The Year of the Gun

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Tell them it’s the highest priority they have right now,’ Lottie said. ‘And make sure you’re careful with it. It’s evidence in a murder case.’

  That made the lad stand taller and he gave a salute before he dashed off.

  ‘Close the door,’ McMillan ordered when she entered his office.

  ‘What is it?’ She sat, notebook and pencil ready.

  ‘The sergeant in charge out at Otley rang me at about eleven last night about a girl who was due home at ten o’clock. Her mother reported it and he got straight on the blower to me.’

  ‘But—’ She’d checked; no missing girls.

  ‘Arrived home an hour later. She’d missed the last bus, had to hitchhike in the blackout. Got a talking-to from her mother.’

  ‘Was she in the service?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just seventeen. Works in a shop. A bit of a flibbertigibbet, evidently. I don’t want this going any further. But people are getting worried. They’ve read about Lily Kemp in the papers.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Do you know something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When the sergeant phoned me, I thought at least people are scared now. They’re going to be wary.’ He looked at her. ‘Ghoulish, isn’t it?’

  ‘If it stops someone else dying…’

  ‘I know.’ He exhaled. ‘Now we still have to catch Cruickshank, or whoever the hell’s behind all this.’

  ‘What do you make of the letter?’

  ‘I’m sure he wrote it,’ McMillan said. ‘But it doesn’t change anything. I still want to arrest him. Nothing more from the Americans, I take it?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘That whole angle is nagging at me. I can’t make it fit with everything else. Come on,’ he decided, ‘let’s take another run out to Shire Oak Road. Maybe things will make more sense if I see it again.’

  But they didn’t. He paced around all of the rooms then out into the garden, rain darkening the shoulders of his mackintosh. Lottie stayed just inside the front door, trying to imagine what kind of cheerless party Pamela Dixon had taken part in here. It couldn’t have been loud or the neighbours would have rung to complain. But the place was hidden from the street and most of the other houses by a wild, overgrown hedge. Safe, away from things.

  She flicked a switch on the wall but nothing happened. No electricity. There must have been some kind of light; torches, lanterns. They couldn’t have been blundering around in complete darkness. She searched around quickly. No sign of wax anywhere; they hadn’t used candles. And no curtains, nothing covering the windows. Any glimmer inside would have been visible for miles across Meanwood Valley. The air-raid wardens would have come knocking…

  ‘I’ve had an idea,’ she told McMillan as he came back in, shaking his head in frustration.

  The man at the ARP station had small, round glasses and a carefully clipped white moustache. What remained of his hair was pomaded and shining, carefully combed across his scalp. He was dressed in a clean boiler suit, insignia neatly sewn on the shoulders.

  ‘Here we are.’ His finger traced down the page of the ledger and peered closer at the notes. ‘We received a telephone call from one of our chaps down in Meanwood. Someone must have worked out it was on Shire Oak Road and we sent a warden down there. The building looked deserted and there were no lights showing when he walked around the property.’

  ‘What time was this?’ Lottie asked. She felt deflated. He’d arrived at the house too late.

  ‘Hold your horses, young lady. I’m not done yet.’ She felt herself bristle at the reprimand. ‘The door to the house was open. He walked in, saw some rubbish. But he noted that people must have been there recently, he could still smell cigarette smoke. This was at a quarter to one in the morning.’ He lifted his head and smiled. ‘Is that what you wanted?’

  ‘Thank you,’ McMillan said. ‘I’d like to speak to the warden.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The man smiled. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You wrote that you could smell cigarette smoke in the house,’ the chief superintendent said. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Daniel Johnson blinked. He’d limped along the hall, leading them to the kitchen, the metal scrape of a calliper every time he moved his right leg. Polio, she thought; poor man, no wonder he wasn’t off in the services. He looked to be in his late twenties, hair already receding, his body thin and awkward. ‘It was still strong. They can’t have been gone too long.’

  ‘Did you see a vehicle nearby?’

  ‘Not that I noticed.’ He frowned as he tried to recall. ‘No, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Did you hear a Jeep at all while you were in the area?’ Lottie asked him.

  Suddenly Johnson became animated, nodding eagerly. ‘Yes. The engine has a special sound.’ From the corner of her eye, Lottie could see McMillan watching. ‘I was coming up the street towards St Michael’s church and I heard one going towards town.’ He glanced around, embarrassed. ‘There’s not much traffic around at that time so it stuck in my mind.’

  ‘How long was this before you reached the house?’ the superintendent asked.

  ‘Five minutes. Ten at most.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Johnson. That’s very helpful.’

  ‘It doesn’t prove anything,’ McMillan said as she drove back to town. Moving away from Hyde Park Corner, the clutch slipped again. Second time, Lottie thought. She needed to take the Humber to the garage. ‘We can’t even be certain he really did hear a Jeep.’

  ‘Come on. You saw him; he was telling the truth. We have a better idea of the time it all happened now.’

  ‘True. That was good work.’

  Roadworks took her all the way down to City Square, circling the roundabout with the statue of the Black Prince. Air-raid shelters stood on the surface. They hadn’t been used for a long time; with luck they’d never need them again. She hoped so. Stone staircases led down, below the square. A pantechnicon was parked by the kerb, clear of the tram lines, two soldiers with rifles guarding the back doors.

  ‘They must be dismantling Regional Command Defence HQ,’ he said, staring out of the window.

  ‘What’s that?’ She’d never heard of it.

  In the mirror she saw him smile. ‘Under the square. If London fell they were going to run the country from here.’

  ‘I never knew.’

  ‘Of course not. It was all very hush-hush. Now there’s no threat of invasion they’re removing it.’ He sighed. ‘The tide’s turned. You know they’re even talking about standing down the Home Guard.’

  ‘Really?’ If that happened it would seem as if the end was definitely in sight, Lottie thought.

  ‘That’s what I’ve heard. Now we just need a second front.’

  ‘Do you think that’s why all these Americans are here?’ She waited on Vicar Lane to turn down George Street.

  ‘It has to be. Probably won’t be too long, either.’

  For a moment the image of Cliff Ellison moving on filled her mind. Saying goodbye, never seeing him again.

  ‘You’re miles away,’ McMillan said.

  ‘Sorry.’ She could feel herself redden. She pushed down on the accelerator and the Humber jumped down the road.

  ‘Just get us back in one piece,’ he muttered.

  They sat in the yard behind Millgarth, watching drizzle on the windscreen and listening to the tick of the car’s engine as it cooled.

  ‘We’ve got two separate strands here,’ McMillan said. He raised his left hand. ‘The killings at Kirkstall Abbey. Until I get evidence to the contrary, Terry Cruickshank’s responsible for those. Agreed?’ Lottie nodded. His right hand went up. ‘And we’ve got Pamela Dixon. We know from the underwear we found that she was out at Shire Oak Road, and we discovered her body in a cold storage unit. We have every reason to believe an American was out at the house, too. But she was killed with a bullet from the same gun.’ He stared at her; she nodded once more. ‘Which is where these two strands come together.’ He clasped his hands. ‘How did that hap
pen? And who’s the American?’

  ‘So far we haven’t done too well finding answers.’

  ‘Luck. Unless someone gives us a tip, half the time that’s what solves a case. That and not giving up.’ McMillan lit a Four Square. ‘We could do with a lot of it right now.’

  No reports at the desk of any missing women. Could the killer have satisfied his hunger for the moment? Or was he running scared now?

  Lottie rang the police garage. They could book the Humber in next week, not before. Didn’t matter if it was the chief constable himself. No, they couldn’t promise how long it might take. Depended on parts. Yes, they could provide another car, but no promises as to what it might be.

  Frustrated, she went to the canteen and brought a couple of mugs of tea to McMillan’s office. He was on the telephone.

  ‘That’s something,’ he said into the receiver. ‘But I need this man. How many officers can there be around here with a mole on their cheek?’

  She waited, curious. He pushed a paper across the desk for her. The report from the lab on Cruickshank’s letter. It was definitely him; the fingerprints matched those on file from when he was questioned in ’38. But that still didn’t answer the big question: was he telling the truth or creating an elaborate lie?

  ‘And I need to solve four murders,’ McMillan said. ‘This man could be key.’ He paused. ‘I’ve been told a Jeep was definitely heard leaving the house that night.’ She looked at him; he raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He listened, sipping from the cup. ‘That would be very helpful. Thank you, Cliff. We’ll be up there later.’ He put the receiver down gently and turned to her. ‘He hopes to have an answer for us this afternoon. It’s taken enough pushing.’

  ‘Maybe…’ she began then stopped. She couldn’t defend Cliff; he’d delayed an investigation. It seemed as if he’d been deliberately dragging his feet. It couldn’t be, though; that was stupid. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘How do we make Lady Luck smile on us?’ he wondered. ‘It used to be that I could go anywhere in Leeds and find out what I needed.’

  ‘Not now?’

  He pursed his lips and shook his head.

  ‘The higher the rank, the more removed from everything you become. You lose the touch, the feel for it. Half the narks I had are probably dead now. The rest are off fighting.’

  ‘You have plenty of people working for you here.’

  ‘I know. But… all that means is a lot more sitting around here and waiting for information rather than being out there getting it for myself. That’s what makes the job exciting, watching people when they tell me things, so I can look at their eyes and know if they’re lying.’

  ‘We have a list of his associates.’

  ‘And they’ve all been questioned.’

  ‘Not by you,’ Lottie said. ‘What else do we have to do for a few hours?’

  He weighed the idea then laughed. ‘Come on, then. It won’t make me popular, but I’ll never win a beauty contest, anyway.’

  ‘Maybe if you lost a few pounds.’

  THEY sat in canteen of a big welding shop in Hunslet, where a Careless Talk Costs Lives poster was peeling away from the wall. Then in the porters’ room at the infirmary, where a man with thick glasses blinked every time he answered. And finally out to Crossgates, the Royal Ordinance Factory. Close enough to the sprawling old Barnbow munitions factory where she’d worked during the last war. Where she’d met Geoff.

  She knew the streets round here. She knew the smell of them, the taste of the air. It was funny how it all came back as soon as she stepped out of the Humber. So many houses now where there had once been fields and farms. But this factory stood apart, buildings full of noise and heat. Casting metal for artillery guns.

  The heavy-set woman had thick smudges of dirt on both cheeks, a pair of dark goggles hanging by their strap around her neck. Her hair was tied up in a scarf, and tiny welding scars covered the back of her hands. She eyed them suspiciously.

  ‘I’ve not seen him.’ Her voice was a rasp. Standing outside the building in the damp grey air she took a Woodbine from the pocket of her overalls, lit it and gulped down the smoke. ‘Don’t want to, neither.’

  Vera Dodds had been Terry Cruickshank’s girlfriend, according to his mother. She’d already been questioned once by DC Smith and had given the same answer then.

  ‘When did you see him last?’ McMillan asked.

  ‘Came round after he deserted. I told him to get lost.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘I’m doing my bit for the country. If he can’t do his, he can sling his hook. No time for yellow bellies.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘Stormed off like a little lad in a tantrum.’ She shook her head in disgust. ‘Sod him.’

  Someone shouted. Dodds turned her head towards the open door of the building. Inside, showers of sparks came from the welding machines every few seconds. ‘I said I’d be back in a minute,’ she shouted, then turned back to them. ‘Bloody slavedrivers.’

  ‘Do you know where Terry might be?’

  ‘In a ditch somewhere for all I care.’ She nipped the burning tip off the cigarette and put the dog end in a tin. ‘Is that it? Only we’ve got an order to get out.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, then added, ‘If you hear from him, please ring us.’

  ‘Course.’ She smiled and for a moment the hardness vanished from her face. ‘Strange to think I liked him once. Funny old life, isn’t it?’ She shrugged, turned and vanished.

  ‘Terry doesn’t seem to have many friends, does he?’ Lottie said as the car bumped out of the yard. Back to Selby Road, a quick glance at the place that had been the making of her before 1918.

  ‘I wish one of them would turn him in.’

  ‘Where now?’

  ‘We’ll start at the office,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Maybe there’ll be something new. And happen pigs can fly, too. After that we’ll go and see the Yanks.’

  The drive to Castle Grove Masonic Lodge seemed all too familiar now. It seemed impossible to believe that a fortnight before, she hadn’t even known the place existed.

  Today there was a bustle of troops, men in battledress with steel helmets, weapons and packs, all clambering into the backs of lorries. Half of them were covered in mud, shouting and laughing. They seemed filled with a sense of drive and direction.

  ‘Looks like they’ve been on exercise,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Yes,’ McMillan answered slowly. For a moment she wondered if he saw a reflection of his young self in the dirty faces. He’d fought, marched with a rifle and been in the trenches.

  Ellison was spick and span, the creases sharp in his trousers, not a shred of lint on his jacket.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asked as they seated themselves in his cramped attic office. ‘There’s got to be a fresh pot round this place somewhere.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ McMillan told him with a smile. ‘It’s not a social call. You said you might have an answer for me this afternoon. The officer with the mole on his face.’

  ‘I know.’ The muscles on his face tightened. ‘I’ve tried, believe me. But we’ve had half the men out on manoeuvres today – I guess you saw some of them outside. I haven’t been able to go round. By tomorrow, I promise.’

  ‘I hope you can deliver this time.’ There was very little warmth in McMillan’s voice.

  ‘I’m a man of my word, John. Always have been.’ He extended his right hand and the Chief Superintendent shook it. ‘If he’s around here at all, you’ll have him.’

  As they left, Lottie could feel Ellison’s eyes staring at the back of her head. She looked back for a moment and saw pleading and guilt on his face. She gave a hint of a smile then closed the door.

  ‘What the hell’s he up to?’ McMillan slammed a hand down on the car seat. ‘What’s going on in there?’

  She didn’t answer; she had no idea. But Ellison was hiding something, trying to put them off. That was certain.

  ‘He knows who it is,’ McMillan continued. ‘I could see it
on his face. He’s probably known since I first gave him the description.’

  ‘Why would he shield someone?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘A friend. Senior officer, maybe. I don’t know.’ He was frustrated, angry. ‘He holds the cards. Dammit. If he comes back and says he can’t find anyone, what am I going to do? Call him a liar?’ He hesitated. ‘He’s your friend. Couldn’t you have a word with him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘At least find out why the hell he’s holding back.’

  Lottie kept on driving and didn’t say a word. She could feel her outrage building. He might be her boss, but he could go and whistle for that. Finally, once she’d calmed a little she said, ‘Give him a chance. He’s come through for us once.’

  ‘Sorry,’ McMillan said. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘You shouldn’t.’

  She wanted to believe in Ellison. It boiled down to that. She hoped that under it all – beneath the soldier, hidden behind the copper – he was a good man. An upright man. She’d just have to wait and see what tomorrow brought.

  The morning gave them good news and bad. Still no women reported missing, no more bodies discovered. That was hopeful. But by eleven Ellison hadn’t rung, and McMillan was pacing around his office like an animal in a cage.

  Eventually he appeared in his overcoat, hat in his hand. ‘Come on, we’ve given him a chance. We’re going out there.’

  He didn’t speak on the way. Lottie frowned as she drove, paying attention to the car. The clutch was definitely on its way out. Putting it into third was like a wrestling match and it didn’t feel secure when she nudged it into second. All she could do was hope it would last until the appointment next week.

  She was still worrying about it as she parked at Castle Grove, rushing to follow McMillan into the building and up the two flights of stairs to the attic. Ellison’s door was closed. He turned the knob: locked.

  ‘He didn’t know we were coming,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Then let’s find out where he is.’

  It took them five minutes to track down a corporal who seemed to know where everyone should be.

  ‘The Captain?’ he asked in surprise. ‘He’s going to be gone all day. His meeting’s been set up for a while. Was he expecting you?’