The Year of the Gun

by Chris Nickson

They all knew what that meant. If he was arrested for some other offence he’d be handed over to the military police. There just weren’t enough coppers to go searching for deserters. Once in a while they’d conduct a sweep and take a few into custody. But it was a losing battle.

  ‘Possible,’ McMillan agreed.

  ‘There’s something else, sir. We had him in for questioning in ’38. Assault and rape. We had to let him go because there wasn’t enough evidence. Reading between the lines, he was probably guilty.’

  ‘Good work. I want the last known address for him. Lottie, find a couple of uniforms. We’re going to see if we can track down Mr Cruickshank.’

  The Humber felt cramped with four people inside, gas masks tucked in the boot. The bobby next to her smelt as if he hadn’t washed for a day or two; she tried to breathe through her mouth as she drove out to Gildersome.

  Industry had crept out from the city, edging along Gelderd Road, almost reaching the old Jewish cemetery. Gildersome itself was little more than a village perched at the top of a hill south of Leeds. Houses along a couple of main streets, it was sleepy, hardly a soul around. Still plenty of farmland off to the south and west.

  ‘Turn here,’ McMillan ordered at Street Lane.

  The house was part of a dark Victorian terrace. Number seventeen, the ninth one out of ten.

  ‘Park farther along.’

  It was basic. One man at the back of the property, another with McMillan at the front door. Lottie knew she wouldn’t be allowed to take part in this. Fine; there was nothing she could add, anyway. She didn’t have the size or the strength. Instead, she took the Graham Greene novel from her pocket, settled back and began to read.

  The men returned in a quarter of an hour. No luck; she could see it in the boss’s face.

  ‘His mother says she hasn’t seen him since his last leave. She’s had the local coppers out there twice looking for him. Claims she wouldn’t have him in the house now, anyway. Cowards not welcome.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘I do. We searched; no sign of him in there. I think he knows she wouldn’t be waiting with open arms. We’ll get the word out to the snouts. He’s around somewhere.’ She could see the look on his face: frustration at not finding Cruickshank mixed with the satisfaction of one solid lead.

  ‘How do you think he ties in with the Americans?’ she asked McMillan after they’d returned to the station.

  ‘He’s on the run. He’ll be in contact with criminals. One thing leads to another.’

  ‘I’ll ring Ellison. If he’s arrested anyone he can try the name on them.’

  ‘Good thinking. Maybe we can get a little something from that end.’

  ‘Cruickshank.’ She said the name into the receiver. ‘Terry Cruickshank. He was in the Signals. Went AWOL from Catterick in December, wanted as a deserter.’

  ‘Got it,’ Ellison said breezily. ‘What rank?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She told him what else they had on the man.

  ‘Yeah, he’d go top of my list, too. I’ll ask.’

  ‘Your people selling guns, did you arrest them?’

  ‘All but one. He must have been off base or hiding. I’ll catch up with him soon.’

  ‘Are they talking?’

  ‘Making sweet, sweet music.’ She could almost see his smile. ‘I’m going to have a bunch of names for you guys later today.’

  ‘We’ll be glad to get them. Especially if Cruickshank’s is one.’

  ‘I need to get back and sweat them some more. Remind them that they’re looking at a long time in the stockade.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m sorry I let the cat out of the bag yesterday.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘OK, good,’ he said. ‘I’ll send those names over later. And…’ he began, but stopped himself. ‘Never mind. I’ll see what I can find for you.’

  Officers trooped in and out of the superintendent’s office, both uniform and plain clothes. All trying to track down Terry Cruickshank. With a name, the machinery could begin to creak into action.

  There was nothing for Lottie to do except sit and read. She was twenty pages from the end of the book when someone tapped on the door. He had to be American, she thought. A broad, shy face, big body with cropped dark hair, dressed in a leather jacket with a worn canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Are you WAPC Armstrong?’ He read the name off the front of an envelope.

  ‘I am,’ Lottie told him. Definitely a Yank, with an accent straight out of Gone with the Wind.

  ‘For you, ma’am. From Captain Ellison.’ He handed it over, gave one of those flat salutes and left.

  She ripped it open. There was the list he’d promised, eight names, and another sheet with a scrawled note:

  These are the local guys the thieves here have been dealing with. The man from stores swore he’d never taken and sold any guns. I told him one had been used in a murder and that meant he could face trial in England. A lie, but he didn’t know that. He says he sold them to someone called Harry. That’s the only name he has, but he told me the man has a scar on his cheek. I pressed him pretty hard on Cruickshank, but he said he’d never heard of him. I believe him.

  Cliff

  Someone called Harry with a scar on his cheek? Lottie didn’t have to reach far into her memory. She’d met him a few days before at his house in Whitkirk. The man who said he’d help McMillan. The man whose daughter had died serving with the QA Nurses in France. The man who said he hated guns.

  She took both sheets over to McMillan’s office and placed them on his desk, the list on top.

  ‘From Ellison,’ was all she said, standing as he read through, nodding at the names, then turned to the letter.

  ‘So much for anything Harry Park tells me.’ He let go of the paper and it fluttered down to the desk. ‘I’m going to crucify the bastard for this. Cruickshank must have got the gun from him.’ In one angry movement he was on his feet. ‘Let’s go.’

  He stopped at the CID room, passing over the list: everyone on it to be arrested. Get warrants for each property Park owned and search them top to bottom. Then he clattered down the stairs to the Humber. She didn’t need to ask the destination, simply headed out along York Road.

  Park’s wife met them at the door, growing alarmed as she saw the expression on McMillan’s face.

  ‘Is he in?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  He barged by her, through to the living room. Lottie followed, standing by the door in case Park tried to run.

  ‘What?’ Park stood, dumping the newspaper from his lap on to the floor. ‘What the hell are you doing—?’

  ‘Harold Park, I’m arresting you for receiving stolen property.’

  ‘You’re joking.’ He looked genuinely outraged.

  ‘The American’s been arrested,’ McMillan told him. ‘He told them everything. You know, I believed you when you said you hated guns.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You hated them enough to buy some.’ He took out the handcuffs but Park moved away. ‘Don’t, or it’ll be resisting arrest.’

  ‘Call the solicitor,’ Park told his wife as the Chief Superintendent pushed him out to the car. ‘Tell him to go to Millgarth.’

  No talking as they drove back to town. Once, pulling away from a light, she had to fight the clutch to put it into gear. Not a good sign, Lottie thought.

  At the station Park was booked in, fingerprints taken, personal items removed and sealed away, before being placed in an interview room.

  An hour later he was still there with the Chief Inspector. Lottie waited in the corridor, feet aching from standing so long. As men reported in with names from the list brought into custody, she wrote in her notebook. But no sign of the weapons. The searches of the places Park owned had brought nothing – yet. It was far from over.

  The hard slap of a hand on wood grabbed her attention, then McMillan’s voice through the wall, yelling at full volume. The whole station must have heard him.

&nbs
p; ‘I don’t give a monkey’s. One of those guns has been used to kill four people. We know you bought them, we have a description from the Yank quartermaster who sold them to you.’ A muttered response. ‘You’re not bloody innocent, don’t even try to deny it. I want to know who has those guns and you’re going to tell me.’

  He stormed out of the room. The door slammed behind him, rattling in the jamb.

  ‘Sir—’ she began, but he walked right past her, out into the cold February air. By the time she caught up he was already drawing deeply on a cigarette.

  ‘He’s guilty. I know it, he knows it. By now his bloody lawyer knows it.’ McMillan flexed his fist. ‘He’s just lucky I haven’t beaten it out of him.’ For a moment she wasn’t sure if he was joking. But his eyes were deadly serious.

  ‘They’ve arrested six from that list. Got them in cells spread all around Leeds so they can’t talk to each other.’

  ‘Good. Anything from the search?’

  ‘No,’ Lottie told him. ‘But he might well have places we don’t know about. And he’s hardly going to keep pistols anywhere obvious, is he?’

  ‘He’s going to tell me where the hell they are.’

  ‘We could get the statement from the man Ellison’s arrested. It might give you more to work with.’

  He nodded. ‘See what you can arrange. Harry Park won’t be going anywhere for a day or two.’

  ‘THERE’S a copy of the American’s statement—’ she placed it on the desk ‘—and full reports from all of Park’s properties.’ Lottie glanced at McMillan. ‘No guns.’

  She’d arrived early at Millgarth to go through all the papers and collate everything ready for him.

  ‘These are the statements from the names on the American’s list. We still can’t find two of them, they seem to have vanished. Four confessions to receiving and black market trading so far. Not a bad haul. Maybe it’ll cut down on the amount offered for sale.’

  ‘You sound cheerful this morning,’ McMillan said.

  ‘A good night’s sleep. You don’t look too happy.’

  He shrugged and said nothing. His face was more lined and careworn than ever. Raw at the edges, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. But hardly surprising.

  ‘I’ll be fine as soon as I get an admission from Harry Park,’ he said. ‘Did you do much last night?’

  ‘Went to a film at the Odeon with Margaret from Records and Helen off the switchboard.’

  ‘The coven.’ He smirked.

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d better not let them hear you say that.’

  ‘I know.’ He sighed. ‘Good film?’

  ‘Very. Double Indemnity. They almost get away with a crime except for the hunch of the investigator.’

  ‘Has to be rubbish, then.’ McMillan smiled. He read the statement Ellison had sent. ‘Harry can’t worm his way out of this one. It’s almost as good as a photograph.’ His eyes moved to the clock. ‘How about a cup of tea, then I’ll have another crack at him?’

  By midday there was nothing more. No confession. Some shouting, but few results. Lottie sat in the canteen, finishing The Power and the Glory, closing the book as she swallowed the last mouthful of something that pretended to be Swiss roll and drank the dregs of her tea.

  Helen came in to the room, looked around, then strode over purposefully.

  ‘I’ve been looking all over for you. Your American’s been on the phone twice, wanting you or the Chief Super, and there are orders not to disturb him.’

  ‘He’s not my American,’ Lottie insisted. ‘I’ll ring him back. Did he say what he wanted?’

  ‘Just that it was important.’ She cocked her head. ‘Who do you think he resembles more, Cary Grant or James Stewart?’

  ‘Who?’ Lottie asked. Good God, had the woman gone daft?

  ‘The one who keeps ringing you, of course.’

  Lottie just shook her head and walked off.

  ‘Could your boss come out here?’ Ellison asked. ‘I’d like him to talk to my prisoner, get his questions in before I send him off to the stockade.’

  ‘He’s spent the morning interrogating the man who received the guns.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  Without thinking, she lowered her voice. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘If he can get out here in the next couple of hours, fine. If not… I’ll have to send this guy on his way.’

  ‘I’ll tell him. And thank you.’

  She knocked on the door of the interview room and entered. Three sets of eyes turned to her. Park, unshaven, bruises on his cheek, one eye swollen shut. Next to him, a sleek lawyer with a worried look on his face, briefcase open at his feet, a notepad and pen in front of him. McMillan sat across the table. A mountain of cigarette ends filled the ashtray. The air was thick enough to cut.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A word, please, sir.’

  He pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger as she explained.

  ‘We’d better go,’ he said. ‘Can you find me some Aspro? My head’s pounding.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘His name’s Kroger,’ Ellison told them outside the door. ‘Corporal in the stores. Was, anyway. He’s going to spend the next few years doing some very hard time at Fort Leavenworth.’

  ‘Have you wrung him dry?’ McMillan asked.

  ‘Got all I need. I figured you might have a few specific questions.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’ The cloud of the headache had passed from his face. Aspirin, and the window in the car rolled down to bring fresh air; they’d helped.

  ‘I’d better warn you, he’s not a pretty sight.’ He turned to Lottie. ‘He’s a soldier and a traitor. I’m not going to be gentle with him.’

  ‘It happens. Our suspect hurt himself when he fell down the stairs on the way to his cell,’ McMillan said flatly.

  Lottie said nothing. She didn’t like it, but she understood the necessity. Better to bite her tongue.

  A soldier with a rifle stood behind the door; he snapped to attention and saluted when he saw the captain.

  ‘Outside,’ Ellison ordered. ‘No one comes in.’

  The prison sat hunched over on a chair, wrists and ankles shackled. A trail of dried blood ran from the corner of his mouth to his chin.

  He looked so young, she thought. Twenty-two? Twenty-three? Dark eyes, short curly black hair. There was a curious innocence to his face, pleading in his eyes.

  ‘Listen up, Kroger,’ Ellison said. ‘This is an English cop. He’s going to ask you some questions about selling the guns. And you’re going to answer him, understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the man answered with a cracked, faded voice.

  ‘Tell him everything and it’ll look better at the court martial.’

  It didn’t take long. Kroger was terrified, embarrassingly eager to co-operate. The words flooded out of him. How often he’d met Park, what he’d sold, where it had taken place, even the dates. The man even gave a more detailed description of his buyer; Park wouldn’t have any room to squirm.

  Back outside, smoking a cigarette, McMillan gave his thanks.

  ‘Any chance of getting him to testify on my case?’

  ‘Nope. I’m keeping this guy under wraps. Quiet trial and back to the States to start serving his sentence. We’re already going to look like fools. No need to make it worse.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘Politics trumps law. Sorry.’

  ‘Now all I need is for Park to confess,’ McMillan said as they walked into Millgarth.

  ‘With all you have now?’ How could there be any doubt about it? ‘He has to.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ His voice was doubtful. ‘I’m more concerned about those guns.’

  ‘Charge him with receiving stolen property,’ McMillan told the sergeant. Park stood beside him, handcuffed, shoulders slumped in defeat. The solicitor stood clutching his briefcase, smiling. His client would still go to prison, but this was a victory all the same.

  Five minutes later, McMillan had
all the detectives assembled in the office. Lottie stood behind him, taking notes.

  ‘Park admitted buying the guns. Said he’d give me the names of everyone he sold them to, in return for reduced charges.’ He shook his head. ‘I must be getting soft in my old age.’ The men chuckled. He held up a list. ‘Here they are. I want every last one of them and I want those shooters. We know one of them’s been used to kill. It’s been sold on, and I want to know who has it. All clear, gentlemen?’ McMillan looked at the faces, all of them serious now. ‘Good. Go and get them.’

  ‘Cruickshank?’ she asked when they were in his office. ‘Did you find a link to Park?’

  ‘Harry said he’d never heard of the man. I think he was telling the truth.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘This time there was no reason to lie.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You might as well go home. There’s nothing more to do until they come back.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll catch forty winks here. It’s going to be a long night.’

  She didn’t know why, but at home Lottie primped herself a little. A touch of precious lipstick; it was so hard to find these days that she kept it as a luxury. A little powder. One of her good dresses from before the war. She’d taken it in a little and raised the hem an inch.

  There was no indication he’d come. He hadn’t given a hint. She just felt he’d show up, and for once she wanted to look her best. The boss had his copper’s hunch; she had her woman’s intuition. But by the time she’d cooked her meal, washed up and hung her apron behind the kitchen door, he still hadn’t arrived.

  Maybe she was wrong, Lottie thought, tuning the radio to the BBC. An orchestral concert from somewhere or other. Classical music. She wanted something jollier, more rousing. Her fingers searched out the American Forces Network, one of the big bands playing that song again. Imagination. Then she heard the knock on the door.

  Good to know that her skills had not vanished with age.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ellison said when she led him into the light of the dining room. ‘I’m intruding. You’re dressed up to go out.’

  ‘Not really.’ She smiled. ‘I fancied a change, that’s all. Would you like a drink?’