‘He’s somewhere,’ the inspector said.
‘Probably,’ Reilly chuckled. ‘I doubt God spirited him away.’
‘He raped a girl. Remember that. He threatened to kill her.’
‘Drink can make a devil of a man. We all know that, Mr Harper.’
‘I don’t care what the hell it does,’ the inspector said, although he knew the words were true. ‘I want him. Ten bob as a reward.’
He didn’t have the superintendent’s approval for that. Not yet. But it was good money, enough to tempt people into telling tales.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Reilly had three fingers missing from his left hand. An accident with a power loom when he was a boy working at Bank Mill. There were no jobs for a lad who couldn’t be nimble. Seamus was twenty-five now, with a sour face and ragged eyes. But his eyes still sparkled when he laughed.
‘Ask around.’
‘I know the score, Inspector.’ He held up the empty mug and Harper signalled for another, dropping a coin on the table.
‘I need him soon, Seamus. The sooner the better.’
Reilly raised the fresh glass in a toast. ‘May you have warm words on a cold evening.’
He’d heard it before, an old toast among the Irish. But apt today, he thought. Very apt.
None of the other informers had anything for him. Grady had disappeared. But chasing each one down took time; it was almost seven o’clock when he finished, the street lamps shining through the autumn gloom.
Leeds was still busy, people passing to and fro, carters on their way home, the rumble of the iron wheels of trams. The hackneys hurried along, squeaking in and out of the traffic.
It was quieter on Cookridge Street, away from the bustle. The Town Hall loomed large, brooding over everything, the stone as black as if it had burned. The Mechanics’ Institute stood halfway up the hill, an expanse of stone steps rising up to the building.
A few women were gathered outside the doors, talking in low, serious voices. Harper nodded to Hardaker, the union man, and noticed a copper standing across the street. About bloody time, he thought. The inspector made his way past them, inside the tall entrance with its tiled floor.
Most of the seats were taken. Women in expensive wool coats and elaborate hats decorated with plumes and feathers sat next to others wrapped in threadbare shawls, women they’d never know elsewhere. Voices came from the balcony upstairs.
The stragglers arrived, settling on to chairs and letting the atmosphere surround them. In just a minute it was as hushed as any church. A line of four wooden chairs was spread across the stage. Harper stood at the back of the room, close to the doors, keeping in the shadows where Annabelle wouldn’t see him.
The speakers came out. She was there, looking pale and nervous, sitting primly, hands in her lap. She was wearing one of her favourite gowns, purple and blue silk that looked iridescent in the light from the mantles. Her hair was pinned up, showing her thin neck. Harper watched her eyes search the audience for friendly faces, but he stayed out of view; he’d see her later, when she was done.
The first two speakers both had sharp, precise voices. Their crisp tones and words seemed to echo each other. Women needed a say in running the country. Men made the law for themselves. It might have carried more weight if the first woman’s husband didn’t run a factory where mill girls earned pennies a week and didn’t know from one day to the next if there’d be work for them.
The voices boomed off the high ceiling. Harper moved until he found a spot where even his bad ear could pick out every word. He waited and fidgeted. Looked at his pocket watch every few minutes and scanned the crowd, alert for any possible trouble.
Finally it was Annabelle’s turn. She moved tentatively to the front of the stage, peering out, and cleared her throat.
‘Well,’ she said with a smile, ‘now I know what it must be like to be on the halls. I feel like I should sing a song or something.’
A few chuckles from the audience. Annabelle took a deep breath.
‘You don’t know me,’ she continued. ‘No reason you should, really. I run a public house in Sheepscar. It’s nothing grand but it pays the bills. And I grew up on the Bank.’ She lifted her head, as if she was challenging them to say something. ‘I know what they say: grow up on the Bank and you’ll never amount to anything. I’ve heard it all my life.’ She had a rhythm now, pacing back and forth along the edge of the stage. ‘I started out in the mills when I was nine. It’s a hard life, I can tell you that right now. Moved into service a few years later because it paid better and it wasn’t as dangerous.’ With a quick smile, she held up her hands, palms outwards. ‘I’m still not above scrubbing a floor if it needs it, or giving something a cleaning. Most of the girls I played with ended up doing the same. Maids or mills. If I ever see them now, the ones who are married have five or six children and husbands who bring in next to nothing every week. They survive, and that’s all they do. It’s down to the pawnbroker with the good clothes of a Tuesday morning so they can last until their men are paid. Redeem everything Friday evening. Do you know what they wish for when they’re walking down the street holding everything of value that they own? That their little ones will have something better. But they won’t.’ She stopped to stare down at them. The room was absolutely quiet. ‘Do you know why not? Because there’s no one to speak up for them. They live, they die. Probably half of the girls I played hopscotch with when I was in pinafores are in the ground now.’ She paused. ‘I’m not saying having the vote would put everything right. I’m not a fool. Men will still run things, same as they always have. There’ll still be more poor people than you can shake a stick at. But at least we’ll have a say. All of us. That’s the women on Leather Street, where I grew up, as much as anyone here.’ Annabelle shook her head and a strand of hair came loose, hanging down on her cheek. She brushed it back quickly. ‘Maybe they need it even more than us. I’ll tell you something else. Every day, every single day, I see women with all the hope gone from their faces. It’s been battered away long before they’re old enough to work. And we need hope. That’s why every woman needs the vote. Every man, too. The only way those men standing for Parliament will ever do anything is if they need our votes to win. Half their promises will still vanish into thin air. Of course they will, they always do. And they still won’t do anything more than they absolutely have to.’ She waited and looked down at the stage before raising her head again. ‘But for the first time they’ll have to listen to us.’
For a moment there was silence. Then the applause came. A few hands clapping at first, then more. Two or three women stood, and slowly the others joined them. Annabelle just stood, her face flushed and pink, not sure what to do.
Harper beamed, putting his hands together with everyone else. He’d hardly dared to breathe as she spoke. The meeting was over; nothing could top that. People had gathered around Annabelle, to congratulate her and talk to her. She gulped from a glass of water, trying to keep up with everyone surrounding her.
He stayed back until the crowd began to disperse. Annabelle vanished for a minute, returning with her favourite dark blue cape over her shoulders and her hat fixed in place. She made her farewells and moved towards the entrance, glancing around.
Harper came forward into the light and she began to smile.
‘How long have you been lurking there?’ She sounded hoarse, as if her voice might vanish at any moment.
‘The whole time,’ he answered.
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What did you think?’
‘You were wonderful.’ He couldn’t think of another word. Up there, she’d been herself. No airs, no graces, just the woman he’d married, speaking her mind.
Annabelle looked at him doubtfully. ‘I didn’t make a fool of myself?’
‘You saw what they did,’ he told her. ‘They were on their feet and clapping when you finished.’
‘I know, but …’
‘No buts. They loved you.’
&
nbsp; ‘I just wondered if they were being polite.’
For a moment he thought she was fishing for compliments. But she meant it; he saw that when he looked into her eyes.
‘They did,’ he assured her. ‘Honestly.’
She took his arm and they went out into the night, cold air coming in a rush.
‘I feel like I could fall over and go to sleep,’ she said.
‘Let’s take a cab.’
At the kerb, he raised a hand and the vehicle came clopping slowly towards them. She rested her head against his shoulder on the journey, not speaking, eyes closed.
‘Do you know what one of them said to me after? “The Queen doesn’t think women should have the vote.”’
‘What did you do?’
She gave a soft, throaty chuckle. ‘I told her that the queen already has an empire full of men who’ll do whatever she wants. She looked like she was going to spit feathers.’
At home she was in bed before he’d finished locking up.
‘Who’d have believed just talking could take it out of you?’ she asked in surprise.
‘I’m proud of you,’ Harper said.
She shifted on the pillow, raising her head to look down at him. ‘Are you? Do you mean that, Tom? I’m not just being daft doing all this?’
‘I mean it.’ He pulled her close so she rested against him. ‘Every word.’
FOURTEEN
Barbara Waite, Nellie Rider, Catherine Carr. The names jangled through his head. One to find, two who needed justice.
His head ached. The air was bad, sulphur and soot that made his eyes water. People passed, coughing, spitting into handkerchiefs or on the pavement. This was only October; by January things would be much worse. When he’d been on the beat, he was called out every winter to discover bodies. Killed by the weather. But even that was better than a knife in the Arches.
‘What are we doing today, sir?’ Ash asked as they stood outside Millgarth. Carts dodged between trams and omnibuses. Pedestrians pushed along, men carelessly crossing the road as if there were no traffic.
What could they do? Keep digging. They could find Peter Grady and get one crime off the books, at least. And it was possible he’d killed Katie Carr …
‘The Bank,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back and ask some more questions.’
The constable raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
Going through St Peter’s Square, a voice called out and Harper turned.
‘Inspector.’ Patrick Martin, coming across the cobbles, a smile on his face, hand outstretched. The inspector shook it. ‘I owe you an apology.’
‘Do you?’ The remark took him by surprise. Those weren’t words he often heard.
‘After you questioned me, I wished you ill,’ the man admitted.
‘You’d hardly be the first,’ Harper told him with a chuckle.
‘It was wrong of me. I’m sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Harper assured him. For God’s sake, the man should be angry. He’d practically accused him of murder.
‘Thank you.’ Martin smiled again. ‘I hear your wife spoke at a meeting last night.’
‘How did you know that?’ he asked sharply. ‘I didn’t see you outside.’
‘Someone told me,’ Martin replied vaguely. ‘I hope she was well received.’
‘Very.’
The man nodded briefly. ‘I’m pleased for her, even if I can’t approve of the cause. I hope you’ll pass her my best wishes.’ He tipped his hat and walked away.
‘Odd fish, isn’t he, sir?’ Ash said as they watched him leave.
‘He is that,’ Harper agreed. ‘There’s something about him I don’t like.’
‘I know what you mean.’ He thought for a moment. ‘He’s very oily, isn’t he?’
That was one word. Sanctimonious was another. Harper didn’t trust anyone who lived by his certainties. One thing he’d learned as a copper was that little was black or white. All too often the answer lay in the grey between them. Anyone who believed otherwise didn’t understand people at all.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Come on, let’s see if we can find Peter Grady.’
They had some luck. On New Row, where the middens were piled against the houses, they found Grady’s cousin, a young woman with five small children around her. Four ran like hellions or clutched at her thin skirt, the other in her arms, grabbing tight to the threadbare shawl around her shoulders.
‘Is that what he’s done?’ she snorted when the inspector explained why he was looking for the man. ‘I’d not put it past him. He was always a wild one.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No,’ she replied after a moment. But her hesitation told him it was a lie. She gazed up and down the street to see if anyone was watching. A pair of men hung around the corner, leaning against the wall, smoking. They’d waited on other corners while Harper and Ash asked questions around the Bank. Keeping an eye out, noticing who they talked to.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked gently.
She shook her head. ‘No, I wouldn’t know that.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You gave up too easily, sir,’ Ash said as they walked away. ‘She knows, I could see it.’
‘She’s scared. You can’t blame her, with those men around.’
They’d barely gone round the block before small footsteps were dashing towards them. A little girl, barefoot, in a dress so large she almost tripped over the hem, her eyes wide.
‘Me mam sent me,’ she said breathlessly. ‘She said to tell you he’s on Surrey Street.’
The inspector smiled and squatted in front of her. ‘What number, did she tell you?’
‘Number eight, sir.’ The girl’s accent was a mix of Leeds and Ireland.
‘Thank you. And thank your mam.’ He put a halfpenny in her palm. ‘Run home before someone sees you.’
Sergeant Reed went through all the papers on Stanley Sugden once more. Two sweeps in Hunslet had brought nothing; no one had seen him.
There was no point in going out to look; he had no idea where to begin. With the skills Sugden had, he could make a camp anywhere and stay hidden.
What he needed was some little nugget. Just something, a clue to start him on the way. He’d asked for this case, now he had to solve it and arrest the man. Dick Hill had understood. He knew enough about the sergeant’s past to see why he wanted this. But the approval had been limited.
‘A fortnight,’ Hill had said. ‘After that, I need you back, no matter what. Sooner if you can manage it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Reed had answered with relief. Now he was beginning to wonder if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. There was bloody nothing to latch on to in the files. He thought about bracing Sugden’s two friends again, but he doubted that the man would have gone back. Word was out now. He’d be too visible, someone would say something.
The sergeant lit another Woodbine and picked strands of tobacco off his tongue. Revenge, he thought. That was what Sugden said he wanted. There were plenty of places for that. He’d been released from the regiment. He’d been sacked from Carr’s and other firms. He’d been an armed robber who was caught. Too many possibilities to cover.
‘How do you fancy a scrap tonight, Billy?’ Harper asked as he walked into the office.
‘What?’
‘That rape suspect is hiding on the Bank.’ He turned to Ash. ‘We’ll go in this evening. Find four constables. Big ones who aren’t afraid of using their fists.’
‘I’m sure I can find a few of those, sir.’
‘Better find your truncheon,’ the inspector said to Reed. ‘You’ll need it.’
‘You think he’s connected to the Carr killing?’
Harper threw his hat on the desk and sat down with a long sigh. ‘I haven’t a clue. Not until I can question him. How about you? Anything on Sugden yet?’
Reed shook his head. ‘Probably the next we’ll know is when he shows himself again. It’s what he’ll do
then that scares me.’
‘Do we still have a man at Carr’s factory?’
‘Yes.’
‘Keep him there.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Come on, Billy, I’ll buy you some dinner.’
Wray’s on Vicar Lane was close enough. The crowds were thinning out as men returned to work; they found a table away from the others. Pie and peas and tea, enough to warm the inner man.
‘Annabelle’s become a speaker at the suffragist meetings,’ Harper said after they’d finished.
‘Elizabeth didn’t say anything about it to me,’ the sergeant answered.
‘I think she wants to keep it under her hat.’
‘When’s she going to speak?’
‘She already did. Last night. She surprised me. I knew she’d be good, but they were on their feet clapping.’ He beamed with pride.
‘I’m not surprised. You know how she is with people.’
‘She had them like that.’ He held up his hand, palm open. ‘Didn’t hold back, either. I’m just worried, that’s all. I can’t be at every meeting.’
They both knew the reason: whoever killed Catherine Carr might set his sights on her.
‘He hasn’t gone after anyone else.’
‘Yet.’
‘We don’t even know it’s connected with politics, Tom. It could be something else. Family. A random killing.’
‘Christ, don’t say that.’ They’d never find the murderer then. He took his watch from his pocket. ‘We’d better go back, they’ll think we’ve deserted.’
A message was waiting, to meet the beat bobby for Cross Green at St Hilda’s Church, three o’clock. Plenty of time to stroll out there and wait. There was a good view down the hill, looking over Hunslet, just high enough to enjoy a little clean air. He could see the smoke and grime below, clinging around the streets and houses.
The constable was prompt, arriving on the dot and giving a brisk salute.
‘Williams, sir. I’ve got a lead on that Waite family you were looking for. Well,’ he corrected himself, ‘a bit of one, anyway.’
‘Let’s see what you have.’
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