Five minutes passed, then the door to his office opened. He emerged holding a clutch of papers and held them out to her.
‘Would you mind filing these, please?’ Polite and calm. He gave a tiny nod, then vanished down the stairs. The storm had blown over. When he returned he was carrying two mugs of tea and put one on her desk. His peace offering.
‘Do we have anything new on Hilliard?’ she asked.
‘No. And I still can’t make head or tail of how the cold storage and Shire Oak Road fit into it all. There’s nothing to tie him to them. It’s like trying to do the Times cryptic crossword.’
She understood, but for a fraction of a second it dredged up memories. Geoff had enjoyed the cryptic. The acrostic, too. He rarely completed them, but he could never resist the challenge.
‘And it doesn’t explain an American leaving the house carrying a girl,’ she said.
‘I know.’ He scratched the back of his scalp. ‘The old buffer next door to the place swore he saw that star insignia, but maybe he just imagined it.’
‘But that would mean Hilliard had a Jeep, though. He didn’t make that up. That ARP fellow heard it.’
‘Stealing a car’s nothing. I could do it myself.’
Lottie raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
‘I could,’ he insisted with a grin. ‘A professional car thief showed me.’
‘At least you’ll be useful if I lose the car keys.’
‘We’ll only discover the truth when we arrest Hilliard,’ he said. ‘Still, Cruickshank’s off the hook.’
‘Hilliard’s going to be running scared now.’
‘Good,’ McMillan said firmly. ‘That’s what I want. People make mistakes when they’re scared.’
‘He must have a place somewhere.’
He nodded. ‘We’re looking. That man he was with yesterday didn’t know where it was. We made sure we got the truth out of him.’
In her mind’s eye she could see him, the blood and the bruises.
‘Did he give you any other names?’
‘A couple of friends. Smith and Randall have been out looking.’ He checked his watch. ‘We should have something soon.’
As if on cue, the telephone in his office began to ring. In less than a minute he was back.
‘Come on.’ He gave a dark grin.
Bitterly cold and grey. She had to scrape frost off the windscreen. At least the heater worked since the service; she turned it all the way up, and rubbed a hand across the glass to try and clear the condensation.
‘Where?’ Lottie asked.
‘East End Park.’
It wasn’t far, a twist and tangle of streets through some of the poorest parts of Leeds. Past the grey, looping bulk of Quarry Hill flats, then Marsh Lane, the railway goods yard still a ruin where German bombs had landed back in 1940. Faded, flapping posters on walls urged people to support the Spitfire Fun and Ark Royal Week. Up through the Bank, where half the houses had been demolished before the war, the rest still packed to overflowing with people who could afford nothing better. Then Cross Green and pulling to the kerb, the only car by the scrubby green of the park.
‘Over there.’ He pointed to a house with a green door and a tiny front yard; a through terrace, by the look of it. ‘Where Hilliard lives. We got a tip.’
‘You’re sure he’s not there now?’
‘Positive. The man on the beat checked a little while ago. I told him to carry on. I want to search this place myself.’
The man who answered the door had a liquid, bronchitic cough, pulling out a grey handkerchief to spit in it. Cloudy eyes, thin as a garden rake, a wheezy voice. He’d been expecting them.
‘Upstairs,’ he said. ‘Not seen him in a few days. He’s paid up to the end of the month, mind.’
‘You have a key for his room?’
‘Course.’ A short, sullen reply.
‘Unlock it for me.’
It wasn’t much, twelve feet by twelve. A single bed with a cast-iron frame. Tattered rag rug on bare boards. A small desk, a wardrobe in the corner by the window, a suitcase on top. McMillan looked round.
‘I can smell him.’ He took in the dirty clothes piled in the corner, the drawers that were closed, the tangle of sheets and pillows. ‘I’ll take the desk, you look in the wardrobe.’
The door pulled back with a squeak. One side had shelves for shirts and underwear, the other a rod for hanging clothes.
‘I think you’ll want to take a look at this,’ Lottie said.
Two army uniforms on hangers. One for a private, probably Hilliard’s own, smelling oddly musty. The other was for an officer. A captain. The peaked cap sat on top of a shirt.
‘Well, well,’ McMillan stood behind her. ‘He certainly likes to play dress-up, doesn’t he?’ He tossed the captain’s uniform on the bed and started digging through the pockets. Just an empty matchbox, nothing more.
She went through the other clothes, Hilliard’s own uniform, forage cap pushed through an epaulette, and an old suit with a Burton’s label inside. Dust and lint in the pockets, nothing to help them. Shirts, underwear, socks, shoes; she didn’t find anything hidden in the folds. The suitcase was empty. He remained anonymous.
There was very little in the desk, either. A spare collar stud, a couple of scraps of paper, names and addresses scribbled in pencil; something to be checked later. But the man was a deserter, he’d probably keep anything important with him. Lottie stripped the sheets from the bed, lifted the mattress and looked under the frame. The only thing there, in the dust, was a copy of Health and Efficiency. In a strange way it made Hilliard more human, more fragile.
‘We’ll take the uniforms and the suit with us,’ McMillan said. ‘I’ll have the evidence boys over here later to see if we missed anything.’
‘Doesn’t look like there’s much to miss.’
‘You never know. They’ll tear it apart properly. In the meantime we’ll get them to examine these clothes. Might be some blood they can identify, or some hairs. Anything to nail him down.’
The evidence laboratory was over in Hunslet, a rickety affair in the basement that had once been the home of the police surgeon. The officer in charge, huddled in his white lab coat, tutted as they walked in.
‘Those could have picked up all sorts on the way here.’
‘Maybe they did,’ McMillan replied. ‘But I’m interested in any blood, whatever you can find to tie the wearer to those murdered girls we have.’
She could hear it in his voice; he wasn’t in a mood to argue the toss. The lab man nodded after a moment.
‘Where now?’ she asked as they walked back to the Humber.
He produced the scraps of paper with the names and addresses he’d taken from Hilliard’s room. ‘Let’s find out what these are about.’
The first man on the list admitted that the writing was his, but nothing more until he heard the description.
‘Him.’ He shook his head. ‘Met him in a pub. He said he could maybe lay his hands on a case of this or that. I told him I might be interested, wrote down my address. He never turned up.’
‘Was he in uniform?’
‘No, civvies.’ He glanced from McMillan to Lottie. ‘Why, who is he?’
‘Just following up on something, sir. But I’d steer clear of the black market if I were you. The judges don’t look kindly on it.’
The second address brought more of the same. A taxi driver.
‘I remember him. Said he knew where I could get petrol off the ration. Told me he worked with the Ministry.’
Hilliard must have been in civvies again, she thought.
‘What happened?’
‘I wrote my address down, told him to come round. That’s the last I saw of him. Honest.’
She believed him. It fitted. On the run from the army, Hilliard was getting by, making deals. Some must have worked or he’d be broke. And he was still going around with a gun.
As they pulled into the yard behind Millgarth, a police van was screeching
out, bell ringing. Lottie raised an eyebrow as she glanced in the mirror but McMillan ignored her, already on his way into the station.
‘Shooting, sir!’ the desk sergeant shouted. ‘Noble the jeweller on Commercial Street.’
McMillan didn’t say a word; he simply turned. She was ahead of him, running to the car, starting the engine and pushing down on the accelerator as he closed the door.
‘It’s him,’ he said. ‘I can taste it. He’s getting desperate.’
DC Smith was already talking to the owner of the shop, a man in his sixties who kept wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, even in the cold wind. Uniforms were all around, interviewing witnesses. Lottie spied a woman trying to stay small and out of sight in the corner.
‘Hello,’ she said as she approached. ‘I’m Lottie Armstrong. Do you work here?’
She nodded, staring with wide, scared eyes.
‘Yes.’ The word barely came out.
‘What’s your name?’ Lottie smiled at her. She looked to be about twenty, hair neatly set, a face and figure that looked younger. Shy, petrified. She needed a little calm and comfort.
‘Angela Dobson.’
‘Were you here when it happened?’
Another nod. ‘Me and Mr Noble, we were in the shop.’ She pointed to a counter with a glass top. Half the display cases beneath were empty. He must have got away with a good haul of rings and watches.
All around them there was noise. Men, loud, angry, commanding. Too much masculinity, she thought. If she took the girl away from the commotion she might be able to say what happened.
‘Why don’t we go and get a cup of tea, eh?’ Lottie suggested. ‘We’ll let them blunder around in peace.’
She guided Angela gently by the elbow. McMillan gave her a curious look as she left; she tilted her head to indicate the destination. Fields’ café. Genteel, soothing. Above all, quiet. As soon as they were seated she ordered a pot of tea then said nothing, taking off her cap and primping her hair a little.
‘WAPC?’ the girl asked as she saw the cap badge.
‘Auxiliary.’ Lottie smiled. ‘Not a proper copper.’
She was mother, pouring, asking about milk and sugar. Finally, once Angela had lit a cigarette, it was time.
‘Why don’t you tell me about it.’
Angela took a few moments, remembering, composing herself.
‘We’d just been moving the stock around a bit. Mr Noble likes to do that so customers have something a little different to see when they come in, it might catch their eye. Then the door opened and a man was standing there.’
‘What did he look like?’ Lottie asked quietly. She listened to the description. It had to be Hilliard, and still without an overcoat.
‘He pulled a gun from his jacket.’ Without thinking, Angela mimed the motion. ‘I’ve never seen a real gun before. Just at the pictures.’ Her voice halted as she relived it all.
‘He won’t come back. You’re safe.’
‘I know.’ She swallowed and looked away. ‘I’m sorry. You must think I’m a baby.’
‘No, I don’t. I think I’d faint if someone held a gun on me.’
‘Really?’ Angela stared at her, uncertain.
‘Honestly,’ Lottie told her. ‘They terrify me.’ It was perfectly true. She loathed the things. Soldiers might need them, but she was glad the British police were unarmed. ‘He had the gun out. What did you do?’
Angela settled her small hands on the crisp white tablecloth.
‘He started to shout that he wanted everything, and pointed the gun at Mr Noble. It felt like it must have lasted about ten minutes, but I suppose it all went very quickly. I just kept my back against the wall, hoping he wouldn’t see me.’ She fell silent, and was quiet for a long time. ‘I couldn’t move, but he kept pushing Mr Noble to go faster. I think he must have been scared, he kept looking around. He wanted rings and watches, he was stuffing them in his pockets as fast as Mr Noble could reach them out. Then the money from the till. As soon as he had everything, he fired into the wall twice and ran off. I started screaming.’
‘He wasn’t firing at anyone?’
‘No. I’m certain of that.’
Why fire the weapon at all, Lottie wondered? He already had them frightened. Did he need to prove something?
For a few minutes she made small talk, steering Angela’s mind away from it all, hearing about living with her mum in Bramley and the boyfriend she had in the navy who was somewhere in the Pacific now.
Finally they returned to the shop. She could sense Angela’s reticence as they approached.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I think you were very brave. Everyone else will, too.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. On you go.’
‘Do you think she’d be able to identify Hilliard?’ McMillan asked. They were sitting in the Humber, out of the cold.
‘Her description was very good. What about Noble?’
‘He’s all over the place, completely numb. Evidence managed to get the bullets out of the wall and there were two cartridges on the floor.’
‘There’s no doubt, really, is there?’
‘No. But the more evidence the better, for when we get him in court.’ He gazed out of the car window at the shoppers milling past. The first most of them would know about the robbery would be in the newspaper or an item on the radio news. ‘There was very little cash on the premises, just a few quid. He’s going to need someone to buy his loot.’
‘Fences?’
‘The beat bobbies will be talking to every fence who handles jewellery. I want to know if Hilliard approaches them. They’ll behave; they’d better if they want to stay in business.’
‘What will he do, then?’ She couldn’t imagine where else he’d be able to sell everything.
‘Pubs,’ McMillan answered without hesitation. ‘You know what it’s like: there’s always something dodgy for sale there these days. And we know he’s tried that before from that pair we talked to earlier. He’ll be out tonight, trying to make a little money. It’s his only option.’ He sat, smoking. In the mirror she could see him watching her as he thought. ‘What are you doing for the next couple of evenings?’
‘Why?’ There was a heavy note of suspicion in her voice.
‘I just wondered if you’d like to invite your American friend out to sample a couple of the hostelries in town, that’s all.’
‘And perhaps we’ll just happen to run into Hilliard?’ Sarcasm curled around her words.
‘You never know.’
‘He has a gun. He’s just used it. And you know full well how many girls he’s killed.’ She shook her head and exhaled slowly. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s a stupid suggestion.’
‘I need people out there who don’t look like they’re on the force.’ He paused for a fraction of a second. ‘It would be like being a real copper.’
Lottie knew her eyes must be blazing. ‘He’s armed! For God’s sake, John, do you really want to send your people up against that?’
‘It’s what we do,’ he replied. ‘Have you forgotten that? Part of the job. And Ellison’s a soldier. He can wear a gun.’
‘Oh, wonderful.’ She glared at him. ‘The two of them can play Dodge City and the rest of us hope we get out alive. Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Then what suggestions do you have?’
‘I don’t know.’ The only thing she knew was that his plan put innocent people in danger.
‘If you can come up with something better I’ll gladly listen.’
‘That’s your job,’ she reminded him.
‘It is, and I’m asking for your help with it.’ A long sigh. ‘He’s got nowhere to turn, that’s obvious. Not if he’s robbing a jeweller’s in broad daylight. Believe me, if I had any great ideas, I’d use them.’
‘You don’t even know where he’ll go to try and sell them,’ Lottie said.
‘City centre. People with a little cash, out for a good time. He knows Leeds, he knows the pubs
in town. It’s where he found the girls he killed, after all.’ He waited, letting it sink in.
‘That’s still an awful lot of places. How many? Thirty? Forty? Then there’s the nightclubs on top of that. How are you going to cover all of those? It’s a needle in a haystack.’
‘I’ll find people who’ll do it and move them around. They just can’t seem like coppers, that’s all. He’d smell them a mile away.’
‘I don’t see how it can work. It’s wishful thinking.’
SHE knew better. At her age she knew much better. For God’s sake, what she really wanted was to be at home, sitting in front of the fire, knitting as the radio droned. Instead she was in a draughty pub looking out of the window towards Kirkgate Market. Not that she could see anything with the blackout curtains in place.
There was no joy in the General Elliot. People eking out their drinks, dour expressions, money counted out in pennies, not silver.
‘What do you think?’ Ellison asked. He’d sounded so eager when she rang from the station to suggest an evening together. Even telling him to come armed hadn’t made him question anything.
It was a stupid idea. She still thought so, but she was here. She’d agreed because she couldn’t come up with anything better, because the boss seemed at the end of his tether, and because Hilliard needed to be off the streets. There were three other couples circulating, she knew that. WPCs – real ones – enjoying a night out with their brothers or fathers or boyfriends.
But she knew there was another reason for doing this. McMillan had hit the nail squarely on the head; it was like being a real copper. That was why she’d loved her brief experience of detective work twenty years earlier and the bits and bobs on this investigation. The feeling wouldn’t go away; she still craved those moments. They sent the blood rushing through her system and made her come alive. Her skin had prickled as she walked into the pub and glanced around.
‘He won’t come in here,’ Lottie said. ‘No one’s going to spend more time than they have to in a place like this.’
‘OK.’ He finished his half of bitter and they left. In her head, Lottie was mapping out all the pubs around here. She fixed on the Star and Garter on Call Lane. It wasn’t far, and it had a reputation for liveliness. They’d try there next.
The Year of the Gun Page 17