Skin Like Silver

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Down.’ Reed yelled. It was his training; he didn’t even have to think. He crouched behind a gravestone. Waiting for the next shot. Looking around. No one seemed to be hurt.

  The sergeant waved to Ash and dashed towards the wall. No more shots, just silence. The birds had scattered. He pulled himself up and over, into a lane beyond, the constable close behind. Reed glanced both ways. One led back to the Harrogate Road. No, he thought, and began to run in the other direction.

  A track led through the woods, down into the valley. He covered a hundred yards, Ash on his heels, and stopped. He tried to listen, but all he could hear was the blood hammering in his ears. His body felt like it was jangling. All around them the undergrowth was thick and wild.

  ‘He could be anywhere in here.’ No sign. No grass trampled or bushes moving.

  ‘You said he was trained, sir.’

  Reed nodded. ‘If he remembers what he learned, he could be six feet away and we’d never know.’ He looked around, frustrated. ‘We might as well go back. We’re not going to find him here.’

  Harper stood up, brushing the dirt off his suit. He’d seen the others run after Sugden. Now he just had to hope they’d caught him.

  The women were crying. Carr grasped his sticks tightly. He looked affronted, as if someone had stolen this moment from him.

  ‘What the devil’s going on?’ he bellowed.

  ‘You’ll be fine now, sir,’ the inspector assured him. Sugden had done what he came to do. Not kill. He’d been a sniper; he could have shot people if he’d wanted. A farewell to his sister?

  Carr glared. His son gave Harper a disdainful look.

  ‘He’s gone,’ the inspector said.

  ‘How can I be fine when someone’s trying to kill me?’

  ‘I don’t believe he was, sir. My men are after him.’ He looked at the vicar. ‘You can finish. You’ll be safe now.’

  ‘We should have been safe before,’ Robert Carr shouted. ‘That’s your bloody job.’

  Harper walked away. Where were the uniforms who should have been patrolling?

  He waited at the top of the lane for the others to straggle back. The longer they were, the more chance they’d found Sugden. But they came back on their own.

  ‘Not a chance in all those woods,’ Reed told him. ‘We looked around but there’s nothing I can see.’

  ‘I’ll get some people to start hunting. Any sign of those uniforms?’

  The sergeant shook his head.

  ‘Do you think he’s done now?’ Ash asked.

  ‘No,’ Reed answered quickly. ‘He’d have thrown down the gun and waited for us. If you ask me, he’s just beginning. He wants to settle scores.’

  It wasn’t a comforting thought. A man who knew how to use a gun looking for revenge.

  ‘I want to lead the search for him,’ the sergeant said suddenly.

  ‘What?’ Harper asked in surprise. He thought Billy wanted to return to the fire brigade as soon as possible.

  ‘I know how he thinks, Tom.’ When there was no answer, he continued, ‘I was a soldier too, remember.’

  The inspector weighed it in his mind. There was no one better suited to the task than Billy. He’d served, he knew what it was like. He’d stared into the same darkness as Stanley Sugden. And with Reed in charge he’d be free to concentrate on the other things.

  ‘Fine,’ he agreed after a little while. ‘It’s yours. As long as Dick Hill allows it.’

  ‘I’ll talk to him.’

  By the time they reached the churchyard, the mourners had all left. Only the two constables remained, and the gravediggers, filling in the hole.

  ‘Where were you?’ Harper snapped at the bobbies.

  ‘On the Harrogate Road, sir. We came as quick as we could.’

  He was a middle-aged man with a bland face. The other was younger, but equally empty.

  ‘Breathe,’ Harper ordered coldly, and smelt the beer. ‘You too.’ He noted down their numbers. ‘I’ll be reporting the pair of you for drinking on duty. Go back to the station, tell your sergeant. You’re dismissed here.’ He watched as they marched away, shoulders back. ‘Bloody idiots.’

  If they’d been here, doing their jobs … He shook his head and sighed. They had to make do with things as they were.

  ‘I’ll see you get a couple of bobbies to help you,’ he told Reed.

  ‘Try to find some who’ve been in the army.’

  The inspector looked at Ash. ‘You know anybody?’

  ‘Stowe,’ he answered. ‘Maybe Meers. But he might have been in the navy.’

  ‘I’ll talk to the super.’

  ‘I’m going to spend some time up here,’ the sergeant said ‘There are farms down in the valley. Someone might have seen him. Have them meet me in the station tomorrow morning.’

  ‘What do you think, sir? Is the sergeant right? Sugden’s not done yet?’

  The omnibus had brought them back into the centre of Leeds, among the smoke and soot and the people coughing.

  ‘Yes,’ Harper answered bleakly. ‘I think Mr Reed is probably correct.’

  ELEVEN

  Henry Reeve had done him proud; the article was on page three of the Mercury. When Harper walked back into Millgarth, Sergeant Tollman handed him ten slips of paper.

  ‘That’s what we’ve had so far, sir. I expect there’ll be more. And there’s a gentleman waiting for you.’ He consulted the ledger. ‘A Mr Martin. Arrived just after you left. Said you wanted to see him.’

  ‘That’s right. Bring him in.’ He passed on the information about the constables drinking on duty. ‘You know what to do.’

  ‘Indeed I do, sir.’ Tollman gave a grim smile.

  Patrick Martin’s expression was a curious mix of anger and resignation as he was led into the interview room. He held a small book in his hand and placed it on the table.

  ‘I’ve been waiting a long time, Inspector,’ he said.

  ‘My apologies. There was a problem. Thank you for your patience.’

  Martin seemed surprised by the courtesy.

  ‘I brought my diary.’ He pushed it across. ‘It shows everything I do.’

  Another diary. More words on the page. He wondered if that was how this would go, a case solved by reading. Before he could open it, a constable appeared with two cups of tea. It would make Martin feel more comfortable, and that might make him reveal more.

  Harper glanced through. Every day was broken down and detailed. On the opening pages Martin had described the spiritual life of the Quarry Hill district:

  The prevailing vices are there – adultery, fornication, drunkenness, swearing and gossiping. The Lord’s Day is awfully profaned – washing, baking, and sleeping in the afternoon, and in the evening, drinking.

  He riffled through the pages, picking up on a note.

  Since I came to the district, eleven children have died from burning; and to me it is no wonder, when I find so many houses left with the children, and the mothers ‘throng’ gossiping with their neighbours.

  Every day Martin was rebuffed, but it didn’t seem to discourage him. Left a tract, and we parted friendly. He was cursed away from doors, threatened. Still, he didn’t give up.

  Martin even wrote about standing and praying outside the suffragist meetings, and the names of the men he met. The night Catherine Carr died, he’d been visiting a family where the mother was dying, and stayed by the woman’s bed until her last breath. That would be easy enough to check.

  For the night before, when she’d seen someone watching her window from the street, there was no entry. Other evenings showed the same.

  ‘What does it mean when you’ve written nothing?’ Harper asked.

  ‘I was at home.’ He smiled. ‘I’m allowed a little time off, Inspector. Even from God’s work.’

  Martin was dedicated, no doubt of that. Six days a week, usually from early to very late, then praying all Sunday. Only a few snatched evenings to himself. He read more, jottings here and there.

&nbs
p; ‘Who sees this?’

  ‘My superior. It’s a record of what I do.’

  ‘Do you know where Tramway Street is?’

  ‘No,’ Martin asked. ‘Should I?’

  ‘It’s in Sheepscar. Mrs Carr lived there before she was killed.’

  The man shook his head and Harper almost believed him. There was so much of the innocent about him. He truly believed everything he said about heaven and hell. And it seemed as if he did some good deeds. Food for a starving family, finding blankets for those who were cold.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t commit murder.

  ‘I wouldn’t even know how to find it.’

  ‘It’s not far from Quarry Hill.’ He paused. ‘She believed a man was watching her.’

  ‘It wasn’t me, Inspector.’ Martin’s voice was soft, his gaze steady.

  ‘He had fair hair, side whiskers, and a bowler hat.’

  He saw something flicker across the man’s face.

  ‘There are plenty of men like that.’

  ‘I know,’ Harper agreed easily. ‘But you can understand my questions. You stand outside the suffragist meetings …’

  ‘I pray for them,’ Martin corrected him and Harper shrugged.

  ‘You’re still there regularly. To me, that’s a connection.’

  ‘I’ve never harmed or killed anyone.’

  They looked at each other. The inspector tried to read the expression in the man’s eyes. Fear? Hurt? He couldn’t tell. Finally he placed the diary in front of Martin.

  ‘I’ll need to follow up on some things, but you’re free to go. For now.’

  At the door Martin turned and opened his mouth to say something. Instead he just shook his head once and left.

  He was convincing. But good liars were everywhere. He wasn’t prepared to cross Patrick Martin off the list yet.

  More tips on the rapist had arrived. He gave half of them to Ash and took the remainder. It was a waste of an afternoon. Trailing around from factory to shop, around poor streets where soot clung to the houses. The only good thing was the wind, fierce enough to blow the smoke away from Leeds. But even that brought grey skies and tiny needles of rain that stung his cheek.

  He spent twenty minutes at the Garden Gate public house in Hunslet, where the coughing was louder than the conversation. A man with a lisp, but after a while he proved he’d been on the night shift when the rape happened. Ten minutes talking to a shop clerk in Armley who was forty at least; he’d been at home with his family that night.

  Kirkstall, Burley. Two more and no one who resembled Nellie Rider’s description. By six, his feet aching and mind too full of nothing, Harper gave up. The others would wait for tomorrow. And there’d probably be more to go with them.

  On the tram out to the Victoria he gnawed at the problem of Catherine Carr. He wanted answers, something solid he could follow, but it all seemed out of reach. As if the answer was teasing him.

  He’d get there in the end, but it was starting to feel like a long slog. In his mind he’d gone over everything, again and again. He knew he’d done everything correctly, turned over every stone. But so far no solution. Not even a suspect who felt right.

  Harper stared out of the window, not seeing the pedestrians. Lost in his own head.

  Reed had no better joy in Gledhow Valley. None of the farmers had spotted a stranger with a shotgun. Back at Millgarth, two coppers were waiting for him. Bob Stowe had served ten years in the artillery and still held himself like a soldier. Arthur Meers was a navy man, barely tall enough to become a copper. He explained to them about Sugden, watching as they nodded with understanding, then sent them off to Hunslet, to ask questions in the streets where the man had grown up and see if there were any relatives around.

  He’d gone out to Carr’s boot works to talk to the foreman, glad to see the policeman still on guard at the gate. Sugden had worked there a few years, he must have had some friends. The sergeant came away with two names, troublemakers who hung on to their jobs by the skin of their teeth, the foreman told him.

  A few more questions and he discovered where they drank; they spent their evenings at the Royal Inn, close to where Sugden had grown up.

  With time to kill he returned to town, and walked into the fire station. It felt strange, as if months had passed since he’d been there instead of no more than a few days. The engine stood there, just cleaned, puddles of water on the floor, and he could hear the men in the back room.

  They were pleased to see him, gathering round, making tea, sitting and talking. They were his comrades. For months they’d looked after each other and worked as a team. A unit. He’d trusted his life to them.

  But now he felt as if a wall separated him from them. He’d been gone less than a week, but somehow it seemed like a lifetime. There was a new sergeant, a face he didn’t know, standing back quietly, holding a mug of tea in his hands.

  ‘Missed us, Sarge?’ Jem Hargreaves laughed.

  ‘I’ve had holes in my head I’ve missed more.’

  ‘We love you too, Sarge.’

  It was easy, fun, but distant. He felt as if he was talking to people who were slipping away into his history. Finally, as the clock hands moved, he stood.

  ‘I need to get back to work. We can’t all spend our days sitting around.’

  ‘You’re just jealous, Sarge. When are you coming back?’

  ‘Soon,’ he promised. ‘Once this case is done.’

  He didn’t mention the new job; Hill obviously hadn’t told them. And he didn’t say anything about the image that kept slipping into his mind, Catherine Carr, her body half covered in shining metal.

  ‘Come home safe,’ Reed told them as he left.

  The Royal Inn stood on South Accommodation Road, a small building that looked up the hill towards Cross Green. The landlord stood behind the bar, a small man with broad shoulders, shirtsleeves rolled up to show thick forearms, his red waistcoat tight around a bulging belly. Reed introduced himself.

  ‘I’m looking for Willie Tanner and Harold Carey,’ he said.

  ‘Oh aye? What have they done?’

  ‘I didn’t say they had.’

  The landlord raised an eyebrow in disbelief. He nodded towards two men sitting together, eating pork pies and drinking beer. ‘Over there.’

  They looked up as the sergeant approached.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Reed. Willie Tanner and Harold Carey?’

  One by one, they nodded. Tanner coughed, then drank quickly. Carey glowered.

  ‘What do you need?’ he asked. His body was heavily muscled, the smell of leather ingrained in his skin.

  ‘You both know Stanley Sugden?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Have you seen him since he escaped from the asylum?’ Carey looked away. Tanner began to cough again, covering his mouth with his hand. But neither gave an answer.

  ‘He came to his sister’s funeral today and fired a gun.’

  ‘A man deserves to say goodbye to his kin.’

  ‘Is that what you think, Mr Tanner?’

  The man raised his head defiantly. ‘It’s right enough.’

  He could feel the tension, the other men in the pub stopping to watch.

  ‘I’ll say this once: if you know where he is, tell me now. If I think you’re lying, I’ll take you down to the station and question you. Trust me, you won’t like that. Are we clear?’

  Carey stood quickly, fists clenched. But Reed stood his ground and smiled.

  ‘Hitting a policeman is a sentence in Armley,’ he said softly. ‘Sugden’s not worth it.’

  Carey sat again, the squeak of his chair the only sound in the place.

  ‘Well?’ the sergeant asked. ‘What’s it going to be? Last chance.’ Tanner leaned forward and muttered something to his friend. ‘What?’

  ‘I said he should tell you.’ The man’s voice was raw. He coughed again, bringing something up into a handkerchief. ‘Go on,’ he told Carey.

  ‘He came to see me,�
�� the man admitted. ‘Early this morning.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  Carey shrugged. ‘A wash and summat to eat. I couldn’t say no, he’s a mate.’

  ‘You must have talked to him when he was there. Did he say what he was going to do?’

  ‘He din’t talk much. Never was much for that.’

  ‘He must have said something.’

  ‘Came for the funeral.’

  Reed shook his head. ‘There’s more to it than that.’ He placed his hands on the table and leaned forward until his face was close to Carey’s. ‘What else?’

  ‘Revenge.’

  ‘What kind?’ the sergeant asked, although he could guess.

  ‘He didn’t say. Just told me it was the time to do it.’

  ‘Time? What does that mean?’

  ‘No idea,’ the man answered, staring into his eyes. ‘He didn’t make any sense. Just that it was the right time to do it.’

  ‘Where he is now?’

  ‘Not at mine.’ Reed stared at him disbelievingly. ‘Go and look if you like.’

  ‘I’ve not seen him,’ Wheeler added.

  ‘You two had better be telling me the truth. If he comes back, I want to know.’ He waited. ‘You understand?’

  They nodded.

  ‘Revenge,’ Carey repeated. ‘That was all he said.’

  TWELVE

  Harper finally climbed the stairs at the Victoria and turned the doorknob. He felt weary, drained.

  Annabelle was pacing round the room. Her hair had come out of its clips, and hung loose on her shoulders. A nib and paper lay on the desk, words written and crossed out. She had a frantic expression, biting her lip as she looked at him.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. He opened his arms as she came to him, trying to hold her close, but her fists grabbed at his coat. ‘What’s wrong?’

  After a long time she pulled back, her fingers still clutching his sleeves. There was fear in her eyes, something he’d never seen before.

  ‘Annabelle …’ he began. ‘What’s happened?’

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘You remember I told you that Miss Ford wants me to become a speaker at meetings?’ He nodded. ‘She wants me to start the day after tomorrow. The woman they’d booked is poorly.’ She began to pace again. ‘I can’t do it, Tom. I can’t bloody do it.’