Skin Like Silver

by Chris Nickson

TWENTY

  The hackney passed the Grand Theatre and took the curve from New Briggate on to North Street, through the Leylands. The lights in the houses round here were already doused, the people in bed early. Only street lamps glimmered through the fog.

  ‘Well,’ Harper asked finally, ‘What did she say?’

  Annabelle had been silent since they left the Institute.

  ‘Miss Ford asked if I’d join the committee of the Suffrage Society.’ She said it slowly, as if she couldn’t quite believe the words.

  ‘Isn’t that good?’ He didn’t understand; for the last six months or more she’d lived and breathed votes for women.

  ‘It took me by surprise. I’ve only been involved with them for two minutes.’

  ‘She asked you to speak.’

  Annabelle turned to look at him. ‘There are people who’ve been there a long time. They’ve done a lot more than me.’

  ‘She wouldn’t ask if she didn’t think you’d be good at it,’ he pointed out. ‘And look at the way they reacted to your speech. They loved it.’

  ‘Did they?’ She wasn’t fishing for compliments, she really wanted to know.

  ‘You got a standing ovation again.’

  ‘I know, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t speaking. Not really. I was just mouthing off.’

  ‘They loved it.’ The cab pulled up in front of the Victoria. ‘Sleep on it,’ he told her. ‘See how you feel in the morning. I think they’d be getting a jewel in you.’

  ‘You have to say that.’

  He grinned. ‘I know. But I mean it.’

  Reed wrapped the scarf around his mouth and nose to keep out the taste of the fog. It was clammy, cold, foul in his mouth.

  ‘We’ll never find Sugden in this,’ he said.

  ‘It must be worse for him,’ Ash answered. ‘He’s sleeping out in it.’

  ‘He knows what he’s doing.’ He tried to peer through the gloom, dodging past someone on the street, no more than a faint shape. ‘And he’ll be able to have a fire.’

  ‘If he can find any dry wood.’

  ‘I’ve seen those scouts in Afghanistan. I don’t know how they did it. They’d vanish for days.’

  ‘Let’s hope Lady Luck fancies us today.’

  ‘We could pass him on the bloody street and never know it.’ He stopped suddenly and put a hand on the constable’s arm. ‘Hunslet,’ he said.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘This is the perfect weather for him to go back there. No one would see him.’

  Ash pursed his lips. ‘I’m not so sure, sir. What’s there for him?’

  ‘Those friends of his. We’ll go and find them.’

  ‘Might as well, I suppose,’ the constable agreed. ‘Makes as much sense as anything else.’

  ‘More than standing outside that meeting last night.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I think that was a good idea. Sugden could have appeared.’

  Reed shook his head firmly. ‘Bloody waste of time.’

  Harper knew he should have been out searching for Sugden. But there were already enough men looking; one less would make no difference. Not that he had any idea where to go, anyway. And Catherine Carr wouldn’t give him any peace. He’d struggled awake that morning to the memory of her in the Arches as they pulled away the rubble.

  There was something else that nagged at him: would Sugden have escaped from the asylum if he hadn’t gone to give him the news of his sister’s death? Was he responsible for all the deaths that had followed?

  He’d probably never know the answer.

  But he was damned if he’d give up on Katie Carr. No one deserved to end up that way. In his gut he didn’t feel it had anything to do with her politics. And with Annabelle so involved with the suffragists now, he hoped to God he was right.

  If not politics, though, it had to be family. As far as he could see, the only one who could profit from her death was her husband. It was time for another talk with Mr Carr.

  In Chapel Allerton the fog seemed even thicker. At the tram terminus he could scarcely make out the sign for the Mexborough Arms, not fifteen feet away. He picked his way along the pavement, trusting he was going the right way.

  Finally he arrived at Carr’s gate, and the constable on duty came close to peer at him.

  ‘Any trouble?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Hardly seen a soul, sir. Just one of the lasses going off to do the shopping.’

  ‘Is he in?’

  ‘Hasn’t stirred in days.’ He wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘Can’t blame him in this.’

  ‘Any visitors?’

  ‘That son who runs the factory. Been here every day, like clockwork. That’s it.’

  ‘Just keep your eyes open. Sugden’s still out there.’

  ‘Never you mind, sir. He won’t get past me.’

  Carr was in the parlour, gazing morosely through the window into the whiteness outside. He was in the same chair he’d occupied on the inspector’s last visit, the two walking sticks close by. The whisky decanter sat on the side table, a half-full glass beside it.

  ‘Bringing me good news?’ he asked. His voice was a low, dry croak. ‘Have you found him?’

  ‘No, sir. Just a few more questions.’

  Carr turned his head. He looked older, as if his skin had grown thinner since his wife’s funeral. Now it seemed stretched tight over his face, so pale that Harper believed he could almost see the skull beneath. Dark spots stood out against the flesh on his hands.

  ‘Well? Ask them, man, and you can get back out there.’ His eyes flashed. ‘You can’t find my wife’s killer. You can’t find her lunatic brother. What bloody good are the police?’

  ‘We’re doing all we can, sir.’ The inspector paused. ‘Tell me, did you change your will after your wife left?’

  ‘What?’ Carr looked up sharply. ‘Of course not. I thought she’d come back.’

  ‘What would she have inherited from you if you’d died first?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘The house, the money, the factory?’

  ‘Every bloody thing. I just told you,’ the man snapped.

  ‘Who knew that, sir?’ He could feel the first twinge of excitement inside, that he’d found something.

  ‘Everyone, I suppose.’ Carr’s bony shoulders shrugged inside his jacket. ‘It wasn’t a secret.’

  ‘What about your son? He runs the factory.’

  ‘I know what he bloody does.’

  ‘Why didn’t you leave it to him?’

  ‘He’d get it after she died.’ Carr picked up the whisky glass and took a nip. It was how he survived the days, Harper imagined. Sitting, thinking, regretting, the alcohol to dull the edge of whatever pain he had.

  ‘She couldn’t sell the factory?’

  ‘Why would she want to do a daft thing like that?’ he snorted. ‘She knew what made the money. I told her that the factory stays.’

  ‘Was it in the will? Specifically?’ the inspector pressed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now the factory will go to your son when you die.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He took another sip of the whisky then looked up with a weary gaze. ‘If you’re trying to say that Neville might have killed her, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘I’m not trying to say anything, sir.’

  ‘He knew where he stood, that it would be all his in time,’ Carr said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Was that it?’ he asked caustically.

  ‘What else was in the will?’

  ‘Nothing. A few bequests.’ He allowed himself another small drink. ‘Nothing important.’

  ‘I see, sir.’

  ‘You’d better not go after my son, Inspector.’

  ‘I was just asking, sir.’ He paused. ‘Was your son guaranteed his job at the factory?’

  ‘Why would he need to be?’ Carr’s voice rose. ‘He was going to inherit it all, anyway.
Don’t be so bloody stupid.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ The room was hot, the fire burning bright. Harper was sweating in his coat, but another minute and he’d be leaving. At least this time he was going away with something, even if he wasn’t sure what to make of it. ‘I appreciate the information.’

  Carr’s face lost all its bluster. He looked like a sad, sick old man.

  ‘Just catch my wife’s killer, Inspector.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  ‘And Sugden. You can kill him for all I care.’

  Outside, the fog was damp and cool on his skin, refreshing after the overheated parlour. The constable saluted as he left. Slowly, he groped his way back to the Harrogate Road. He needed to think about the information he’d been given.

  They were somewhere in Hunslet, Reed knew that. But one street blended into another, the mist swirling and obscuring the street signs. People passed three feet away and they were like ghosts, faint silhouettes.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘No idea, sir,’ Ash answered with a quiet chuckle. ‘Not a million miles from a brewery, going by the smell, but I’m jiggered if I know which one. Not my part of town.’

  Somewhere in the distance a cart passed, a rumble of wheels over the cobbles. Coming over here had probably been a stupid decision, the sergeant thought. They’d be lucky to find the end of the road, let alone Sugden.

  He was about to suggest they find somewhere warm for their dinner when they heard the sound. It was unmistakeable. The piercing shriek of a police whistle. It cut through everything.

  ‘Come on, sir,’ Ash said as he began to run. All Reed could do was follow the footsteps, trying to stay close.

  The man seemed to know just where he was going, changing direction a little with every blast of the whistle. How in God’s name did he do it? Soon enough the sound was louder. They turned a corner. Halfway down the street a constable had the whistle raised to his lips again.

  ‘What is it?’ Reed asked as he tried to catch his breath.

  ‘I think it’s Sugden, sir. I glanced through the window as I passed. Saw someone with a long beard and something that could have been a gun.’

  The sergeant looked at the house. It was a respectable through terrace, a handkerchief of garden at the front. The curtains were drawn back to show the parlour, empty now. There’d be a yard at the back, the privy, and a gate that gave on to the ginnel.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Peters, sir.’

  ‘You know this area well?’

  ‘Been my beat for eleven years, sir.’ Good, Reed thought; he needed someone familiar with the district.

  ‘Who lives here?’

  ‘Mr Ellis, sir. He’s a widower, on his own. But he should be away at his work right now and I haven’t heard he’s poorly.’

  ‘Have you tried the door?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You’re sure someone was there?’ He needed to be certain.

  ‘Positive, sir. I saw him clear as anything.’

  The sergeant thought for a moment.

  ‘Go round to the ginnel,’ he told the constable. ‘Grab him if he comes out. We’ll go in this way. And for God’s sake don’t give him a chance to shoot.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, sir.’ The bobby grinned. ‘My missus would kill me if I died.’

  ‘I’ll give you thirty seconds to get in place, then we’ll go in.’

  The sergeant looked at Ash as they waited. It was the same feeling as dashing to a fire, that surging mix of excitement and fear. Finally he nodded and tried the doorknob. Locked.

  ‘Let me, sir,’ Ash said, raising a large foot and bringing it down on the lock. Once, twice, three times and it splintered. He barged in quickly, Reed on his heels. They’d barely made it three paces inside when they heard the shot.

  Constable Peters was lying in the ginnel, blood leaking on to the cobbles. Reed knelt, cradling the man’s head. No hope, he could see that.

  ‘Get after him,’ he ordered Ash.

  The shot must have been at close range. Half of Peters’s chest was gone, and his face was peppered.

  ‘Hold on,’ Reed said softly. ‘We’ll get someone for you.’

  The constable tried to smile. Blood leaked out of his mouth and trickled down his jaw.

  He saw the moment when the man died. A last soft breath, then nothing. How many times had he gone through this with comrades in the war? Too many to count. Very gently, he lowered Peters’s head to the ground, took off his coat and covered the body with it.

  His hands were shaking as he lit a cigarette. He wasn’t used to this any more.

  Ash came back shaking his head. ‘Vanished. And this fog just swallows sound. He’s got away.’ He looked down and sighed. ‘Sugden must have taken him by surprise.’

  ‘Poor sod. I’ll stay with him. Go to Hunslet station and bring some help.’

  By the middle of the afternoon every copper in Leeds knew. Harper heard when he returned to Millgarth. The building seemed subdued, the conversation in whispers.

  ‘Have you heard, sir?’ Tollman asked from the desk.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sugden’s shot someone else. One of ours.’

  ‘What?’ He could feel his stomach lurch. ‘Who?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘Constable Peters. A beat man over in Hunslet.’

  The inspector closed his eyes. He’d met Peters a few times. He could picture the face, earnest but open. Someone who loved his work and did it well. Another to be buried with full honours. He let out a slow sigh.

  ‘Sergeant Reed and Mr Ash were there. They’re in with the super now,’ Tollman told him.

  He joined them in Kendall’s office, listening as Reed recounted it all. The superintendent’s face looked grey in the light, lines etched deep into his skin as he sucked slowly on his pipe.

  ‘There was no hope of finding him?’ he asked.

  ‘We didn’t know which way he’d gone, sir,’ Ash replied. ‘I tried one end of the ginnel but I couldn’t hear anything. I didn’t even know exactly where we were. It was like being blind in all that.’

  ‘Five,’ Kendall said. There was an age of exhaustion in the word. He looked around the faces. ‘Five dead now. Do you have any idea how we can find him?’ There was just silence. ‘Sergeant? You were an army man.’

  ‘He’ll head for somewhere more open now. Somewhere he can hide. Where he can’t be trapped.’

  ‘How long can he survive like that?’ Harper asked. ‘He’s already been out there a while.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He looked out at the fog beyond the window. ‘With this, I don’t see how we have a chance of finding him.’

  He caught up with Reed just outside the station as the sergeant stopped to light a cigarette.

  ‘Billy …’

  ‘Don’t.’

  He’d seen it on the sergeant’s face: he was blaming himself. All the things he might have done differently.

  ‘I should have taken the ginnel myself.’

  ‘Then you might be dead now.’

  ‘I told him to be careful.’

  They began to walk, vanishing into the fog, crossing the square of the open market, all the traders gone for the day. The lights of the café ahead were a small, blurred glow.

  ‘He died while I was holding him.’ The words seemed empty of all hope. ‘He was married, wasn’t he? Did he have children?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Harper answered softly. ‘But I knew him a little. He was a good copper.’ It was the best accolade anyone on the force could have. A good copper. ‘Sugden must have taken him by surprise.’ He could only guess.

  ‘I should have had him and Ash in the front and taken the back myself.’

  The café was closing, but they could still sit, the owner bringing over two cups of tea. The sergeant ground out his cigarette.

  ‘I was the one in charge there.’

  ‘And you’re not God,’ Harper told him. ‘Things
happen. You didn’t do anything wrong.’

  Reed looked at him. ‘I just didn’t do enough.’

  ‘I stopped for a drink,’ Reed admitted when Elizabeth opened the door. He hadn’t been able to fit his key in the lock and had ended up hammering on the wood. He saw her looking up at him with a mixture of concern and anger.

  ‘Get yourself inside before all the neighbours come out,’ she told him as she walked through to the scullery, arms folded tight across her chest. She filled the kettle and banged it down on the range. ‘What’s that on your coat?’

  ‘Blood,’ he told her and saw her face change.

  He’d tried to scrape it off with a fingernail, but it had soaked deep into the material. That was when he knew he needed a drink. The first brandy in the public house soothed him a little. It burned sharply in his throat and warmed his stomach. The second went down more smoothly. The third hit him hard.

  ‘I was with that copper who was shot,’ he continued. Reed held up his hands. ‘I was holding him when he died.’

  ‘Oh, Billy.’ Elizabeth stood next to him, pulling him close and stroking his hair.

  He told her as he drank the tea she made for him, long gaps between the sentences until it was done.

  ‘I know it’s a terrible thing to say,’ Elizabeth told him, ‘but thank God it wasn’t you. I know that’s selfish and I’m sorry for his family, but I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.’

  He nodded. It was all he could manage.

  ‘But Billy.’ He glanced up at her tone. ‘Please, don’t start drinking again, luv. Please.’

  ‘I won’t. It’s just …’ Just that the hunger had been too alive and the guilt too strong.

  ‘I know. But next time come home. We can talk about it.’

  ‘Yes.’ He gave a small, fretful smile.

  ‘What do you think we should do, Tom?’ Kendall sat behind his desk, his voice bleak. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘I think Billy’s right,’ Harper answered. ‘We’re never going to catch Sugden in this fog. Too easy for him to give us the slip. It sounds like blind luck that Peters spotted him.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ the superintendent said soberly. ‘I’d rather he got away than lose one of ours.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘When we do catch Sugden, if he resists arrest and ends up dead, I won’t turn a hair.’ The words hung between them; he’d never heard Kendall say anything like that before. ‘I knew Charlie Peters,’ he continued after a while. ‘We started out on the force together. He was the best beat bobby I’ve ever seen. Absolutely right for the job. He knew everyone and he cared about them.’