Modern Crimes

by Chris Nickson

  The grass was fenced like a garden, with a path and benches. Tentatively she opened the gate and entered, half-expecting someone to appear and threaten her for trespassing. But nothing happened. She took a seat, drinking in everything around her, revelling in her new discovery.

  She wasn’t sure how long she stayed; it could have been five minutes or an hour. For a while the suspension and the possibility of losing her job were forgotten. Her thoughts drifted and she could enjoy the peace of a place that seemed out of Leeds and out of time.

  Finally she stirred. She was hungry, ready for some dinner, feeling peaceful and oddly happy. As she left the square Lottie looked back over her shoulder. And stopped.

  It was no more than a flash, then gone behind glass. But she was certain. That had been Irene Walker.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SHE knew it, she felt it in her bones. But there was nothing she could do. Suspended for two days. She daren’t show her face at Millgarth until that was over. And since the incident with Sergeant Berwick the men on the desk didn’t like her; if she rang in and gave her name they’d probably end the call. But she had to let McMillan know.

  The idea came as she opened the door to the telephone kiosk. Lottie sorted through the change in her purse, taking out pennies and a threepenny bit then dialling the number of the station.

  ‘Is Sergeant McMillan there, please?’ She tried to make her voice sound husky.

  ‘I’ll take a look. Can I tell him who wants him?’

  ‘It’s his wife.’ Had he ever mentioned her name? Lottie didn’t think so. ‘Can you tell him it’s important.’

  ‘Just a minute and I’ll see if he’s around.’

  A long pause and then: ‘Sarah? What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Lottie. Lottie Armstrong.’ She hissed the words, a loud whisper even though no one could hear her. ‘I had to pretend so they’d put me through. I’ve just seen Irene Walker.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Queen Square.’

  ‘Stay right there,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be over as soon as I can.’

  He was as good as his word. Not even ten minutes later he parked the Peugeot on the other side of Clay Pit Lane.

  ‘Which house?’ he asked. No hellos, just straight to business.

  ‘Above the chemist, over in the corner. I only had a quick glimpse through the window, but I’m certain it was her.’

  ‘I believe you.’ He looked at the building thoughtfully. ‘There’s bound to be a back door. If we go marching in she could slip out that way. We’re going to need a plan.’

  They didn’t have many options. Lottie would go into the shop and McMillan would wait at the back. Now she only had to hope she’d been correct and that Irene was really there.

  Inside, the place could have stepped from the pages of an old book. A heady mix of smells she couldn’t identify, items in tall jars on shelves. A polished wood counter and display cases. It was impossible not to stare, to reach out and touch things.

  ‘Can I help you, madam?’

  She hadn’t noticed him at first, in the shadows, almost hidden. He had a thin, feral face, dark smudges under piercing eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ Lottie said. They’d gone through it outside. Being blunt was the best way. ‘You have a young woman upstairs. Miss Walker. I’d like to speak to her, please.’

  For a moment his expression showed nothing. Then a mix of confusion and panic for a moment.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam. I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is a chemist, not a hotel.’

  She smiled. ‘I saw her through the window, I know she’s up there. It’s vital that I speak to her.’

  ‘Madam, I can assure you there’s no one upstairs.’ He tried to sound insistent but there was no conviction in his voice.

  ‘Please,’ Lottie said. ‘I know there is. It’s very important.’

  ‘I’ve told you, there’s no one else here.’ She could see him clenching his fists, his face reddening. ‘If you don’t leave I’ll have no option but to call the police.’

  She produced her identification. If it ever came out she’d used this…

  ‘No need, sir; we’re already here.’ She waited breathlessly as he read it. ‘Now, sir, I think we need to take a look upstairs, don’t you?’

  It was wrong, it was daring. The whole thing was a gamble. If the chemist complained to anyone she was sunk. Immediate dismissal from the force. But she was here and she was positive that Irene Walker was upstairs. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  ‘If I might just come through, sir, and see for myself.’ Lottie took a step forwards but the man was surprisingly fast. He opened the door behind him and shouted,

  ‘Irene, run, the police are here.’

  Then he stood firm by the counter.

  ‘I need you to move out of the way,’ Lottie said, but it was pointless. He wasn’t going to shift an inch yet. Footsteps running down the stairs. The sound of a key turning in the lock and then a door slammed. He smiled and stood aside.

  ‘As you wish.’

  She pulled the door open, going into a small hallway, the back entrance right there. Lottie yanked it open. Ten yards away McMillan was trying to keep hold of Irene Walker, who squirmed in his grip. He had one hand tight around her wrist, the other grasping the collar of her coat.

  ‘Do you think you could you give me a hand?’ he asked. ‘The handcuffs are in my jacket.’

  The girl struggled and fought, cursing and spitting, but soon enough they were on, with the harsh rasp of metal. She stood there, defeated but with her eyes still flashing hatred.

  ‘You’ve been leading us a merry dance,’ McMillan told her. ‘We need to have a talk down at the station.’

  His hand on her arm, the sergeant escorted her to the car, settling her in the back seat.

  ‘Could you come down with us?’ he asked Lottie. ‘I want to make sure she doesn’t try to get away.’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, surprised by the question. ‘But just to the door. Not inside. You…’

  ‘I know.’ He smiled at her as he started the vehicle. ‘You’re good at this lark, you know. If you get any better you’ll be putting me out of a job.’

  ‘If.’ She didn’t need to say more. McMillan held up his hands.

  ‘Don’t blame me. I didn’t make the rules.’

  Irene Walker sat with her head turned away, staring out at the traffic, a sullen air about her.

  ‘Could you pull over somewhere before we get to the station?’

  ‘Why?’ He glanced at Lottie. ‘Is something wrong?’

  But he parked on Vicar Lane, leaving the engine running.

  ‘Irene,’ Lottie said. ‘I need you to listen to me.’ Slowly, the girl turned her head. Nothing showed on her face. ‘I don’t think anyone’s told you. I’m so sorry, but your mother’s dead.’

  There was never going to be a good time to tell her, but even here, with shoppers flowing by on the pavement, was better than a room in Millgarth.

  ‘No. You’re lying.’

  ‘I wish I was.’ Her voice was quiet, trying to soothe. ‘She did it herself. At Eccup Reservoir.’

  Irene nodded, blinking hard, trying to hold back the tears that were always going to fall. Lottie put her arms around the girl, pulling her close, whispering words that were just soothing sounds.

  Finally the crying softened to sniffles and hiccoughs, and Irene pulled away, rubbing at her eyes with her hands in the cuffs. McMillan threw the rest of his cigarette out of the window and put the Peugeot into gear.

  He left the car round the corner from the station, far from prying eyes. Gently, they brought Irene Walker out. She seemed dazed, hardly able to stand; no surprise, Lottie thought.

  ‘Come on,’ McMillan said to the girl. ‘As soon as we’re inside I’ll see you get a cup of tea.’ He glanced back over his shoulder at Lottie with a smile and a nod of thanks.

  She stood and watched them go. Irene was so close she was a
lmost leaning against him. He was speaking gently to her, his mouth close to her ear; from the back they looked like a pair of lovers.

  Lottie stood until they vanished round the corner, then set off at a brisk trot. Wednesday, half-day closing at the market. But nothing to catch her eye; she simply wanted to be away from Millgarth in case anyone saw her.

  She pottered, trying to fill time, but the spell had stopped working. She kept thinking about Irene. The girl was safe now, but that was only the start of the story. The loss, the future of all the days and years beyond.

  And the explanation. Lottie wouldn’t hear that. Irene could help the police close the case quickly. She knew something; she wouldn’t have run otherwise.

  The whole thing could be finished before Lottie returned from suspension. McMillan would take the credit. That was fair, she thought; he’d put many of the pieces together. But she’d done her bit, too, and the brass would sweep that under the carpet. It was convenient and it avoided any embarrassment.

  A good tea. At least she could salvage something from the day. A pair of lamb chops from the butcher, not too much fat, carrots from the greengrocer. She had potatoes in the larder and there were still a few sprigs of mint on the plant in the back garden; enough to make a sauce, anyway.

  But as she worked in the steam of the kitchen, Lottie knew she was simply trying to find some consolation. This was no substitute for sitting with Irene Walker and discovering the truth of everything. She loved Geoff, but work gave her that real sense of purpose, of achieving something. She’d had that at Barnbow. They all had back then, the sense of going all out to win the war, to help the boys defeat the Kaiser.

  That spirit had evaporated after the men came home and found life as it had been before. Often it was worse. The politicians’ promises were hot air. Jobs vanished, factories closed. The dole helped, but it was never enough.

  Serving as a policewoman made her feel like someone. Mrs Maitland was right: for a long time she’d been happy to obey all the regulations, not to do more than the rules permitted. But this investigation had opened a gate and now she couldn’t close it again. She could do the job as well as any man. Better than most, really. Just try, though. Sometimes they’d commend you, then other times they’d slap you down if you happened to embarrass a man.

  Life wasn’t fair. Lately, though, she felt as if she’d had enough.

  Silly, Lottie told herself as the front door closed and she heard Geoff’s greeting.

  ‘Almost ready,’ she said as she mashed the potatoes. The mint sauce was on the table, meat and vegetables arranged on the plate. Everything as it should be. Just like a good housewife.

  The next day she worked. Scrubbing the kitchen, doing the washing, running it through the mangle then pegging it out in the weak autumn sun. Sweeping the parlour, the hall and the stairs. Polishing the wood until the place smelt of beeswax.

  She cut some stems of lavender, long past their best but still with a good scent, and brought them in the house. By three she was exhausted. Sitting with a cup of tea and a biscuit, she felt pride when she looked around. Everything sparkled; her mother would approve.

  Tomorrow, at least, she’d be back on patrol. Part of her had hoped that McMillan would visit, eager to tell her everything. But no one came, not even any of the neighbours, curious as to why she was at home.

  A little before five, as she put the finishing touches to a cottage pie before popping it in the oven, the knock finally came.

  It was him, looking sheepish and a little ashamed.

  ‘I know,’ McMillan began. ‘I’d have been here first thing if I could.’ Across the street, a curtain moved. A motor car, a strange man. The least Lottie could do was fuel their gossip and invite him in. It didn’t seem as strange as the first time he’d appeared on her doorstep.

  ‘Well?’ she asked when he was seated at the table. ‘What did Irene have to say?’

  ‘Not as much as I’d hoped,’ he admitted with a long sigh. He lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke. ‘And there’s absolutely nothing in the way of proof. She claims her father owes Donough thousands. The way I understand it, Walker got Donough to invest in the factory a year or so ago. Showed him books that made it look as if the place was in the black and he’d get a good return on his money.’

  ‘Jane Walker told me the business was going under,’ Lottie said.

  ‘It’s sinking at a rate of knots. According to Irene, the money that Donough put in went straight to her father, not a penny to the factory. He was going to let it fail and skip out with Donough’s cash.’

  ‘But what about his family?’ She put a mug of tea in front of him, strong, dark brown. ‘What was going to happen to them?’

  ‘They weren’t part of his plans. Irene said he has a mistress in London. He was going to take her and the money and go overseas. What he didn’t bargain on was the way Donough would take his revenge once he found out the truth.’

  ‘How does Irene know all this?’

  ‘Listening at doors, standing where she could overhear telephone calls, looking through letters in her father’s desk.’

  ‘Why didn’t she come forward and tell us? And what about her mother? After Ronnie was killed…’

  ‘At first she thought Ronnie might have been involved in something crooked himself. He had that wild side and liked to spend time with criminals. Then her father received another telephone call from Donough and she put two and two together.’

  ‘That’s when she ran?’

  He nodded. ‘Not a word to anyone. She thought she was next. And now she thinks it’s all her fault that her mother committed suicide.’

  ‘Poor girl.’ What a weight to carry. Irene had lost everything. Her brother, her mother, a father ready to abandon his whole family. Nothing left. ‘But at least you’ll be able to charge Donough and arrest Walker now.’

  ‘No,’ he told her. ‘Walker destroyed anything that was in writing and he won’t say a word. Donough denies everything. I don’t have a scrap of real evidence.’

  ‘But Irene—’

  ‘Irene is under twenty-one; she’s still a minor. It’s her word against theirs. You know who a judge would believe.’

  ‘Not a girl.’

  ‘Not a girl,’ McMillan agreed. ‘I’m sure she’s telling the truth. I daren’t even let her go in case something happens. She’s petrified. Your matron’s been looking after her.’

  ‘Mrs Maitland?’

  ‘She’s been very good, shown a gentle side. It surprised me.’

  It barely sounded believable. But so much about all this was strange.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’ He gave her a weak smile. ‘You don’t have any bright ideas, do you?’

  Cathy was waiting in the corridor, beaming as soon as she saw Lottie.

  ‘Thank God you’re back. Patrol’s been awful on my own. I’ve had no one to moan at.’

  ‘I’m glad to be here.’ She was. Millgarth seemed comfortable and natural. The sounds and smells of the place were so familiar. ‘Why do you need to complain, anyway? Jimmy?’

  ‘Not really.’ She shrugged. ‘We had words but we made up after. The after almost makes it worthwhile. Oh, did you hear what happened?’

  ‘About Irene Walker?’

  Cathy’s face fell. ‘What happened, did Sergeant Dreamboat stop by to tell you?’

  ‘Something like that.’ She winked. ‘Come on, we’d better go in or she’ll tell us we’re late.’

  Even the patrol along Vicar Lane and down by the side of the market seemed like a joy. An old woman who was confused, not sure where she lived or what she was doing, took half an hour of their time, delivering her gently back to her frantic daughter in Cross Green.

  ‘I only popped out for a moment to get some sugar,’ the daughter told them. ‘There wasn’t sight nor smell of her by the time I got back.’ She looked at the old woman, love in her eyes. ‘What am I going to do wi
th you, mam?’

  At least they’d done some good, Lottie thought as they started back to the city centre. A little thing like that made the job worthwhile. For a moment she stood by St Hilda’s church, looking down the hill into Hunslet, everything below covered by smoke from the factory chimneys.

  She only turned her head when Cathy nudged her. That was when she heard the shout. Jocelyn Hill was walking slowly towards her; she’d forgotten the girl lived round here. She was still pale and thin as a stick; it might be a long time before she fully recovered. The lass with her hung back, as if she didn’t want to be seen too close to the police.

  ‘You’re looking a little better,’ Lottie said.

  Jos only shrugged. ‘I wish I felt it, then.’ Her face was harder, the lines set. Hardly astonishing, after everything, but it made her appear old before her time.

  ‘Give it a few weeks and you’ll be good as new.’ Her body would recover but would her mind ever be quite the same? Both the lad she loved and her unborn baby murdered. Almost dead herself. How could anything in life seem normal after that?

  ‘Have you found them yet?’ The ones who’d committed the murders.

  ‘No. We know they left Leeds. One of them might be in London. Scotland Yard’s looking for him,’ she added, hoping the name might impress.

  ‘I’ll believe it when I see them in the dock. I’ve been thinking about something Ronnie said when we were together. You know, before…’

  Lottie nodded. Before the knives. Before the deaths. ‘What was it?’

  ‘That his father was in trouble. He thought it was a bit of a hoot.’

  ‘Did he say what kind of trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know, I didn’t really understand it all. Seems he’d been thieving from his business or something like that.’ She cocked her head. ‘If it’s his business how can it be stealing? That doesn’t make sense.’