Gods of Gold

by Chris Nickson

  ‘She’s eight?’

  ‘Nine come August.’ He cocked his head, surprised she could be so exact. ‘Three days younger than my Eddie,’ Ginny explained.

  ‘Did you see her go? Or see Col taking her anywhere?’

  ‘No. The next day I just asked how she was and he told me she’d gone off to his sister’s. First I’d ever heard of her,’ she said with a sniff, ‘but I thought it was probably better than staying with him. Col’s useless, allus were. He couldn’t look after himself, let alone a little one. It were Betty who did everything in that place.’

  ‘What about strange men? Did you see any of them around the house?’ She hesitated. The habit round here was to tell the police nothing. ‘For God’s sake, Ginny, I’m looking for Martha,’ he said angrily.

  ‘A few, mebbe,’ she conceded. ‘Not many ever came to see him, mind. Soapy Wilcox a couple of times. And two I didn’t know.’

  ‘One of them big, with a shaved head, the other one smaller?’ he guessed and she nodded.

  ‘Aye. That big ’un scared me. I saw his face. His eyes.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They were empty, like he wouldn’t even care if he killed you.’

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘He were smaller, not as big as you, and thinner. Like a rail. Dark hair, a moustache, good suit like yours.’ She paused, trying to think, then shrugged.

  ‘Did you hear any names?’

  ‘No. They knocked and went in when he opened up.’

  It was the same all over the court. Men who wouldn’t usually give him the time of day were eager to talk. A missing girl, one of their own, outweighed any past enmity; everyone wanted to help with this. A few had seen the two men but no one could put a name to them. Cold, that was the way one of them described the big one. Dangerous.

  After two hours of questions there was nothing more to learn. He made his way into Parkinson’s home, the constable saluting smartly as he passed. He could hear Reed moving around in the bedroom upstairs. The body and the rope that held it had gone, the tipped-over chair now neat against a wall. Only a dried stain on the boards remained to show where Col had hung.

  A photograph lay on the table. It was a portrait of a girl, dark hair brushed until it was thick and shining. She had a shy smile on her face, wearing a dress that was better than anything she’d have owned around here, with a crisp white apron on top. Martha was sitting on a chair, black stockings and shiny button boots showing under the frock. Ginny was right, she had the look of her mother around her eyes, but with a childish innocence and stillness. The stamp on the back read London Photographic Co, Queen Anne Buildings, 15 New Briggate, Leeds.

  Harper stared at the picture. Where are you, love, he thought desperately, where the bloody hell are you?

  ‘There’s nothing here besides that,’ Reed said as he clattered down the stairs. ‘It was beside the chair. I’ve been through the whole house. Just filthy bedding and some old clothes upstairs. Girl’s clothes there, too. And this.’ He held up an old doll, the painted face worn off the china head, half the ringlets gone, the dress so old the pattern had worn away. Someone’s cast-off and probably the only toy Martha owned. ‘Can you imagine her leaving without it?’

  They both knew the answer.

  Harper told him what little he’d managed to learn. Reed kept hold of the doll, holding it close to his chest.

  ‘Just what’s going on here?’ he asked. ‘I can’t make any sense of it. Why would Parkinson sell his daughter?’

  ‘I’m damned if I understand it,’ Harper admitted. He lit a cigarette, sending smoke into the still air of the room. Col would lie, he’d steal, he’d cheat, but he couldn’t imagine the man doing something like that. He’d never dare, even if he had the idea. So why? What had happened? ‘Soapy Wilcox,’ he said finally. ‘He was here in the last week, let’s talk to him.’

  ‘Sunday afternoon?’ Reed mused. ‘He’ll likely still be dead drunk from last night.’

  ‘Even better. We might get some truth out of him.’

  They both knew Wilcox; everyone on the force did. He’d been arrested so many times, always for small offences – a pocket picked here, an item shoplifted there. When he was young Wilcox had worked at Joe Walton’s soap factory on Whitehall Road. He’d come home each evening smelling sweet and fragrant for the first time in his life. The name had stuck even if the job hadn’t. These days he was bloated, drunk as often as not, his fingers nowhere near as light as they’d been as his fortunes sank lower each year.

  ‘Where was he living the last time you heard?’

  ‘That lodging house on Swan Street.’

  ‘Let’s see what he has to tell us.’

  ‘I know how to deal with Soapy,’ Reed said.

  The landlady was reluctant to let them in until Harper mentioned a missing girl. Then, without a word, she led them up three flights of rickety stairs to the attic, selected a key from the large bunch in the pocket of her dress and said, ‘He’s in there. If he’s done owt, he’ll wish he’d never been born.’

  ‘If he’s done anything he’ll be in jail faster than you know it,’ Harper assured her, and she nodded her acceptance.

  Wilcox was still asleep, not even stirring as they walked in and pulled back the thin cotton curtains. Sunlight streamed in and Reed kicked the bed.

  ‘Wake up, Soapy, you’ve got visitors.’

  Wilcox grunted and turned on to his back, shading his eyes with his hands. The room stank of stale beer, sweat and smoke. A stained old frock coat and striped trousers were thrown across the chair. A table stood against the wall with a ewer and bowl of water. A straight-edge razor lay open by it, bristles still stuck to the rusty blade.

  ‘Col Parkinson,’ Harper began.

  ‘What about him?’ Wilcox coughed and sat upright, his eyes bleary, the skin slack and jowly around his mouth. He looked at the two men. ‘Got a cigarette? I need a smoke first thing, like.’

  Harper took one out and tossed it to him, followed by a match, and waited until the man inhaled and coughed again, groping for a dirty handkerchief under the pillow and spitting up phlegm.

  ‘Col’s dead,’ Reed told him.

  ‘Dead?’ Wilcox coughed once more. ‘Can’t be. I only seen him two or three days back.’ He looked from one face to the other. ‘You’re pulling my leg, in’t you?’

  ‘He died last night.’ Harper sat on the bed, staring hard at Wilcox. ‘He put a rope round his neck.’

  ‘Jesus.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Poor bastard. What made him do that?’

  ‘You know his little girl?’ Reed asked.

  ‘Course I do,’ he answered as if the question was stupid. ‘Known them all for donkey’s years.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Col sent her to his sister while Betty’s in jail. Said it would be better for her, like.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘No idea. She weren’t there when I was at his house last.’

  ‘Col doesn’t have a sister,’ Harper said.

  ‘He must have,’ Wilcox protested. ‘Why else would he have said it?’

  ‘That’s what we’re asking you.’ Reed brought his face close. ‘All we need now are some answers.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ he said, panic in his eyes. ‘It’s only what Col told me.’

  ‘You know some friends of his, one of them big, face all marked up like a prizefighter, the other one smaller, dark hair?’

  Wilcox shook his head emphatically. ‘Don’t know ’em, no one like that. You think they had summat to do with all this?’

  ‘I want to talk to them and find out,’ Harper said. ‘You can get yourself out of this pit and start asking around.’

  ‘But—’ Wilcox began.

  Reed took hold of the man’s jaw and began to squeeze. His eyes were hard. ‘She’s been missing a week, Soapy,’ he said. ‘You think about that and imagine what can happen to a little girl in a week.’ His fingers tightened a little. ‘Then,
when you’ve had your think, start asking questions about those two, all right?’ His fingers pressed deeper before he let go. ‘You’re going to do something good in your life for once.’

  ‘And as soon as you find out, send word to me at Millgarth,’ Harper instructed him.

  Wilcox rubbed his face gently. ‘What if I can’t find owt?’

  ‘Then you’ll have to look again, won’t you?’ Reed told him as they left.

  Outside, they walked past Thornton’s music hall and through the ginnel that led out to Briggate.

  ‘Get everyone working their informers. I want names for these two, Billy.’

  ‘Where do you think the girl can be?’

  ‘That’s the problem. She could be anywhere by now.’ He spat the words out. ‘I’m going back to the station to tell the super what’s happening. You see if you can find out who that pair are.’

  ‘So you’ve no idea where the girl is, who these two men are or how they connect to all this?’ Kendall asked.

  ‘Not yet, sir.’ The superintendent made it sound as if all his work in the last few hours had achieved nothing. He placed the photograph on the desk and waited as Kendall studied it.

  ‘A bonny little thing,’ he said.

  ‘Bright, too, from what they say.’

  ‘I’ll send an alert to all the divisions and get them all searching.’ He rubbed his cheeks with his palms. ‘Where would you start looking, Tom?’

  ‘I wish I knew, sir.’ He’d asked himself the question on the way back to Millgarth.

  ‘If she’s still alive,’ Kendall said emptily and put the photograph back on the desk.

  They were the words he’d been avoiding all day. As long as you believed someone was alive you could hope to find them, to make them safe. Once you thought you were searching for a body …

  ‘Why would they buy her just to kill her?’ Harper asked. ‘I can’t see that.’

  ‘You’re assuming Parkinson sold her,’ Kendall countered.

  ‘I can’t see what else it could be. But none of this makes sense, I agree with that. The Col I knew would never have sold his daughter or let anything happen to her.’

  ‘Maybe these two put pressure on him.’

  ‘It would have to be a hell of a lot of pressure, sir.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ the superintendent said. ‘You go home and rest. I want you back on this in the morning, then I’ll need you at the station tomorrow night.’

  ‘I’m fine, sir.’

  ‘Look at yourself in the mirror, Tom. You need some sleep. Reed’s out there and there are five constables combing the area. With a missing girl everyone’s going to cooperate.’

  ‘Someone needs to take charge.’

  ‘Then let Reed do it for now. Go home. You’re going to be putting in the hours from tomorrow.’ He gestured at the papers strewn across his desk. ‘I haven’t been in here today just for my health, you know. Every available man’s going to be on duty to stop trouble. The criminals in Leeds are going to think it’s Christmas.’ He shook his head. ‘We won’t have a single man out on the beat, they’ll be able to do whatever they want.’

  ‘We’re still going to need people looking for Martha.’

  Kendall shook his head. ‘I asked the chief constable this morning. He wants everyone available to stop the violence when the replacements arrive and start work.’

  ‘It won’t make a blind bit of difference,’ he argued. ‘There’ll still be fighting. You know that as well as I do, sir.’

  ‘Tom,’ Kendall said slowly, ‘the council’s given him his orders. This is more important to them than a missing girl.’

  ‘A missing girl from a poor family, anyway. If the Parkinsons owned one of those big houses off Street Lane—’

  ‘Tom!’ Kendall cut him off with a warning. ‘Go home. It’s an order now.’

  Annabelle stared at him. He couldn’t read what was behind her eyes, whether it was anger or pity.

  ‘By God,’ she said finally, ‘I’ve seen corpses look better than you.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ he replied wearily. ‘Not today, anyway.’ He held her close, feeling the ache of tiredness rise in him. ‘I was called out in the middle of the night and I’ve been going ever since.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  Harper had to think for a moment. ‘No, I don’t suppose I have.’

  ‘Right.’ She pulled away from him. ‘You sit yoursen down and I’ll heat something up. It won’t be much but it’ll fill you.’

  They were in her rooms above the pub, the windows open to the night. The soft drift of conversation rose from the bar below. He sat for a moment but he couldn’t settle, following her to the kitchen instead, watching as she busied herself with the pans, bringing bacon and two eggs from the larder.

  ‘I’d rather have spent the day with you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘You apologize more than any man I’ve ever known, Tom Harper. Was it bad?’ He nodded, letting the words flood out as she lit the gas and started to cook, hands moving deftly. When she was done she pulled the frying pan off the flame, sliding the food on to a plate, then cut and buttered two slices of bread. ‘Get that in you,’ she told him.

  It was only when he’d finished, rubbing the last piece of bread around to catch the final stain of yolk, that he realized how hungry he’d been. All day his mind had been fixed on Col, then Betty, then Martha.

  ‘There’s cake if you want some,’ Annabelle said. ‘Can’t have you wearing away to nothing.’ He nodded, and heard her filling the kettle. He dozed for a moment then she was beside him again, a thick slice of something on the table and the tea exactly as he liked it, stewed and dark with a heavy spoonful of sugar. He took a long drink.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not going to have anyone say I let my man fade away to skin and bone.’ Her mouth was smiling but her eyes were hard. ‘They really say it’s more important for those greedy buggers on the council to save a few pennies than to find a missing lass?’

  ‘They do.’

  There was fury in her long silence.

  ‘You know who I feel sorry for?’ she said finally. ‘That woman in the jail. No one seems to care about her. Her husband dead, her daughter missing. The poor lass must be going mad. Can’t they let her out?’

  ‘Maybe for Col’s funeral. Then it’ll be straight back again.’ He’d said nothing about the man selling Martha. He didn’t dare, not yet, not to Annabelle.

  ‘Bastards, the lot of them,’ she said. ‘And they want you to protect the blacklegs?’

  ‘It’s my job, love.’

  ‘I know,’ she said sympathetically. ‘But there are folk who come and drink here who’ve lost their jobs because the bloody gas committee want to save a few precious shillings.’

  ‘Bob Turnbull, Dick Green, Walter Boyd …’ He began to list the names. He knew them all, he’d drunk and sung and laughed with them in the bar downstairs often enough.

  ‘And they all have wives and kiddies to feed,’ Annabelle pointed out, then stopped. ‘Hark at us, eh? They’ll be calling us anarchists next.’

  He chuckled. ‘I’ve been called worse in my time.’

  She stroked his cheek and her fingers rasped against the stubble.

  ‘Why don’t you stop here tonight? Better than walking back out to your lodgings.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘In the spare bedroom, before you get any ideas in that head of yours. There’ll be a razor and strop around somewhere.’

  At first he almost refused. But she was right; it was closer to the station and he was bone tired.

  ‘You might as well learn it now, Tom Harper,’ she told him. ‘I’m always right. Remember that and it’ll save a lot of grief later.’

  He sat in the parlour as Annabelle made up the bed; she wasn’t about to call Kitty the servant girl for something she could do herself in five minutes. There were paintings on the walls and a photograph of a younger Annabelle with her first hus
band, beaming for the camera, bursting with pride and joy. He just hoped he could make her that happy in time. A piano stood in the corner with music open on the stand. Solid chairs were gathered around the hearth. Everything just right. Nothing showy, but each piece was in good taste and expensive. She had money, he knew that. Her businesses were successful and she worked long hours to make them that way. But for the first time it struck him that she must be wealthy. He’d never even considered it before; she was simply Annabelle. What did she want with a bobby, he wondered. A policeman barely made enough to keep body and soul together. The only ones with money in their pockets were the ones who took bribes.

  But he knew the answer. She loved him, just as he loved her.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘It’s all ready for you.’

  She put her arms around him, holding him tight and kissing him hard, taking him by surprise. ‘That’s to keep you thinking of the wedding night,’ she said, and the joy had returned to her eyes. She put her lips close to his ear. ‘The garters are red today,’ she whispered, and giggled as she pushed him through the door into the bedroom.

  But Harper didn’t sleep immediately. Instead he opened the window to the summer darkness. The long back garden stretched away, the city off in the distance. Somewhere he could hear the hoot of an owl and the call of night birds he couldn’t identify. Where are you, he thought. Where the hell are you?

  SIX

  He felt a hand rubbing his shoulder lightly and opened his eyes. Annabelle was standing by the bed holding a cup of tea. She looked fresh, her hair already brushed, face made up, wearing a green silk dress he’d never seen before that shimmered in the half-light through the curtains.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked with a yawn.

  ‘Just gone five.’ She put the cup on the table by the bed and he reached out his hands to her. ‘No cuddles,’ she warned him. ‘I’ve already spent enough time getting ready this morning. I’ll have breakfast waiting when you’re done so you won’t be going out on an empty belly again.’

  There was a clean towel by the sink in the bathroom and hot water for shaving in a jug. The house was one of the few he’d been in with a water closet. Annabelle had insisted on it as soon as she became the landlady, she’d said. It still seemed like a novelty to him, a ridiculous luxury to someone who’d grown up sharing an outdoor privy with seven other houses.