Gods of Gold

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Do you want more?’ Harper asked him. ‘Be grateful.’

  ‘I am, believe me.’ The colour was gradually returning to his face. He lit another cigarette. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘We could try to find the boxer’s friend.’

  Harper gazed down at the men moving around, all of them looking purposeful in their dark suits and ties, a few still in the old-fashioned frock coats. He shook his head.

  ‘I’d bet good money he’s already packed and gone.’ It was what he’d do himself, simply vanish as soon as possible. Train, omnibus, even walking; they’d never find him.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We start thinking,’ he said after a moment. ‘Go back to the basics. Do you know what the super taught me when I was starting out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Find out who’s going to gain from a crime. Work that out and once you’ve done it, you’ve probably found who’s behind everything. He’s right, too.’

  He started to walk down the stairs, leaning heavily on the stick. Every step was painful and he moved slowly, letting the foot take his weight slowly as he concentrated. At the bottom he took a deep, trembling breath, steadying himself before he crossed to stare out of the windows.

  A mob was still scattered across Victoria Square, about a thousand, far fewer then when they’d brought the blacklegs in. But it was enough to leave the bobbies guarding the main doors of the Town Hall with furrowed, worried faces.

  ‘So who profits from Col’s death?’ Reed asked.

  ‘Whoever took Martha,’ Harper answered. ‘The same person responsible for Henry Bell’s death.’ He stared out at all the faces standing in the sunshine, every head covered with a working man’s cap. ‘Let’s try looking at it a different way,’ he said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Who profits from the death of a blackleg?’

  For a long moment the sergeant was quiet. ‘But we don’t know how that connects to Parkinson.’

  ‘Forget that,’ the inspector insisted. ‘Just think about the blackleg.’

  ‘If they can blame the murder on the strikers, it strengthens the position of the gas committee.’

  Harper smiled. ‘Exactly. How many on the committee? Four, isn’t it?’ He seemed to recall reading the figure somewhere.

  ‘I think so,’ the sergeant answered with a shrug.

  ‘Then let’s start looking into them. Maybe one thing will lead to another.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s not like we have anything else.’

  ‘I’ll start asking.’ Reed paused, turning the bowler hat in his hands. ‘You should go home and rest that ankle.’

  ‘That’s what the super said,’ Harper said with a small laugh. ‘Anyone would think the pair of you were trying to get rid of me.’

  But they were right. He could barely walk, let alone run. And he felt drained, his body exhausted. But he could feel the need rubbing inside him, wanting to know, to have this thing over and Martha safe.

  ‘Get to work,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll be in tomorrow.’

  ‘I will.’ He paused then added quietly, ‘And thank you, Tom.’

  THIRTEEN

  He hailed a passing hackney at the back of the Town Hall, out on Great George Street. When the cabbie leaned down from his seat, asking, ‘Where to, guv?’ at first he wasn’t sure how to answer. His lodgings? Or to Annabelle?

  ‘The Victoria in Sheepscar,’ he replied after a moment, leaning back and closing his eyes to let the pain ebb away for a while.

  The pub was almost empty when he entered, just the usual old men whiling away the late afternoon and Dan standing behind the bar, polishing the brass to a high, bright shine. He raised his eyes as he watched Harper limp across the room.

  ‘You look like you’ve been in the wars.’

  ‘I lost an argument with a cart,’ he explained with a wry smile.

  ‘Sit yoursen down and I’ll bring you a brandy.’

  ‘Is she upstairs?’

  Dan shook his head. He was a young man with tousled red hair and an eager grin, always bustling around to find something to do. The best worker she’d ever had, Annabelle claimed.

  Harper settled on a chair, stretched out his leg and felt the pain ease to a heavy throb.

  Dan placed the glass on a heavily polished table and waved him away as he tried to pay.

  ‘Give over, Tom. She’d kill me if I took your money. Call it medicine.’ He grinned, showing a mouth with most of the teeth gone. ‘She’ll be back in an hour or so, she’s gone round the bakeries.’

  The inspector was still sitting there with a full glass of brandy next to the empty one when Annabelle returned an hour later.

  She swept through the door in a rush, a short grey jacket buttoned tight over a white blouse that rose to her throat. The grey skirt flared, swishing as she walked. Her hair had been pulled up under a hat, just a few wild strands peeking out.

  ‘I didn’t know if I’d see you today,’ she said happily, leaning over and giving him a peck on the cheek. Then she noticed the stick and pulled back, eyeing him. ‘What have you done now?’

  ‘I twisted my ankle. Nothing serious.’

  Annabelle bustled around, pulling over a stool and watching as he rested his foot on it.

  ‘Better,’ she said approvingly, settled next to him and dropped her bag on the floor with a heavy jangle of coins. Without a word, Dan brought her a glass of gin and she drank gratefully.

  ‘Good God, what’s in the bag?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Takings from the bakeries,’ she replied breezily.

  ‘How much?’

  She shrugged. ‘I haven’t counted it yet.’

  ‘Anyone could have robbed you,’ he told her, startled when she began to laugh.

  ‘Round here?’ Annabelle laughed heartily. ‘They’d never dare, Tom Harper, they all know me. And if anyone tried, they wouldn’t get ten yards before there’d be people all over them. Your lot would be sweeping up the pieces.’

  All he could do was shake his head. He’d never known anyone quite like her, so sure, so confident. ‘I don’t want anything happening to you, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me. I’m not the one with the dicky ankle.’

  ‘I’ll live.’

  ‘You’d better,’ she said, arching her brows, eyes glinting and amused. ‘I’m not done with you yet.’ She downed the rest of the gin in a single swallow and stood. ‘Let’s go upstairs and I’ll put something on that ankle. No one’s looked at it yet, have they?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted.

  ‘Right, up those steps and I’ll bandage it. You’ll just be walking wounded by the morning.’

  But morning came too soon. Early light through the curtains in the spare bedroom woke him and he limped around the floor. He tried the gas mantle, but there was no familiar soft hiss. All the supplies were gone. Instead he shaved and dressed by the light of a candle, moving quietly through the rooms to the kitchen.

  Annabelle was already there, wearing an old dress and apron, hair half tucked away under an old cap, busy buttering thick slices of bread. She glanced up and smiled, leaning across to give him a quick kiss.

  ‘I’ve made you some tea,’ she told him. ‘I heard you crashing about in there like a herd of elephants.’

  He thought he’d been quiet. She pushed the food across to him and picked up her cup.

  ‘How’s your ankle?’ she asked.

  ‘A little better.’ It still hurt, but he could limp around with the stick. ‘I’ll survive. There’s work to do.’ He looked at her again. ‘Why are you dressed like that?’

  ‘Kitty’s gone for a few days. Her mam’s been taken poorly. And there’s work to do,’ she echoed him with a grin, sticking out her tongue. ‘The pub needs a good cleaning.’ She paused, then continued, her voice still straightforward and practical as she looked him in the eyes. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘How many nig
hts have you spent here now?’

  ‘Three,’ he answered. She knew it just as well as he did.

  ‘And we’re going to be married in a fortnight.’ He nodded his answer. ‘I thought you might as well just move in here,’ she continued, holding up a hand before he could say anything. ‘Give your notice at your lodgings. I can have Dan bring everything here, and you have the spare bedroom until we’re wed.’ Annabelle cocked her head. ‘What do you think?’

  He stood and looked at her. The way she talked, it sounded sensible. He’d be closer to the station, he wouldn’t be paying for somewhere to live. Best of all, he’d be with Annabelle each evening. Slowly he smiled.

  ‘I think it’s a grand idea,’ he told her, and suddenly she was hugging him, then pulling back after a moment.

  ‘Spare bedroom,’ she warned him. ‘Don’t get any ideas, Tom Harper. Not until that ring’s on my finger.’

  He put his arms around her, pulling her close, seeing her eyes spark with joy and tasting the morning on her kiss.

  ‘Right, you,’ she said finally, ‘eat your breakfast then off you go to work.’ She laughed. ‘I sound like a right bloody wife, don’t I?’

  ‘The best one I’ll ever have.’

  ‘The only one, if you know what’s good for you.’ She grinned and straightened his tie. ‘That’s better.’ She stood back and inspected him. ‘That moustache needs a trim but you’ll do.’

  For a moment he thought of his mother; she’d never have spoken to his father that way, with the same glint of mischief in her eyes. She wouldn’t have dared. He was a man who ruled his house, with the strap waiting for the slightest insolence or disobedience.

  And now he was going to be living in a woman’s house, above the pub she owned, her other businesses little more than a stone’s throw away. His father would never have understood that. To him, it had been the man who provided for his family. His wages as a railwayman paid the rent on their back-to-back and put food on the table, just like every other man on Noble Street and all the streets around it.

  Instead, Harper would have a wife who probably earned more in three months than he did in a year. She’d turned his world upside down, changed every idea that had been part of his fabric without effort.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing important.’

  ‘Any more word on that girl?’

  He shook his head. Martha had been the last thing he’d thought about before falling asleep, the first in his head when he woke. Each day the feeling that she was dead grew inside him. And if she wasn’t … perhaps that would be even worse.

  ‘You’ll find her,’ Annabelle told him. He wished he could believe her. They weren’t even close.

  Names, Reed thought. That was the place to start: find out who was on the gas committee. At least he was in the Town Hall, the right place to find the information. A few minutes later, after being sent to three different offices, he knew who they were. Harper had been right: there were four of them, with Alderman Gilston in charge, as the clerk had told him, the downturn of his mouth speaking louder than any words.

  Councillors. These were people beyond his ken. They lived in a different world, one that rarely touched him. He dealt with criminals. They were poor folk for the most part, ones who’d end up in Armley Jail for a few months, maybe even a year or two for fighting or stealing – small, everyday crimes. The ones with money in the bank, the clean shirts and good suits, rarely ended up in a cell.

  He stood, thinking. Who did he know who might have information on some councillors? Finally he smiled. Richard Finer. He was a man who managed to blur the lines between the different levels of society. He’d done time in the past, for fraud, but made enough money for people to be willing to forget the fact.

  It took an hour to find him, holding court at the Golden Lion Hotel on Lower Briggate, down towards the bridge. He sat at the head of the table, four other men listening eagerly to every word. With no gas, candles gave a soft, diffused light to the room. Finer toyed with a glass of brandy, long fingers running around the rim. He looked prosperous and self-satisfied, his dark suit cut well enough to disguise the growing belly. The collar of his white shirt was sharp as a knife blade, a shining stickpin through the knot of his tie. Very flashy, Reed thought. Finer’s bushy side whiskers extended to his moustache, starting to turn grey, but the hair of his head was still thick for a man in his fifties.

  He spotted the sergeant, leaned forward and spoke a few quiet words. Without a complaint the men around him left, two of them glancing briefly at the policemen as they passed.

  ‘Mr Reed,’ Finer said with a broad smile. ‘It’s strange to see you here. Not one of your usual haunts, is it?’ He gestured at a seat. ‘Have a drink? Gin for you, isn’t it?’

  Tempting as it was, he refused. ‘I’m on duty, sir.’

  Finer leaned back in his chair, amusement dancing in his eyes. He stroked a chin so freshly shaved he must have been barbered late in the afternoon.

  ‘It must be serious if you’re turning down a drink. Well, I’ve done nowt, so you must want some information.’ Reed knew that the attitude was an act, a mask, the blunt Yorkshireman everyone could trust. But a sharp, devious mind lay behind it.

  ‘Very clever.’

  Finer gave a small bow of his head. ‘Who do you want to know about?’

  ‘The men on the gas committee.’

  ‘Don’t ask for much, do you?’ He reached into his jacket, brought out a cigar case, and made an elaborate performance of selecting one, cutting off the end then lighting it, saying nothing until he’d blown out a thick plume of smoke. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ Reed answered.

  ‘Aye, I bet you can’t. They’re in trouble, they’ve already lost this strike. It’ll all be signed and sealed in the morning.’

  ‘What do you know about them, Mr Finer?’ The sergeant kept his eyes on the man.

  ‘Not much,’ he admitted. ‘But I’ll tell you this: I’d not trust any one of them as far as I could throw him. And with two of them that’d not be no more than a couple of yards. They’re like everyone else, in it for what they can get.’

  ‘What about Alderman Gilston?’

  Finer gave a dismissive snort. ‘He was the one with the bright bloody idea that caused the strike. That tells you all you need to know about him. The only other one with a spine is Cromwell. I’d keep your eye on him.’

  ‘Have you heard any gossip?’

  ‘Nowt worthwhile.’

  Reed knew that was a lie. Gossip was currency to a man like Finer. What it meant was that he wasn’t ready to spend any of it yet. He wasn’t going to say anything more. The sergeant stood.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Come back when you’re ready for that drink, Mr Reed.’

  It was close to July dusk when he caught the tram. Half past nine, not too late, he could stop at the Hyde Park for a quick drink. Since Finer had offered one he’d been able to taste the gin, to feel it on his tongue and his throat.

  In the end it was after midnight when he put the key in the door of the house on Burchett Place. It was just another street of back-to-backs, home to working men and their families. Mr Methley, his landlord, was a foreman at one of the tanneries down on Meanwood Road. His wife, a fragile little woman, kept everything sparkling, and Katie, the only daughter still living there, was a factory girl.

  They were used to his hours by now, the late nights and early mornings. If they noticed the alcohol on his breath or heard him on the nights he tossed and moaned in his bed, they were polite enough to say nothing. The place suited him. He wasn’t there much, it was quiet, and there was dinner on the table every Sunday if he was at home. He closed his curtains and took off the cheap gaberdine suit before he opened the letter that had been waiting for him.

  It was the reply from Whitby, two short paragraphs in a neat, flowing hand. There was no current vacancy for a detective, it said, but if one were to come up, th
ey would advise him. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. It was never more than a dream, anyway. And now, with another reprimand on his record, no other force would take him. He was here for all the years ahead.

  On the tram Harper read the headlines over someone’s shoulder: the gas committee and the strikers were talking, it would be over soon. That was what Leeds needed, a return to normal, for the gas to flow. The men needed to return to work and bring home their wages. They’d all learned how thin this layer of modernity really was.

  He limped down from Vicar Lane, hearing fragments of conversations, everyone hopeful that things would soon be over, that business would improve quickly. At the station Reed was already at his desk, neat and shaved, only the redness around his eyes a sign that he’d been drinking the evening before.

  ‘How’s the ankle?’

  Harper shrugged. ‘Could be worse. Did you find anything?’

  ‘Bits and pieces.’ He rubbed his hands down his cheeks. ‘I talked to Dick Finer. He said we should look at Gilston and Cromwell. The problem’s going to be finding anything. These aren’t criminals, Tom. They’re businessmen. Rich businessmen.’

  Harper understood. The activities of the police rarely touched that of the rich. They had few sources there, hardly anyone who could tell them what happened there, where to look or whose secrets were valuable.

  ‘Desmond,’ he decided finally.

  ‘The lawyer?’ Reed asked.

  ‘He represents half the important people in Leeds.’

  ‘He wouldn’t say anything. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘He was scared enough when you told him Henry Bell had been killed – you told me that. We’ll work on him.’

  The sergeant considered the idea. ‘I suppose it might work,’ he agreed. ‘We don’t have anywhere else to try.’

  ‘Maybe we do,’ Harper said, gathering up his stick. ‘I’ll be back in an hour. Desmond won’t be in his office before nine, anyway.’

  Leeds smelt cleaner than he could ever recall. The air was almost sweet and clear, and the sun shone bright as he made his way slowly over to Kirkgate. There were close to a hundred men milling around outside the union office, two constables standing across the street, their expressions nervous as they shifted from foot to foot.