THE YEAR OF
THE GUN
For Margaret Clarke – thank you.
First published in 2017
The Mystery Press is an imprint of The History Press
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This ebook edition first published in 2017
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© Chris Nickson, 2017
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Modern Crimes: A WPC Lottie Armstrong Mystery
‘This was masses of fun to read; with its incisive historical
detail, colourful Leeds references and strong female characters.
Lottie Armstrong is simply wonderful. I want to be Lottie.
She is a force to be reckoned with.’
northerncrime.wordpress.com
‘Nickson’s rich, outstanding and complex characters and his
attention to historical detail will keep you riveted to what is
also a story strong on social comment and which brings to
life the city itself.’
crimereview.co.uk
‘No author has used the city of Leeds as a backdrop for crime
stories so profoundly as Chris Nickson.’
crimefictionlover.com
Leeds, February 1944
‘WHY are there suddenly so many Americans around?’ Lottie asked as she parked the car on Albion Street. ‘You can hardly turn a corner without running into one.’
‘Are you sure that’s not just your driving?’ McMillan said.
She glanced in the mirror, seeing him sitting comfortably in the middle of the back seat, grinning.
‘You could always walk, sir.’ She kept her voice perfectly polite, a calm, sweet smile on her face. ‘It might shift a few of those inches around your waist.’
He closed the buff folder on his lap and sighed. ‘What did I do to deserve this?’
‘As I recall, you came and requested that I join up and become your driver.’
‘A moment of madness.’ Detective Chief Superintendent McMillan grunted as he slid across the seat of the Humber and opened the door. ‘I shan’t be long.’
She turned off the engine, glanced at her reflection and smiled, straightening the dark blue cap on her head.
Three months back in uniform and it still felt strange to be a policewoman again after twenty years away from it. It was just the Women’s Auxiliary Police Corps, not a proper copper, but still… after they’d pitched her out on her ear it tasted delicious. Every morning when she put on her jacket she had to touch the WAPC shoulder flash to assure herself it wasn’t all a dream.
And it was perfectly true that McMillan had asked her. He’d turned up on her doorstep at the beginning of November, looking meek.
‘I need a driver, Lottie. Someone with a brain.’
‘That’s why they got rid of me before,’ she reminded him. ‘Too independent, you remember?’ McMillan had been a detective sergeant then: disobeying his order had put her before the disciplinary board, and she’d been dismissed from Leeds City Police. ‘Anyway, I’m past conscription age. Not by much,’ she added carefully, ‘but even so…’
‘Volunteer. I’ll arrange everything,’ he promised.
Hands on hips, she cocked her head and eyed him carefully.
‘Why?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘And why now?’
She’d never really blamed him for what happened before. Both of them had been in impossible positions. They’d stayed in touch after she was bounced off the force – Christmas cards, an occasional luncheon in town – and he’d been thoughtful after her husband Geoff died. But none of that explained this request.
‘Why now?’ he repeated. ‘Because I’ve just lost another driver. Pregnant. That’s the second one in two years.’
Lottie raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ he told her. He was in his middle fifties, mostly bald, growing fat, the dashing dark moustache now white and his cheeks turning to jowls. By rights he should have retired, but with so many away fighting for King and Country he’d agreed to stay on for the duration.
He was a senior officer, effectively running CID in Leeds, answerable to the assistant chief constable. Most of the detectives under him were older or medically unfit for service. Only two had invoked reserved occupation and stayed on the Home Front rather than put on a uniform.
But wartime hadn’t slowed down crime. Far from it. The black market had become worse in the last few months, gangs, deserters, prostitution. More of it than ever. Robberies were becoming violent, rackets more deadly. Criminals had guns and they were using them.
And now Leeds had American troops all over the place.
‘Back to Millgarth,’ McMillan said when he returned, balancing a brown paper bag carefully in one hand. ‘If nothing’s come up while we’ve been gone, you can call it a day and get off home.’
Good, Lottie thought. The Co-op might have some tea left; she was almost out. She didn’t hold out much hope for the butcher by this time of day, though. At least it had been a bountiful year in the garden: plenty of potatoes and carrots and a decent crop of peas and marrows. One thing about all this rationing, she hadn’t gained any weight since it started. If anything she’d lost a little; clothes she’d worn ten years before still fitted.
She followed McMillan into the station and up the rickety wooden staircase, gas mask case banging gently against her hip. Why she bothered with one, she didn’t know; most people had stopped carrying them. On the landing a poster read Coughs and Sneezes Spread Diseases, the words so faded they were almost invisible. His office was the second one along a corridor where the old linoleum curled at the edges and the paint flaked under the fingers.
‘Quiet for once,’ McMillan said as he inspected his desk. ‘Close the door.’
‘Sir?’
‘Chop chop.’
She did as he ordered, then watched him reach into the paper bag and draw out two eggs. Real, fresh eggs. When was the last time she’d seen any of those?
‘Go on, take them. They’re for you. When I saw Timmy Houghton he gave me four. Or don’t you want them?’
Lottie scooped them up carefully, swaddled them in a handkerchief and placed them in her handbag.
‘Of course. Thank you.’ She didn’t know what to say. He had a habit of doing things like this. A little something here and there. A pair of stockings, some chocolate. Even a quarterpound of best steak once that tasted like a feast. In the three months she’d been working for him she felt spoilt. It was his way of thanking her.
At the bus stop she cradled her bag close, miles away as she dreamed of the eggs, maybe with a sausage and some fried bread. The kind of breakfasts they had before the war. So many things had changed after Chamberlain spoke on the radio. Most of all, her life: two days later Geoff was dead from a sudden heart attack at work.
He’d left good provision for her. The man from the Pru came and explain
ed it all. Insurance would pay off the mortgage on the house they’d bought in Chapel Allerton. There was an annuity as well as a pension from his job as an area manager at Dunlop. She’d never want for anything.
Her life was comfortable. Even Geoff’s death, even the war, couldn’t seem to shake her out of it. She was sheltered, numb. Lottie burrowed into it, hid in it. She was just too old to be called up for war work. Everything seemed easier that way. Until McMillan knocked on her door and turned her life upside down.
And she couldn’t remember when she’d been so grateful.
‘DON’T take your coat off,’ he said as she walked into the office. Half-past seven, growing light, but with a bitter, miserable wind in the air. What she wanted was to sit for a few minutes and warm up. She wasn’t going to have the chance.
Lottie gathered up the car keys and followed him out of the door.
‘Kirkstall Abbey,’ he said as she started the engine and felt the power of the Super Snipe’s engine.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We have a murder.’
The old monastery was only three miles from the city centre, standing by the River Aire. It was hard to believe this had once been the middle of nowhere, she thought. But that was what they’d taught her at school; she still remembered it. They drove past the loud thrum and activity of a dozen workshops along the road, all going round the clock to win the war. Traffic moved in a steady flow.
The abbey had been a ruin for centuries, a shell of what it used to be just as surely as if Hitler’s bombs had landed on it. Lottie parked the Humber at the tail of a line of cars, close to the path that led down to the ruins.
A knot of men had gathered around one of the buildings, eight or ten of them together. She could pick out Detective Inspector Andrews with his stooped, crooked back, and Detective Constable Smith following on his heels like a puppy, the way he always did. A few uniforms, and then two men in army khaki. What were they doing here?
Lottie looked sharply over her shoulder at McMillan. ‘Who’s dead?’
‘An ATS girl,’ he answered. ‘You’d better come along.’
She walked at his side, hunched inside her greatcoat, looking around, taking it all in. She and Geoff had come out here regularly; he loved the history of the place. This was the first time since he’d died. For a second she half-expected to see his ghost wandering over the grass, rubbing the stones and staring up at the sky. But there was only the empty cold of winter.
‘What do you have for me?’ McMillan asked as they tried to shelter from the frigid wind.
‘She’s inside, sir,’ Andrews said, ‘as much as anywhere can be round here. In the chapter house, just off the cloister, through there.’ He gestured vaguely. ‘I thought you’d better see her before the coroner hauls the body away.’
‘Who found her?’
‘A woman walking her dog first thing. Scared the life out of her.’
McMillan nodded and rubbed his hands together against the chill. ‘Do we know who she was yet?’
‘Her name’s Kate Patterson. ATS private. She’s a kinetheodolite operator, whatever that is. Just twenty-three, poor girl. From Redcar. Stationed at Carlton barracks.’
The Chief Superintendent studied the ground. Too hard for any useful footprints. ‘How was she killed?’
‘Not so good, sir. A gun. Single shot. Up close, powder burns on her clothes. No other wounds that I can see, nothing on her arms, doesn’t look as if she put up a fight…’ Andrews shrugged helplessly. He was a man with too much on his plate already and dreading this.
A girl in the service, shot to death out here. That was as bad as it could be, Lottie thought.
‘Right, I’d better take a look. Which way?’
‘Follow me, sir,’ Lottie told him, leading him through the old church, its roof long gone, and down a pair of steps to the cloister path around a square of scrubby grass, then to the arched opening of the chapter house.
Such a bleak, terrible place to die, she thought. So bare and barren. A stone floor, windows open to the bitter east wind. Kate Patterson had probably come here with a man, seeking a private place for a little companionship, a few minutes of loving, and he’d killed her. At least someone had put a blanket over the body to offer her some decency.
McMillan pulled the cover away. Grunting as he knelt and steadying himself with one hand on the ground, he peered closely at the corpse. Lottie watched, standing silent, notebook and pencil in hand in case he had any thoughts. He simply moved around like a crab, then stood, took a torch from his overcoat and shone the light on the floor.
Stone. Not much to see. A dark patch of blood under her where flies and God knew what swarmed, even in this cold. Empty eyes staring up at the stone ceiling. It was damp enough to chill the bones; Lottie shuddered.
‘God,’ McMillan said finally. ‘Why?’
‘Are you giving the case to Andrews?’ she asked.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘This is the first girl who’s ever been shot to death in Leeds. She’s in uniform, too. I’m going to look after this one myself. The brass will insist on it. Anyway, Andrews already has enough to keep him busy until Doomsday.’ He glanced around. ‘Do you know this place?’
‘A little. It’s not as if it changes much.’
‘Sarah and I came out years ago when the children were small. She’s not one for history.’
His kids were grown now, one boy in the army in Burma, another air force ground crew, his daughter a WREN somewhere down south. He wore that nagging fear she saw on the face of all parents. She and Geoff hadn’t been able to have children; sometimes it seemed for the best.
‘Were you looking as we drove out here?’ she asked.
McMillan gave her a curious glance. ‘At what?’
‘We passed one pub down the road, but it looks like a local, not the type of place you’d go for a pick-up. There’s nothing bigger until much closer to town.’
‘What are you trying to say?’ He stared at her, eyes narrowed.
‘Whoever brought that poor girl here didn’t just stumble on the abbey by blind luck. There’s nothing nearby. And he certainly wouldn’t have found the chapter house without knowing the layout. No lights round here, never mind the blackout.’
‘The perfect place,’ he said quietly. ‘Especially if he intended to kill her. Far enough away from all the houses that nobody would hear the shot.’
‘That’s true,’ Lottie admitted. ‘But think about it: unless they really were at that pub down the road, they made a special trip. That means they’ll have taken the bus or a taxi.’
He shook his head in wonder. ‘You’ve worked that out in ten minutes. My men have been here for two hours. I knew there was a reason I wanted you working for me.’
‘It seems obvious, that’s all.’
‘Not to everyone, apparently. I’m going to need to talk to these Army and ATS people. Can you get whatever information Andrews has found? Tell him to send some of those bobbies who are milling around down to the pub and ask questions, and get others on a house-to-house round here. I want everyone working flat out on this.’
‘Yes, sir.’
By the time he returned to the car she’d read through everything and placed it on the back seat. Only a few sheets, the basics. She saw the black coroner’s van arrive and the men in their brown shop coats carry out the wrapped body, no expression on their faces.
‘Where now?’
‘You’re the one with the bright ideas this morning. I’m sure you read the bumf.’
‘For what it’s worth.’
He paused for a fraction of a second. ‘Did you see the body?’
‘I tried not to look.’ Lottie hadn’t wanted to watch but she’d been unable to turn away. Now the image was burned in her mind.
‘I don’t blame you. Shooting her… I don’t know what’s happening to this country. Why on earth would anyone kill a girl like that?’ In the mirror she could see him staring out of the window and chewing on the fles
h around his thumbnail. ‘You know, something did strike me. She was lying on her back. Her head was pointed towards the – what did you call it?’
‘The cloister.’
‘Yes. So whoever was with her was deeper inside that room.’ He was silent again. ‘Don’t mind me, I’m just thinking out loud. I’ll have the evidence boys go over that place with a fine-tooth comb. With a little luck we can find the cartridge. The post-mortem should tell us something.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the ruined stone tower of the abbey. ‘Do you think there’d be anyone in a place like that at night?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lottie answered, then thought. ‘Could be a tramp, I suppose.’
‘That’s possible,’ McMillan agreed. ‘Once we’re back at the station I’ll start asking around. It’s worth a shot. If a tramp was there he might have seen something.’
‘The newspapers are going to play all this up,’ she warned.
‘No, they won’t,’ he told her. ‘Not yet, anyway. You won’t read anything about it. A quiet word and it’ll be hushed up. Bad for morale.’
‘I see,’ Lottie said doubtfully.
‘Don’t you agree?’
‘I’m not sure.’ It was an honest answer. If you couldn’t trust the papers, who could you believe? Surely people could handle the truth. ‘Millgarth?’
‘Soon as you can.’ He stared out of the window as she drove along Kirkstall Road. Business and factories, and on the other side stood houses, rising up the hillside towards Burley. Nowhere to attract the young looking for some fun and games.
She’d learned to drive twelve years before, when Geoff sold the motorcycle and sidecar and bought a car. A Morris Minor first, then the Morris Eight once they started selling them. Lottie loved the freedom it brought. Lock up the house and go anywhere you want; it was perfect. But she’d never dreamt she’d become a driver. There’d been so much in the future she couldn’t anticipate.
She heard the rustle as McMillan glanced through the papers.
‘She was in a barracks in Headingley,’ he said.
The Year of the Gun Page 1