‘I just saw it,’ he told her. No need to mention that he tried to question the draper selling it.
‘Well, it’s beautiful. Thank you.’
As soon as they’d finished she was on her feet as he paid the waiter, adjusting her hat, ready to leave. They strolled up Briggate, the evening still warm. Omnibuses and trams trundled by, but the carts had all gone for the night. The air was still heavy, filled with the stink of industry.
All the pubs were doing good business, bustling and loud, gin palaces glittering with lights while the old inns remained darker and more sombre, and the cheap beershops littered with sadness and regret.
There was a queue for tickets at the Varieties. He started to ask for two in the circle but Annabelle nudged his elbow.
‘Give over. You can’t enjoy yourself properly up there,’ she said to him.
‘Stalls,’ he told the young woman behind the desk.
A glass of gin for her, a beer for him and they took their seats. The theatre was splendid, lamps glowing, plush red velvet and gold paint. A place to forget all their cares, to laugh at the old jokes and sing the songs they all knew.
Glancing around, he picked out a few familiar faces. Crooks, pickpockets, thieves, all of them enjoying a night off from crime. As soon as the compère announced Vesta everyone began to roar and shout and Annabelle grinned and grabbed his hand.
‘That was lovely,’ she whispered as she removed her dress, taking time to hang it properly.
‘I enjoyed myself,’ he answered, bending over the cot to watch Mary sleeping. So innocent, so wonderful, he thought. He recalled something. ‘I met someone who asked to be remembered to you.’
‘Oh?’
Annabelle sat on the bed and began to roll down her stocking. His eyes followed her hands carefully.
‘She said she was Jenny Dawson’s sister.’
Suddenly she was attentive. ‘Jenny? She helped me out of a lot of scrapes when we were young. We started at Bank Mills together when we were eight. Which sister was it?’
‘Maggie.’
Then she wanted to know everything and he told her, seeing the determination growing on her face.
‘What’s she going to do now?’ Annabelle asked as he finished.
‘I don’t know.’ He’d been thinking about Declan’s killer, not the woman.
‘Number twenty-seven, you said?’
‘That’s right.’ He didn’t ask why she wanted to know. She looked as if she had her plans. Then her expression softened.
‘I don’t suppose you’d like to help me get this corset off, would you?’
It was half-request, half-invitation. How could he refuse?
‘Sir?’
Harper was reading the brief reports from the night constables. There’d been no real trouble after Declan’s death, but violence simmered close to the surface. He glanced up at Wharton, standing to attention in front of him.
‘Easy, you’re not on parade.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He appeared even less comfortable as he tried to relax. ‘It’s this thing with Miss Brooker, the girl in the river.’
‘I know there’s plenty going on but I remember who she is,’ the inspector told him with a smile.
‘I can’t put it out of my head. I thought I’d take a walk again last night and see if I could find anyone who remembered her.’
‘Did you have any luck?’
‘I came across two women who claimed they’d seen her, sir. Sometimes by herself, and with a young man on a couple of occasions.’ He smiled.
‘What about the night she vanished?’
‘They’re not sure, sir. Don’t really remember.’
The chance of ever discovering the truth behind Charlotte Brooker’s death was tiny; there’d probably always be some small question over it. Still, the investigation was giving Wharton a good taste of the job – frustration, as much as anything else. That was an important part of being a detective, though. It wasn’t like being on the beat, where most things were resolved in minutes.
‘What about this young man she was supposed to have? Did anyone give you a description?’
‘Not a good one, sir.’ The lad frowned. ‘About the only thing everyone can agree on is that he had red hair.’
Red hair? No; he dismissed it, it had to be coincidence. There had to be hundreds of red-headed men in Leeds.
‘Anything more?’
‘Not really sir.’
Harper sat back, stroking the bristles on his chin. ‘What does your gut tell you about all this?’ Wharton had experience in uniform, he’d been picked for his potential.
‘Honestly, sir, if I had to say, I’d call it an accident,’ he replied hesitantly. ‘I’m not sure I believe the sister that Charlotte was sometimes low.’
‘Do you want to make that your decision?’
‘Not quite yet, sir,’ he answered after a little thought. ‘I’d like to go out once or twice more and see if I can find anything else.’
‘So you’re not convinced?’
‘Just something niggling, that’s all.’
Harper grinned. It was the kind of attitude he liked. Someone too sure about everything was no good to him.
‘Then carry on a little while longer, until you’re satisfied. But it’ll have to be on your own time. At least until we find who killed Declan Gilmore.’
‘Do you think we will, sir?’
‘That’s why they pay us, Mr Wharton.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He didn’t move. ‘Do you mind if I ask?’
The inspector cocked his head. ‘What?’
‘Is it true what they say about your hearing?’
‘Yes, it is.’ He tried to hide it but everybody knew; you didn’t keep secrets like that on the force. At least the lad had the grace to look embarrassed by his question.
‘Only you’d never know, sir, really,’ Wharton said, trying to recover.
‘Thank you.’ He smiled. It might be a lie but it was a comfort.
The inspector spent the day hunting his informants. By afternoon he’d seen most of them, but he might as well have stayed at Millgarth. All of them stayed tight-lipped. Even the offer of money didn’t help.
If any of them knew who’d killed Declan they weren’t going to admit it. Not one of them had heard a whisper about it. But why would they, when Charlie Gilmore would be offering more for information? And if that didn’t work he’d use threats.
From the faces in the office when he returned, it was clear that none of the others had learned anything either. King’s post-mortem report lay on his desk. Declan had died from three stab wounds to his back. He’d probably staggered up to fifty yards before collapsing and dying. No facts they didn’t already know.
Wharton brought in the only snippet. He’d talked to someone who claimed to have seen a man running up York Road, away from Bread Street. But there was no description and no one else seemed to have noticed.
Harper’s feet ached; he was tired and not in the mood when Tollman motioned him over as he was leaving the station.
‘I thought you’d better know before you went home, sir,’ he said quietly.
‘What?’ He could feel the pulse beating in his neck. ‘Has something happened?’
The sergeant’s lips twitched into a smile. ‘In a matter of speaking, sir. Evidently your missus was up on the Bank today. Went to visit that lass of Declan Gilmore’s and brought her out of there.’
So that was what she’d started planning last night, he thought.
‘Thank you for telling me.’
Tollman’s smile became a broad grin. ‘That’s not the half of it, sir. Someone must have told Charlie Gilmore. According to Constable Thompson, he wasn’t too happy when he heard and went haring up there. He and your wife had words and she slapped him.’ He beamed. ‘Thank her for me, will you, sir?’
Harper laughed. It was easy to believe. Annabelle wouldn’t let any man cow her.
‘Did she leave with Miss Dawson?’
‘
That’s what I was told, sir.’
She’d won. He’d have loved to see it. It was rare that anyone got the better of Gilmore, especially in public. He’d never forget that humiliation.
The tea chest of books had been moved and another stood next to it. In the bedroom Mary was playing on the floor, toddling quickly towards him when she heard the footsteps and wrapping her arms around his leg until he picked her up. Annabelle was examining herself in the mirror, making an adjustment to the ribbon around her neck. Her saw her smile reflected at him, disappearing as swiftly as it came.
‘Ready to speak tonight?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’ It was always the same. She’d been a speaker at suffrage meetings for two years now, but she was always nervous, scared of failing.
‘I heard about your exploits,’ he said.
She sighed. Her face held an air of sadness and regret.
‘I couldn’t leave Maggie there like that. I found her a room with Mrs Hardisty and offered her a job making bread. The timing’s good, Caroline’s given in her notice, anyway.’
‘And you slapped Charlie Gilmore.’
‘He had it coming. He thought she shouldn’t go. I just reminded him that the Gilmores don’t own her.’ She shrugged and tugged lightly at the ribbon again then nodded with satisfaction.
He leaned close and kissed her lips, smelling the faint perfume she wore. ‘I’m proud of you.’
‘You don’t think it was stupid?’
‘Not at all. About time someone reminded him he’s just a man.’ He paused. ‘Talking about the bakeries, has Elizabeth made her decision yet?’
She gave a tight shake of her head. He could see the cloud in her eyes; something was troubling her and it wasn’t the encounter that morning.
‘What is it?’ Harper asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
Her took her hands and led her to the settee.
‘It’s nothing really.’ Annabelle’s voice was dull and empty as she raised her face to his. ‘I saw someone I once knew this afternoon. He looked so terrible. I just know he’s dying.’
The story came out: she’d taken Mary down to the city art gallery on the Headrow. They’d strolled around the galleries and stopped to look at some of the new work on display.
‘Have you heard of someone called Atkinson Grimshaw?’
‘Of course,’ he replied in surprise. Everyone in Leeds knew who he was. He was famous. The painter of moonlight, that was what the newspapers called him. ‘Why?’
‘They had two of his new pieces there. He was looking at them.’
‘You know him?’ He was confused. ‘You never said.’
‘It was a long time ago. Before any of this.’ She shook her head and gazed around the room. ‘Years back, when the warehousemen went on strike. I’d been turned off from my position and I was on my way back to the Bank feeling sorry for myself. He was out sketching.’ Annabelle gave a brief, sad smile. ‘The whole place must have looked dead, I suppose. No boats, the river empty.’ She shook her head, clearing the memory. ‘Anyway, he made me stand there with my bundle of clothes, and put me in his picture. Paid me two guineas for doing it, too. It just …’ The words faltered for a moment. ‘Someone being kind, it meant a lot.’
He didn’t know what to say. She’d never told him that someone had painted her. But there was so much Annabelle had never said about the murky country that was her past. He’d never asked; it was her choice to talk about it or not.
‘Did he remember you?’
‘He gave me one of those looks. You know: I-know-you-but-I-don’t-remember-where-from. I had to tell him.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Laughed a little and asked what I thought of his work.’ She paused. ‘He looked as if something had hollowed him out, Tom. Like he was just a shell. Trying to keep a brave face, but you could see it. I don’t know why, but it hurt me. In my mind he was still the same person who’d put me in his picture. Not older and wasting away.’
He squeezed her hand then held her close as she began to cry. As the tears flowed he knew they weren’t really for Grimshaw but for all those she’d cared about who’d gone.
Finally it passed, and she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘Daft, I know.’ Her eyes moved to the clock. ‘I’d better get a move on. The hackney will be waiting downstairs.’ She cuddled Mary. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own? I can ask Ellen to look in before she goes out with her fella.’
‘We won’t have a problem,’ he assured her. But she still insisted on going through the routine.
‘Go,’ he told her finally and hugged her close.
‘If you need anything …’ she began and he shooed her out.
‘Well,’ he said to Mary once they were alone, ‘it looks as if it’s you and me tonight. What do you think? Should we have some fun?’
FOURTEEN
‘Billy?’
He stirred, half-hearing her, not opening his eyes. He was comfortable in the bed, the pillow soft under his head. It had been a long day, investigating a fire in a yard that had killed a child and left three others in hospital.
‘Billy Reed,’ Elizabeth hissed and he turned slowly.
‘What is it?’ His voice was a mumble smothered by the sheets.
‘I’m going to do it.’ She sounded wide awake. ‘I’m going to buy them.’
‘Are you sure?’ He turned, blinking in the darkness, pushing himself up on one elbow.
‘I’m positive. We’re never going to have a chance like this again, are we?’
No, he knew they wouldn’t. Owning the shops could be the making of them. It would change everything in their lives. But it would be her name on the signs, she’d be the one running them; it had to be her decision. He wanted her to do it but he dared not come out and say so. Elizabeth had to be the one to make the choice.
‘I’ll tell Annabelle on Monday,’ she continued, rolling on to her back and staring up at the ceiling. ‘Billy, am I doing the right thing?’
‘You’ll be wonderful at it,’ he said, pressing his hand over hers. ‘It’ll be fine.’
She fell asleep, soft snores coming from her mouth. He lay awake, staring up at the ceiling. Life took strange turns. Five years before he could never have imagined being here. Being happy. For so long after fighting in Afghanistan, he’d pushed away his devils with evenings of drinking. Now he didn’t care if he touched another drop. Elizabeth had changed him and she hadn’t even needed to try. This business of the shops scared him; they could lose all they had. But after what she’d given him, he wanted everything for her. That wasn’t a debt. It was love.
Harper left his wife and daughter asleep in the bedroom, dressing silently then closing the door with a quiet click. In the afternoon the three of them would go up to Roundhay Park. Before that, though, he needed to work.
No tram on a Sunday morning and only the sound of his own boots for company as he walked into town. It was so early that dawn was still dull, just the promise of sun and more heat out on the horizon, close enough to leave him sweating by the time he reached Millgarth.
The city seemed eerily silent. No smoke rose from the chimneys. No rumble of carts and omnibuses on the streets. Good men and bad would still be in their beds. The day of rest, he thought wryly. For some, perhaps.
A pile of reports sat on his desk. Even as he began to leaf through them the inspector knew they’d contain nothing. Charlie Gilmore’s money and men had silenced everyone. If not that, Declan’s killer was clever enough to be invisible.
Was it linked to the murders of Tench and Bradley? He didn’t know how but something told him that was right. Trying to connect them had plagued him all through the evening as he played with Mary, bathed her, then read from The Princess and the Goblin as she lay in her bed, eyes slowly closing.
The thoughts were still with him when Annabelle returned, her face flushed with joy. The worries and fears of her day had been banished. But his wouldn’t leave.
He’d gone through everything by the time Ash arrived, followed closely by Wharton and Superintendent Kendall.
‘Any suggestions?’ the super asked. He looked as dapper as ever, but the strain showed on his face. His eyes looked tired. More than that: exhausted.
‘We can lean on people more, sir,’ Ash suggested. ‘I’m not sure it’ll work, though. Not against Charlie Gilmore.’
‘Nor am I,’ Kendall agreed slowly.
‘We’re not going to get anything on Declan’s murder,’ Harper said. ‘The best we’ll manage is the dregs after Charlie’s got the rest. This happened on his turf.’
‘We’re the police—’ the superintendent began.
‘I know. Honestly, I don’t think he’ll find much of any use, either. Whoever did this was thinking far ahead. What we need is to go back and find out why Tench and Bradley were killed.’
‘Why, sir?’ the sergeant asked.
‘There’s no shortage of people who wanted Declan dead. We’re agreed on that?’ He looked at the others, seeing them nod. ‘But who’d do it there, right on the Bank? No one in their right mind. You’d wait until he was elsewhere and more vulnerable.’
‘It could be someone desperate,’ Wharton said.
‘I don’t believe that,’ Harper answered. ‘Look, Tench was never meant to be found. That’s why he was thrown in the lake with a weight around him.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Ash’s voice was grim as he remembered his friend.
‘It was pure luck that we discovered his body. As soon as we had, though, Bradley ended up dead as well.’
The superintendent pulled out his pipe and started to fill it. ‘We know that. But I still don’t see how it leads to Gilmore.’
‘It’s a feeling,’ Harper admitted. ‘There’s nothing I can point to. But the timing …’
‘Someone coming in and trying to take over. Is that what you mean? Find me some evidence to connect them, Tom. That’s what we don’t have. In the meantime let’s keep our minds open. All of us,’ he added before vanishing into his office.
The Iron Water Page 13