitched. ‘I had a little time, so I stopped to talk to a couple of pals of mine at the Town Hall.’

  ‘Do you trust them?’

  ‘We’ve known each other since we were nippers, sir.’ He understood; those years meant loyalty. ‘They had a few interesting tales about our friends in high places.’

  ‘How interesting?’

  ‘Envelopes passed to building inspectors to sign off on new houses that weren’t up to snuff. Enforced contributions from any contractors who wanted to bid for work. Things like that.’

  ‘Are they any worse than anyone else?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Ash agreed. ‘But this is all the time, every time. It’s not even hidden.’

  ‘Does it give us the North Leeds Company, though? That’s what we need. Something solid.’

  ‘They mentioned a few names. I thought I’d drop by for a chat with them this afternoon, if that’s all right with you. After all, it’s police time.’

  ‘You’re looking into possible crimes,’ Harper told him in a bland voice. ‘What could be wrong with that?’

  The inspector grinned. ‘I thought you might feel that way, sir. But with everything else going on …’

  ‘We have that covered for now. But I might need you about three.’

  ‘I’ll make sure I’m back by then.’

  No word from Walsh. He dispatched Ash with three large constables to Hyde Park. It was time to go into the Smiths’ house. They’d flown, he could feel it. But there might be some clue inside. They were on the run now. He had to find them and finish this off.

  The telephone call came just after four. Tollman had brought him a cup of tea and he was working through the papers on his desk, waiting for word. Harper snatched at the receiver.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Superintendent, sir?’ A voice he didn’t know.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Woodhouse station, sir. I’ve got a message for you from Inspector Ash. He says he wants you out here as soon as possible.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  The front door hung off its hinges, a uniformed constable keeping an eye on the neighbours who’d gathered.

  As soon as he was inside, Harper could smell it. Unmistakeable, an iron tang in his nostrils. Blood.

  ‘Cellar, sir,’ Walsh called from the kitchen. ‘Watch yourself, it’s a bad sight.’

  Someone had hung an oil lamp over the stairs. Gingerly, Harper clambered down, one hand steadying himself against the cold brick of the wall. With each step, the stench grew stronger. By the time he reached the bottom, it was overwhelming. He put a handkerchief over his nose.

  It wasn’t bad; it was horrific. Worse than Jeb Pearce or Douglas Cameron. The body on the floor was naked and bruised from head to toe. Wrists tied behind his back. Lying in a wide pool of blood where he’d been gutted, all the organs pulled out. A mass of flies buzzed and whirled around. White maggots were curled in the wounds that covered the flesh.

  Ash was there, squatting near the body.

  ‘I’d say he’s been dead since yesterday, sir. He must have been lying here the whole time we were watching the place.’ His voice was grim, full of shadows and dark corners.

  ‘One of the brothers?’ The way the face was beaten, every feature obliterated, he couldn’t begin to guess.

  ‘It might be, but I wouldn’t have a clue which one. Walsh is going through the house to see what he can find.’

  This was savage. Not anger. Complete, methodical, destruction.

  ‘The build and hair colour’s right for the brothers,’ Ash said as he stood. ‘The wagon’s on the way to take him to Hunslet. Both the doctors are out today. Post-mortem first thing in the morning, sir.’

  Harper stared at the corpse. Then he
asked the question that had bothered him since he saw the body.

  ‘If it’s one of the Smiths, why would he do this to his brother?’

  Ash ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. ‘I really don’t know the answer to that one, sir.’

  Billy Reed walked along Church Street. Past Elizabeth’s tea room, filled with holidaymakers, a few more queueing outside. She’d be in the kitchen, wiping the sweat off her face as she cooked up the meals. He spotted Catherine Bush, clearing away some plates, but the girl was too busy to notice him.

  The tide was out, people set up on every scrap of sand, sitting on towels and deck chairs to take in the sun. Another beautiful day. The owners of the hotels and guest houses were blooming with happiness; it was the best summer they could recall. Every room was booked until the end of August.

  The tea room was packed every day. Elizabeth was raking in money, but the long days were leaving her drained.

  ‘Never mind, Billy love,’ she’d said last night. ‘Another month and it’ll ease up. It’s the way things are, we have to make our money while we can. Winter will be dead, you know that.’

  He climbed the hill of Henrietta Street, pausing at the top where it petered into the grass of the cliff, and stared out at the water. A few fishing boats, out late in the day, bobbed like corks. Off in the distance, a steamship moved in a stately manner over the North Sea.

  No word from Tom about the case. He’d expected something by now. He scoured the papers every morning, going down to the railway station to buy the Yorkshire Post, but nothing.

  At least no one had tried to start any more fires here. Reed still spent his days checking, walking all over the town, peering in the alleys and the ghauts. But nothing. He was beginning to believe that the danger had passed. Part of him hoped that was true. Yet a tiny piece hoped it would continue and give him some real police work to do.

  Almost seven by the time Harper returned to Millgarth. He could still smell the blood, taste it on his tongue. The brutality of what he’d seen lingered as he walked into Millgarth and through to his office.

  Sissons sat, patiently waiting. Of course; he’d told the lad to report back at six.