Collins was everything Tollman had promised, a huge, lumbering man with large hands and the sort of face to scare small children. God only knew how he managed on the beat; everyone must have been petrified of him.
‘You know who Henry Bell is?’ Harper asked.
‘I do.’ The voice seemed to start at the man’s boots, deep and booming.
‘We’re going to bring him in. All you have to do is exactly what I tell you. I want him to feel a little frightened.’
Collins smiled, his mouth disappearing into his thick moustache. ‘That’ll be a pleasure, sir. I’ve no time for Shylocks like him.’
Henry Bell lived in Far Headingley, in a big, new house filled with his wife and six daughters. But he did his business from a shabby little office on Commercial Street, above Kettlewell the insurance agent. Harper led the way, Collins’s feet resounding heavily on each tread as they climbed the steps.
He turned the knob and entered. Bell glanced up and quickly slid a magazine away under the desk, an annoyed frown turning to a smile.
‘Inspector.’ He was immaculately dressed in a suit that would have cost Harper more than a week’s wages; nothing off the peg for him. His shirt was a bright white, the wing collar well-starched. He wore it crisp and high under a smooth, smug face. ‘What can I do for you?’
Harper nodded and Collins moved quickly around the desk, lifting Bell by his collar and slipping a pair of handcuffs on to his wrists, ratcheting them just tight enough to make the man wince.
‘What’s this all about?’ Bell protested. ‘I run a perfectly legal business here.’
‘You employ two men.’
‘Employ?’ He looked bemused. ‘There’s only me here, Inspector. You can see that for yourself.’
‘I want their names, Henry. And I want to know where Martha Parkinson is.’ He waited a few seconds for an answer. When none came, he told Collins, ‘You know what to do.’
With one big fist clamped around the man’s arm, the constable marched Bell back down the stairs. Harper had no doubt that in a minute or two someone would be running over to Park Place, where Bell’s lawyer, Mr Desmond, had his office. Another half hour and he’d be presenting himself at Millgarth, demanding to see his client.
But Bell wouldn’t be there. Instead, Harper was taking him to Marsh Lane. With luck he’d have two good hours to work on the man before Desmond caught up and demanded his release.
SEVEN
‘You heard what happened this afternoon?’ Reed asked. They were sitting in the waiting room of the Midland station, listening to the rain drum heavily on the roof. Crowds stood out in the downpour, restless and shouting. Hundreds of them filled the forecourt and the street beyond. It was ten o’clock; the platforms were silent, just a few railwaymen walking around. The uniforms were outside, waiting under the awning for their orders. Harper had arrived a few minutes earlier, sodden and miserable from the downpour that had begun two hours before.
‘What?’
‘They tried to haul a marquee over to the gasworks for the blacklegs to sleep in. The strikers stopped them and beat up the drivers. One of them’s in hospital. The chief constable and the brass had to come down on their horses to make sure it got through.’
‘What did the chief do after that?’
‘Went back to the Town Hall, of course.’ Reed snorted. ‘Where have you been, anyway?’
‘Trying to pry some truth out of Henry Bell.’
In the end he’d managed ten straight hours at Marsh Lane with the man, after taking him in through the back door. When Desmond finally arrived, full of bluster and righteous fury, the desk sergeant had denied Bell was there. He couldn’t be; the man hadn’t been booked in, the name wasn’t in the log, so it was impossible. Eventually the lawyer had gone away again.
But it had proved to be ten hours of frustration. He’d asked the same questions over and over, his eyes intent on Bell’s face for any hesitation or inconsistency. Every time, the man insisted he didn’t employ anyone, that he didn’t know anything about Martha Parkinson’s disappearance, that his business were perfectly legitimate. The only time he’d looked worried was when Constable Collins asked ominously, ‘Do you want me to have a word with him, sir?’
For a moment Harper had been tempted. He needed answers and Bell wasn’t giving him anything. Reluctantly he shook his head. As it was he’d be in enough trouble for this. If Bell presented himself covered in bruises, accompanied by the best lawyer in Leeds, he’d be dismissed from the force.
At nine, knowing he couldn’t put it off any longer, he escorted the man out of the station and left him to make his smirking way home in the rain.
Leeds was dark and dead as he walked across the bridge and down to the Midland station. The streets were like pitch with no gas for the lamps. None had been made since the stokers were locked out. And with no gas supply to power their engines, the factories had been forced to close.
‘You should have called me in,’ Reed said. ‘I’d have made him talk and not left any marks.’
Harper lit a Woodbine and paced around the room. Anger and frustration scalded his belly.
‘Next time,’ he promised, and meant it. He’d be talking to Bell again, and soon. ‘When’s this bloody train due, anyway?’
‘Not until half past two, for all the good it’ll do. I saw notices chalked on the streets earlier. The strikers already know when it’s going to arrive.’ Reed lay back along the bench. He had the soldier’s knack of being able to sleep anywhere, any time.
Harper wandered around. His footsteps echoed as he went out along the platform, looking into the night. At least the rain had finally slackened to a dull, warm drizzle.
He kicked at a pebble in frustration. Ten hours. He should have been able to break Bell in that time. He was good at his job, knew how to ask questions, how to lead someone along. But the man simply hadn’t shifted. He was lying, both of them knew that. Yet no matter how many different ways he approached it, Bell clung to his story. It was more than guilt. It had to be. It was fear. He was afraid of what someone might do.
At midnight he finally settled in the waiting room, tipped the hat forward over his eyes and tried to sleep. The tramp of feet woke him. Reed was already up and stretching, glancing out through the glass.
‘What is it?’ Harper asked.
‘They’re taking the uniforms out to make a cordon to the gasworks. Poor buggers. What time is it?’
The inspector pulled the watch from his waistcoat pocket and opened it. ‘Quarter past two.’ He heard the crowd begin to bay as the constables emerged. Thank God he wasn’t still one of them.
‘What do we do?’ Reed asked.
‘We wait.’
From the cover of the entrance he watched as the constables formed two lines, forcing the strikers back to clear a passage. Men howled and yelled at them, knocking off caps and trying to land blows. And the train hadn’t even arrived yet.
Then, from somewhere down the line came the long, sad sound of an engine’s whistle and the loud rumble of wheels on the track. The crowd grew louder, more frantic. One constable went down, clutching at his face as the blood poured.
The train pulled alongside a far platform with a low squeal of brakes and a thick spout of steam. But there were no carriages behind it, only trucks. Harper waited for a minute. No passengers emerged.
‘It’s a goods train,’ he yelled, hoping someone would hear. But the strikers’ blood was up; they battered at the police, who tried desperately to hold their lines. ‘It’s a goods train,’ he repeated, but his voice was lost in the tumult.
Slowly, as no one emerged, they all quietened. Five injured policemen were led away. Everyone waited, catching their breath before the next conflict. But nothing happened. Half past two became quarter to three, then the top of the hour. The superintendent in charge stood his men down, bringing them back inside the station. Finally, at half past three, the order came around: report to the Town Hall for new instructions. At least the
rain had passed, scudding away to leave the pavements wet and puddled.
Harper and Reed made their slow way back up Meadow Lane, over the bridge. There was only the sound of the lapping water in the still night. Somewhere in the distance came a noise he couldn’t make out. It sounded human, but it was more than that, different. At first he thought it was his hearing. Then they turned on to the Headrow as the moon appeared from behind the clouds.
Reed stopped.
‘Christ Almighty,’ he said quietly, his voice full of awe, ‘look at that.’
The crowd in front of the Town Hall filled Victoria Square and Park Lane, and spilled into the streets beyond.
‘How many do you think?’ Reed asked. ‘Five thousand?’
‘At least,’ Harper agreed, unable to take his eyes from the sight. Some had banners, others were standing still. They were chanting; that was the sound he’d heard.
‘I haven’t seen that many there since the Queen opened the place,’ Reed said with a strange reverence in his voice. ‘My father had me up on his shoulders, and everywhere I looked there were people.’
The crowds were thin around the rear entrance on Great George Street, just some spotters and a cordon of policemen in the tall shadows cast by the building. They went through, finding more chaos inside. Groups of councilmen talked urgently, while the chief constable huddled in a conference with the mayor and a fat man whose thick side whiskers extended to his chin.
‘What’s happening?’ Harper asked a uniformed sergeant who was rushing past.
‘They only brought the bloody replacement workers to the main station instead, didn’t they? Madness.’ He shook his head at the stupidity. ‘We’ve got them all safe in the crypt. Now they’re trying to work out how to get them to the gasworks in one piece.’
He moved off again just as a constable tugged at Harper’s sleeve. ‘Inspector, Superintendent Kendall wants you. Downstairs.’
Harper raised his eyebrows at Reed and they followed the young man. His uniform was stained and a black eye was starting to blossom. But he seemed content enough.
‘Over there, sir.’ He pointed to a door on the far side.
First they had to negotiate their way between hundreds of men sitting and lying on the floor. They were talking in small groups, trying to sleep or smoking their pipes in the light of dozens of candles and oil lamps.
‘It’s like bloody Bedlam,’ Harper muttered as he tripped over a leg. Finally he pushed the door open. A man in a tattered old jacket and trousers was lying on the floor, a cloth cap still on his head. Kendall stood over him, uniform coat open, his face haggard.
‘Take a look,’ he said.
Harper knelt by the man, feeling for a pulse in the wrist. Nothing. He pushed the body on to its side, fingertips feeling down the man’s back until he touched the blood. Still warm. He’d been stabbed. A neat job.
‘Who is he?’ Harper asked.
‘One of the replacements,’ the superintendent said.
‘What happened?’
‘They delivered the poor sods to the wrong station so we had to bring them here.’ Kendall’s voice was sober and clear. ‘There were plenty of the strikers outside. We didn’t have any choice but to run the gauntlet. This one made it down here then collapsed. Died about a quarter of an hour ago.’ He looked from Harper to Reed. ‘You two are going to find out who killed him. Chief constable’s orders.’
‘But—’ Harper started to object.
Kendall silenced him with a look. ‘Whatever you’re about to say, the answer is no,’ he said angrily. ‘For now nothing else matters except this. This poor man comes here to work and someone murders him. That’s going to look bad enough for us. It’ll be a damned sight worse if we don’t find out who did it.’
‘What about Jones or Payne?’ Harper said. ‘They could look after this.’
‘Sergeant Jones was hit in the head by a brick earlier this evening,’ the superintendent explained. ‘He’s in the infirmary and he won’t be back for a few days. Payne’s still too new for this. Right now I have you two and a detective constable.’
‘What about the other divisions?’
‘This happened on our patch,’ Kendall told him coldly. ‘We handle it. Orders.’
‘Martha Parkinson, sir,’ Harper reminded him. ‘This man’s dead. She might still be alive.’
‘This is your priority, Inspector. The chief doesn’t care about Martha Parkinson until this has been solved. Do I make myself clear?’
Harper glanced at Reed. ‘Yes, sir. Do we even know exactly where the stabbing happened?’
‘Somewhere between the station and here. You’ll have to ask his friends, they’re outside. The surgeon’s been called, he’ll be examining the body tonight. I’ve arranged a transfer to the mortuary.’
Kendall turned to leave but the inspector called out, ‘Just out of curiosity, sir, did the surgeon take a look at Col Parkinson?’
‘He did. You were right, it was murder.’ He pointed at the man on the floor. ‘But this is what you solve first.’ The door closed behind him.
‘Dear God, where do we even begin?’ Reed asked with a frustrated shout. ‘What does he want us to do, go around everyone out in the square and asked if they knifed someone tonight?’
Harper was staring at the corpse. The poor bastard had come to Leeds hoping to earn a few pounds and he’d be going home in a coffin. Even if the man was a blackleg, he didn’t deserve that. He raised his eyes. ‘We’ll do what we can.’
‘We don’t have a chance,’ Reed said bleakly. ‘You know that, Tom. All they’ll end up doing is blaming the strikers.’
‘Then we’d better find out who did it.’ He paused. ‘And I’ll tell you something else, Billy, I’m buggered if I’m ignoring Martha Parkinson.’
EIGHT
Harold Gordon. That had been the man’s name. His friends told Harper and Reed when they came out, desperate to know how ill he was. The two policemen exchanged a quick look.
‘I’m sorry,’ Harper told them. ‘He’s dead.’
For a moment there was a deep well of silence around them as the men took in the news. Then the questions began, everyone speaking at once until the Inspector held up his hand.
‘How?’ one of them demanded, pushing through the others. His face was red with fury, lips pinched together, eyes blazing.
‘He was stabbed, Mr …?’
‘Gordon. Harry was me brother.’
Harper tipped his head and Reed stepped in smoothly, gently leading the man away to speak to him.
‘Where did it happen?’ the inspector asked the others.
‘Just out on the steps. Just this side of the lions.’ The man who answered was older than the rest, leaning against the wall. He slowly took the pipe from his mouth, tamping down the tobacco with his thumb.
‘Here?’ Harper asked in surprise. ‘The Town Hall steps?’
‘Aye,’ he answered. ‘Folk were pushing and swearing at us and trying to hit us, while the bobbies cleared a path. Harry were next to me, over here.’ He patted his left side to illustrate. ‘I heard him groan and he just fell against me. I thought summat had hit him so I put me arm around him and helped him inside and sat him down.’ He looked at the others for confirmation, all of them nodding. ‘Ben over there went and fetched someone and they brought him down here.’
‘How did you know Mr Gordon?’
‘He’s me next door neighbour. Him, his wife and kiddies.’ He paused. ‘I’m Bob Allinson. We’re all of us from the same street.’ There were eight of them, he explained, laid off from the cotton mill and needing work. ‘When we heard they were looking for people to work in a new gasworks, we applied.’
‘New?’ Harper asked, not understanding.
‘That’s what they said.’ The men around him murmured agreement.
‘There isn’t any new works,’ the inspector told them.
‘Then why are we here?’ Allinson asked, confused.
‘You’re blacklegs. That’
s why they wanted you. And that’s why all those crowds are out there. The workers are on strike.’ And probably why someone killed Harry Gordon, but he didn’t say that. He didn’t need to.
Sadness and anxiety mixed on the men’s faces. They’d been duped, betrayed, and their friend had paid the price.
‘Aye, well,’ Allinson said finally, packing more than Harper could have imagined into those two words.
‘Did you see anyone close, anyone who could have stabbed Mr Gordon?’ he asked. The man shook his head slowly. ‘We were just trying to keep our heads down and get in, lad. Last thing on our minds was looking at faces.’
He understood. But that didn’t help him at all. They talked a few minutes more, but there was little more they could tell him.
‘Do right by him, lad,’ Allinson said as Harper turned to leave.
‘I’ll do my best,’ he promised, and the other man gave him a quick nod.
Reed was waiting, looking drawn and glum. The notebook was clutched tight in his fist.
‘Anything?’ Harper asked.
‘He told me about his brother, but nothing to help us.’ They walked to the front doors of the hall, a line of police guarding them, and stared out in the early light at the crowd, still thousands of them. And spilling up the steps, the inspector noted.
‘Where do you want me to start?’ Reed asked wearily. ‘You’d better tell me, Tom, because I don’t have any idea.’
‘Go back to the station and write up a report for the super.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m going to see someone who might be able to help us.’
‘Who?’ the sergeant wondered, but Harper just gave a quick smile and left.
It was barely six but he knew there’d be people at the union office on Kirkgate; they’d have been there all night. The streets were quiet, only a few tired-looking early souls about. For most there’d be no work again today. With no gas, there was no power for the factories and businesses. Harper had heard that another train with replacement workers had pulled into Holbeck an hour before, and they’d been rushed across the street to the gasworks. But even with them there it would be many hours before more gas was produced.
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