Modern Crimes

by Chris Nickson

  They wrapped the goods in brown paper, made sure the gas was off and the door locked. Another few minutes and they’d booked Miss Leech in at the tiny police station next to the library.

  ‘What do you want me to do with her?’ the constable asked. ‘I’ve only got room for one in the cell.’

  ‘That’s fine; there’s only one of her,’ Cathy pointed out. ‘If you ring HQ they’ll send a wagon out.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered as he rolled his eyes. ‘Women.’

  ‘Honestly, you’d think he’d be grateful we put someone in his pathetic little cell,’ Cathy said as they marched along Woodhouse Lane, through the rain and back into town.

  ‘He’s a man,’ Lottie told her. ‘You really shouldn’t expect too much.’

  Her cape was sodden, her skirt was soaked and her shoes seemed to squelch as she walked down the corridor to the lockers. The only consolation was that the beat bobbies looked no better as they returned to end their shift.

  Lottie saw McMillan leaning against the wall, smirking.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ she warned.

  ‘I had years in uniform myself, remember? And trust me, it’s nothing compared to the trenches.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘People forget. I wanted to tell you, Maurice Hartley’s in the infirmary.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He had an accident.’ McMillan’s gaze slid away and she knew exactly what he meant. ‘Broken leg, a couple of teeth knocked out.’

  ‘Before or after he talked?’ That was the way it worked. And they’d be especially hard on anyone like him.

  ‘Swears he doesn’t know where Irene is. They became friends at the Royal. She stopped in and he lent her two pounds; it was all he had on him. That’s it.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘He was telling the truth. No doubt about that,’ McMillan said darkly.

  ‘What about Donough?’

  ‘We’d barely started talking to him then his solicitor arrived. God only knows how he found out.’

  ‘Not much help?’

  He shook his head, took out a Black Cat and lit it. ‘He admits Walker telephoned him and they arranged to meet. But he insists it was strictly business. That’s all he’ll say.’

  ‘No nearer the truth, then.’

  ‘No. We had to let Donough go, not a thing on him.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I wish I knew. Trying to get anywhere in this case is like wading through bloody treacle. Pardon my French.’

  ‘I’ve heard worse,’ Lottie said with a smile.

  ‘I feel as if we’re never going to get anywhere. We’ll end up with it never closed and Irene Walker off somewhere until Doomsday.’

  ‘We’ll find her.’ But even as she spoke she didn’t believe the words. The girl could easily disappear if she chose. She’d done a good job of it so far. Now you see her, now you don’t. She probably didn’t even know her mother was dead.

  ‘The servant at the Walker house,’ Lottie said suddenly.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Have you talked to her again? Irene might have telephoned.’

  ‘I never even thought about it,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t suppose…’

  ‘Not until I’m dry.’ She caught sight of herself in the mirror. ‘I look a fright.’

  ‘I’ll do it myself, then.’

  ‘It’ll be good for your soul.’

  For a second she believed she’d been too cheeky. Then he winked and walked away.

  At home, Lottie hung her uniform from the wooden airing rack in the kitchen and pulled it up to the ceiling. As she cooked, the smell of wet wool filled the air. Not pleasant, but no worse than the cabbage boiling on the cooker. With luck it would be dry by morning. It had better be; she didn’t own a spare.

  Mostly dry. Still a little damp on the shoulders and around the collar, but not too bad. She went over the uniform with a stiff brush before putting it on and looking in the mirror. Mrs Maitland wouldn’t find fault with that.

  At least the rain had stopped. A faint, half-hearted sun tried to peer through the clouds as she walked to the tram stop. A much better day to be out on patrol.

  Almost October. A few more weeks and the fogs would begin. Thick as soup, people coughing with bronchitis.

  She wondered if McMillan had learned anything from Walker’s servant. She’d seemed a fearsome, cold creature, yet perhaps Irene had found a little warmth there. But McMillan just shook his head when he saw her in the corridor at Millgarth. No need for words; that said it all.

  Back to square one.

  The Dark Arches were damp and cold; thin rivulets of water ran down the brickwork, the River Aire roaring close by. No women loitering or soliciting. Lottie and Cathy walked through to Holbeck, stopping at the canal. Men were busy unloading barges; still plenty of activity on the waterways, and smoke billowed from a hundred chimneys as factories produced their goods.

  Back over the Victoria Bridge and along Neville Street. It was going to be one of those days when nothing happened, she could tell, and the shift went by with the grinding speed of a glacier.

  By dinnertime all they’d done was talk to a couple of beggars and given directions to a lady and her daughter visiting from Ripon. Sometimes it was like this, she knew very well. But that didn’t make it easier to take.

  ‘You’ve been in a mood all morning,’ Cathy said.

  ‘Have I?’ She hadn’t even realised. ‘Sorry.’

  The waitress at the Kardomah was showing them to a table when they heard the sound. Unmistakeable, the piercing blare of a police whistle. They froze, mid-step.

  Lottie said, ‘I’m sorry, we have to go. Emergency,’ and they dashed down the stairs, dodging between customers as they squeezed out on to Briggate.

  They peered round, waiting for another blast to tell them which way to run. As soon as it came, Cathy was ready.

  ‘Lower Headrow,’ she called, pushing her way through the lunchtime crowds.

  Lottie followed. She wasn’t as slim or as quick, and she moved more slowly, following the sound of the whistle as it called again.

  It was still going on as she arrived. Two beat bobbies going up against four men outside the Three Legs public house. The coppers had their truncheons out, but the men had broken beer glasses and a poker dragged from the fireplace inside as weapons.

  Cathy was standing back, out of range. The WPCs only had a pair of handcuffs; they hadn’t been given anything to defend themselves. It was unfeminine. Never mind that they needed it at least once a week.

  A crowd had gathered in a ring. Some of them yelled encouragement to the men. Others watched quietly, a fire in their eyes.

  It was a stand-off. Lottie knew the coppers; both of them close to retirement, not seeking danger or a fight. And the men facing them had slightly stunned looks on their faces, aware they’d taken things too far, but not willing to back down and walk away.

  Men, Lottie thought. No better than boys, the lot of them.

  ‘You.’ He wasn’t much more than a lad, not even old enough to shave properly, bum fluff on his upper lip. He turned at the shout, eyes nervous. ‘What do you think your mother would say if she saw you now? She’d give you a clout and be sending you off to bed without your supper.’ One of the men laughed. He had to be in his fifties, leather skin, half his teeth missing, the rest stained brown. ‘And what about you?’ she continued. ‘Don’t you think you’re a bit old for this? Maybe you need to grow up a bit.’

  More laughter, a few shouts of derision.

  ‘Happen you should get back home and look after your husband,’ someone cried, others yelling their agreement.

  ‘Is that what you’ve come to? You think you’re big men because you can insult a woman? Is that all the Western Front was for? You, where did you serve?’ She pointed at the man holding the poker by his side.

  ‘Too young,’ he said. ‘But me dad did, and he died.’

  ‘And my husband w
as wounded at Gallipoli,’ Lottie said. She could feel the blood pounding in her neck. Her temper was up and she wasn’t going to let this drop until she’d shamed them. ‘Well, are you big enough men to do time in Armley for assault? Keep this up and that’s where you’re headed. What are your wives going to say when there’s no money coming in? Think they’ll be proud of you then?’

  She let the question hang. The men were looking at each other. This was the moment; they’d either charge or walk away. It was the lad who gave up first. She hadn’t expected that. He’d seemed like the one with something to prove. Maybe there was hope for him after all.

  As soon as he turned away, it was like a house of cards. The men seemed to melt back into the pub. She stared at the two constables then walked off, almost at the corner of Vicar Lane before Cathy caught up.

  ‘Blimey,’ she said in surprise. ‘I didn’t know you had that in you.’

  ‘Makes two of us,’ Lottie confessed as the tension seemed to drain out of her. ‘Honestly, I was so furious I could have wrung all their necks. Call themselves grown men…’

  ‘You know you’ve probably put the cat among the pigeons now.’

  ‘How?’ She strode angrily down Briggate then up Thornton’s Arcade towards Lands Lane. It was quieter in here, away from the bustle of the street.

  ‘They blew their whistles,’ Cathy told her. ‘It’ll be in their notebooks, they’ll have to report it. Word’s going to get around.’

  ‘Let it.’

  ‘The brass will want arrests. They need to make an example of people.’

  She knew. Arrest a few, punishments harsh enough to discourage the others. That was how the law operated. But WPCs saw the other side of it, the wife and children living off charity, sometimes evicted, while their husbands were in jail. No one thought about that as they were putting up their fists or storming into a fight.

  ‘I’ve done what I can.’ For what it was worth, anyway. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m absolutely famished now.’

  The station was quiet when they walked in to report for the end of shift. Cathy looked at her and raised her eyebrows. It wasn’t going to be good.

  ‘You seem to have a knack for getting yourself noticed, Armstrong,’ Mrs Maitland said. She read out the report the beat officers had submitted. Her barracking had given the suspects the chance to elude the constables outside the pub. Arrests had been imminent until she’d taken it on herself to speak up. As it was, no one had been taken into custody.

  ‘Beg pardon, ma’am—’

  ‘I’m not asking you, Taylor. How much truth is there in this, Armstrong?’

  ‘Hardly a word, ma’am.’ Almost every day of her life a man had tried to do her down. She’d had enough. ‘I stopped a fight; that’s true. It was the choice of the constables not to make any arrests. It was probably the wisest thing to do.’

  ‘I received a telephone call this afternoon from Miss Silkston. Do you know who she is?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘She happens to be a friend of the chief constable’s wife. She was passing on the other side of the Headrow when the incident occurred.’

  That was it, Lottie thought. She was for the high jump.

  ‘According to her,’ Maitland continued, ‘you prevented a brawl in which two officers could have been severely injured. She said it was very brave and quite foolhardy.’

  Her brain felt empty. All she could do was try to keep a foolish smile off her face.

  ‘The problem is that you’re gaining a reputation,’ Mrs Maitland went on. ‘I don’t know what’s happened; you used to behave according to the rules and regulations. All of a sudden you’ve become very independent-minded. It’s not good. It places a spotlight on us, and not in a flattering way. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Your job is not to involve yourself in violence. I’ve always been very clear about that. You overstepped your bounds. I have no option but to suspend you for two days without pay. Dismissed.’

  She was numb. Cathy was talking to her but she didn’t hear a word as she put on her raincoat and walked out of the station. She’d expected a dressing down, but not that. From being put forward for a citation to suspension in a matter of days. From the sublime to the ridiculous. It hardly seemed believable. It was humiliating.

  Lottie barely noticed as someone took hold of her arm. Someone was speaking to her. It took a moment before she realised it was Sergeant McMillan.

  ‘I said I’ll give you a lift home,’ he repeated.

  ‘No.’ Her voice seemed to be coming from the other side of a fog. ‘Honestly, I’d rather…’

  ‘You’re in no fit state to be wandering round town. Come on.’

  He didn’t seem to give her a choice, ushering her to the Peugeot and pressing a small silver flask into her hand once she was seated.

  ‘Take a sip. You’ll feel better.’

  The brandy burned in her throat. But he was right. It brought her bumping out of her daze and back to reality. She handed it back to him.

  ‘I know all about it,’ McMillan said. ‘It was Carter’s doing. The beat men complained to him and he went to the superintendent. You never had a chance of a fair deal.’

  The knowledge was cold comfort. She still had the suspension, two empty days ahead when she could have been working. The next step after suspension was dismissal and it would be hanging over her if she didn’t toe the line.

  ‘What about Irene Walker?’ Lottie asked. She didn’t want to think about her own future. Better that something else filled her mind.

  ‘No further along.’ He pulled out a cigarette and lit it while he negotiated the traffic through Sheepscar. ‘I have the men on the beat out asking questions. She vanished into that area past St John’s; they’re trying back there.’

  ‘Can you drop me at the parade. I don’t have anything in for tea. Again.’

  ‘Do you want my opinion?’ McMillan asked as he parked. ‘You’re too good at this job for them to dismiss you. That matron of yours would kick up an almighty stink. I heard her going hammer and tongs with the super this afternoon.’

  ‘Mrs Maitland?’ After everything the woman had said it didn’t seem possible.

  ‘Yes. She’s on your side. And she’s canny, take it from me. She might lose a battle or two but she’ll make sure she wins the war.’

  ‘Suspended for two days?’ Geoff asked. He put down his knife and fork and rested his elbows on the table. ‘But why?’

  ‘For stopping a fight,’ Lottie replied. ‘That’s the short answer, anyway.’ She gave a wry, sad smile. ‘Probably more for being a bit Bolshie and not knowing my place.’

  ‘Ah.’ He said it as if he understood. But, kind as he was, he could never comprehend. Not properly.

  She fretted herself to sleep and was still worrying when she woke. Without the routine of preparing for work the morning seemed empty. Once Geoff left she sat in the kitchen cradling a cup of tea.

  There was no shortage of things to do. The house needed a good clean from top to bottom. Washing to be done. A mountain of darning and mending. But she couldn’t bring herself to face it.

  Instead she took her time at the dressing table, carefully applying her make-up, brushing her hair until it was just so, then selecting her best dress, rayon in a pattern of burgundy and pale blue. Buckle shoes with a low, comfortable heel. Her good coat over the top, hat adjusted until it showed off her face perfectly and she was ready to go.

  It felt strange to be wandering around town without purpose. She went from shop to shop, Schofield’s to Matthias Robinson to the Pygmalion. Glancing in Greenwood the jeweller at the rings and baubles. Lovely, but nothing she coveted. Maybe her taste was too ordinary, she thought with a smile.

  She did buy a few small things. More black stockings for work; wishful thinking, perhaps. A bottle of Cutex nail polish in dark red because she couldn’t resist the colour; God only knew where she’d wear it, though. Not for work, not on the mo
torcycle. She’d have to persuade Geoff to take her out to a restaurant.

  At the top of Briggate, waiting to cross the Headrow, a hand tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, expecting it would be Cathy or someone she knew. Instead it was a man, unshaved, in his forties and looking apologetic.

  ‘I’m sorry, luv, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ He held up a small packet in his large hand. ‘They’re getting us to give these out, free, like. Samples. You have it for your breakfast with milk.’

  She didn’t understand. ‘What? Like porridge, you mean?’

  ‘Cold milk. Cereal, they call it. It’s by this American company. They’ve hired a few of us to give these out.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a job and there’s not too many of those about.’

  She took the packet cautiously, inspecting it. Corn Flakes. Still, it was free; why not? When she looked up to thank him, the man had moved on, already talking to another woman.

  A gap in the traffic and she darted across the street. Another few yards and she was by the yard in front of St John’s Church. This was the last place she’d seen Irene Walker. On a whim she walked past the gravestones, following the path around the building and eventually out.

  Irene might be somewhere on these streets. She didn’t know the area, but she could tell exactly what it would be like. There were so many exactly the same in Leeds. Run-down houses and run-down lives. Children with rickets and diphtheria and whooping cough. Men with tuberculosis, too ill to work and too poor to afford a doctor.

  Without thinking she began to walk. The same even, steady pace of patrol, gazing around, taking it all in.

  Then she was at a crossroads, staring across at something that seemed out of place in the middle of so much desperation. Queen Square, the sign read. Three sides of a square, anyway, facing on to the road, the buildings genteel and decaying, huddled around a patch of scrubby grass.

  It was curiously beautiful, all the houses with their faded elegance. They were still occupied. There were businesses and offices, movement behind the grubby windows. Lottie stood and stared. It seemed like a dream she’d had once when she was a little girl. The square of her imagination had been magical, lively, and this made her remember it vividly, along with her mother’s words: ‘It sounds lovely, pet, but you know we’ll never afford a place like that.’