The Iron Water

by Chris Nickson

  The man looked at him with interest. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Charlie sent us a note. He says he’s not responsible for this. For what it’s worth, I believe him.’

  ‘He’s hardly going to admit it, is he?’ Archer lit a cigarette.

  Harper put his palms on the table, leaning forward until he was close enough to smell the bay rum on the other man’s skin. ‘Someone wants the two of you battling each other.’

  ‘What would they gain from that?’

  ‘You’re a clever man, George.’ Harper pushed himself upright. ‘Work it out for yourself.’

  He could see Archer thinking, chewing on his bottom lip.

  ‘If it’s not Charlie, who’s doing it?’ Archer asked after a minute.

  ‘I don’t know. But you can bet he’s rubbing his hands together with glee right now, waiting for the two of you to destroy each other.’

  ‘Maybe Gilmore’s lying.’

  ‘He’s not.’

  ‘What are you going to do, then?’ Archer was quieter and calmer now, his mind working.

  ‘I told you: I’ll find out who’s doing this and put him in jail.’ He paused for a moment. ‘When did you last see Hill?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon. He said he was going out on the town. When he didn’t turn up this morning I thought he was probably under the weather. You know, hungover. Then I got the message. When I find …’

  He left the threat hanging in the air.

  ‘I’m going to do my job, George,’ Harper said quietly. ‘And both you and Charlie are going to help.’

  ‘Help the police?’ He sneered.

  What he needed was the pair of them sitting together, talking to each other. But that was never going to happen. Not with a copper in the room, anyway.

  ‘By not attacking each other and staying out of my way.’

  ‘You tell him that.’

  ‘I’m going to,’ Harper said. ‘But right now I’m telling you.’

  Archer stayed silent for almost a minute.

  ‘How certain are you that Charlie’s telling the truth?’ he said finally.

  ‘I’m positive.’

  ‘I’m willing to admit that what you say makes sense. I know I had nothing to do with Declan.’ He took a breath. ‘Tell him I’ll not go after him if he leaves my men alone. But,’ he added, and the inspector knew exactly what he was going to say, ‘I’ll be hunting the bastard who killed Bob Hill.’

  Of course. Anything less would look weak and vulnerable. Harper understood that; he knew he’d have to accept it as part of the deal. He just had to make certain he found the killer first.

  ‘Good enough.’

  ‘And if Charlie doesn’t agree, it’s no deal.’

  ‘He will.’

  It was less than a quarter of a mile from Somerset Street to the Sword, but it felt like crossing an entire country, over a boundary where the accents changed, filled with the lilt of Ireland. He walked past the guard on the door with a nod, then pulled out a chair across from Gilmore.

  ‘I’ve got a proposition for you, Charlie.’

  ‘You did well, Tom,’ Kendall said approvingly. ‘You stopped things turning bloody.’

  The air had grown closer over the last hour, dark clouds massing to the west. There was going to be a thunderstorm tonight.

  ‘For now.’ Harper smiled wanly. ‘It’s a very fragile peace. They’ll still be looking, but not at each other. But it buys us a little time.’ He turned to the sergeant. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘If I had to guess, sir, I’d say it happened during the night. People over there know it’s safer not to check if something wakes them up. One or two thought they might have heard something.’ He shrugged. ‘I doubt we’ll get anything better than that, sir.’

  ‘What about you?’ the inspector asked Wharton. ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘Nothing more than the sergeant told you,’ he answered. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  If there was anything worthwhile, the people on Somerset Street would be saving it for George Archer. He’d grown up there, they were his people, the way those on the Bank belonged to Charlie Gilmore.

  Harper looked at the superintendent. Each day he seemed a little more worn, the strain telling on his face. The man had to be under pressure from above, no question of that, but so far he’d shielded them from it. This killing would only add to it all.

  ‘Wharton, Ash, I want you in the pubs tonight,’ Kendall ordered. ‘Have a listen to the gossip. It’ll probably be nothing but there might be some little nugget.’

  ‘What about me?’ the inspector asked after they’d left. ‘Where do you want me?’

  ‘Go and see Dr King in the morning. He might be able to tell us something. Take a look at the body.’ He sighed. ‘Do you have any idea who’s behind all this?’

  ‘This man with the copper hair. He shows up and all this starts happening.’ One question still niggled at him. ‘I still don’t understand why it began with Tench and Bradley.’

  ‘I don’t either.’ Kendall ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘If we can find the reason, maybe we can find the man.’

  The superintendent snorted. ‘Listen to us: ifs and maybes. Ideas, not answers.’

  ‘What else do we have?’

  ‘I know.’ His voice was tired. Finally he nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

  He beat the storm. Walking through Sheepscar he heard the thunder off to the west and began moving faster. The bar in the Victoria was busy, people drinking beer to dampen the cloying heat. Dan the barman waved as he moved from customer to customer, sleeves rolled up, a wide grin on his face.

  Upstairs, Mary was asleep, a thin sheet tucked around her in the cot, a few heat bumps standing out red on her skin. All the windows were open, the noise from the pub drifting up. Annabelle was sitting at the table, books and ledgers spread out in front of her.

  ‘I thought the job didn’t start until tomorrow,’ Harper said, and kissed the nape of her neck.

  ‘I want to see what I’m letting myself in for.’ She smiled and purred, leaning back against him. ‘Probably just as well, too. Miss Frobisher’s a lovely old dear, but from the look of these books she should have retired long ago. It’s a mess. It’s going to take us a week just to put it in order. I’m glad they’re giving me someone to help.’

  The thunder crashed again, close enough to rattle the panes of glass. She put down the pen and capped the inkwell.

  ‘We’d better get those closed before it starts pouring.’

  The rain lasted more than half an hour. Even with the curtains drawn, the flashes of lightning were vivid in the sky. Rain hammered against the windows, bouncing off the ground and turning into rivers that flowed along the road. And Mary slept through it all with barely a whimper.

  Finally it was over, rumbling away towards Selby and the coast. He cracked open the sash. The stuffiness had vanished and for once the air in Leeds smelled clean and fresh.

  ‘Good sleeping weather,’ Harper said as they lay in bed.

  ‘Not bad for something else, either,’ Annabelle told him. ‘Is it?’

  SIXTEEN

  Harper woke with a start. Half past four and already the half-light of dawn. He shaved in cold water, the cut-throat razor cold against his skin, then dashed out of the pub.

  There was just enough of a chill in the air to make the morning beautiful, the sketch of blue, clear skies. But already smoke was rising from a few chimneys. Soon there’d be grime and dirt all the way to the horizon and the week would have begun.

  Bobbies were coming in from the night shift, ready to go off duty with all the usual talking and moaning. Soon enough Ash and Wharton would arrive to write their reports.

  He needed to go back to the beginning. To the kidnaps that Tench, Bradley and Morley had done. The draper, the chemist and the bible seller.

  Six o’clock. At least two hours before any of those places would be open. His face grim, the inspector walked through the market to the café. He needed
food, he needed tea. And he needed to calm his mind.

  ‘You don’t look like a happy man, Inspector. Nothing wrong with your daughter, I hope.’

  He glanced up and saw Tom Maguire watching him, a cup of tea in his hands.

  ‘She’s fine. This is work.’

  The union man sat with a smile. ‘Work, the undoing of us all, eh?’

  ‘All the deaths. I’m sure you’ve heard.’

  ‘I have.’ Maguire’s voice was serious. He was still pale, but his face wasn’t quite as hollow and the suit didn’t hang so loosely on him now. Maybe he’d been right and his illness was no more than a summer cold. ‘Four of them and hopefully no more.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘Tell me, Inspector: the ones who died, were they good people?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Would you say that Leeds is a lesser place without them?’ Maguire asked.

  He weighed the question. ‘No.’

  ‘They chose their lives.’

  ‘I know, but …’

  ‘I won’t mourn them. Speaking as a Leeds man, I doubt many will.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Harper admitted.

  ‘Drink your tea before it goes cold,’ Maguire said gently. ‘That’s what my ma always used to tell me.’

  The inspector smiled. The words had been a litany of his childhood, too. He raised the cup in a toast.

  ‘I heard what Annabelle did on Bread Street,’ Maguire grinned. ‘Slapping Charlie Gilmore.’

  He hadn’t forgotten. Nor had Gilmore. The man had reminded him the day before. Not with a threat, but with quiet words before he left the Sword: ‘You need to keep your wife under control.’

  Harper had simply shaken his head and said: ‘And you need to learn that people aren’t property.’ In the end he’d walked away with a truce between Archer’s gang and the Boys of Erin. Brittle but still holding.

  ‘You know what she’s like.’

  ‘Oh, I do.’ He chuckled and coughed again. ‘Once she starts, God help anyone who gets in her way.’ He paused. ‘Just like you, Inspector. Maybe that’s why you’re such a good match.’

  ‘Me?’ Harper asked in astonishment.

  ‘Think about it when you have the time.’ He stood, placing a hat on his head. ‘Good day to you.’

  The man had given him something to chew on. But not now; it could wait till he had a moment to consider it.

  Rossiter the chemist was surprisingly young, only in his thirties, with clean, delicate hands and an early streak of grey hair. He’d barely unlocked the door of his shop when Harper entered.

  ‘I-I-Inspector.’ He coughed himself out of a stammer. ‘I hadn’t expected to see you again.’

  ‘I was just wondering if you’d perhaps remembered anything about a kidnapping, sir.’

  Rossiter tried to laugh, but the sound was hollow. ‘I told you before.’ The smile was as false as the words. ‘Someone must have been lying to you.’

  ‘I don’t believe so. I need some help, sir, if you can.’ He waited for a reply, seeing fear and relief cross the man’s face as he relived it all. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’

  ‘I told you last time – nothing happened,’ Rossiter snapped. ‘I don’t know who gave you the information, but it’s just ludicrous. Now, I have a business to run.’

  It was the same when he returned to the draper’s on Oxford Place. A quieter denial, but just as insistent.

  Finally he made his way back to the bible shop. The young man who hurried from the back room couldn’t be the owner. He was barely eighteen, the down of a young moustache on his upper lip as he tried to appear older.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Cookson.’

  ‘He’s tied up at the moment, sir. I’d be glad to help however I can.’

  ‘If you could tell him that Detective Inspector Harper from Leeds Police is here …’

  Less than a minute later Robert Cookson was standing in front of him.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ He tried a weak smile. ‘I thought we covered everything last time. Or perhaps you’ve come for a bible?’

  ‘I was hoping you had some truth in stock, Mr Cookson.’

  ‘I told you the truth when you asked me before.’

  ‘No, Mr Cookson, you didn’t.’ Harper kept his voice soft, easy. ‘Please, I need to know what happened. No one can hurt you now, believe me.’

  It took a long time for the sigh to come. But when it arrived, the inspector knew Cookson would tell everything.

  ‘I’d prefer not to talk here,’ he said quietly. ‘Jeremy, look after the shop for a few minutes, please.’

  Outside, Cookson led the way down to Victoria Square by the Town Hall and stood watching the traffic.

  ‘How long ago did it happen?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Three months. Almost four now.’ The man pulled a cheroot from his jacket and lit it, watching the smoke spiral. A cart drove by, its axle grinding and shrieking as it moved. He recounted it all slowly, something he’d chosen to put away, to try and forget.

  It had all gone exactly the way Morley said. Demands for money. When Cookson had refused to pay they snatched his son. Within a day the ransom was paid and the boy had been returned unharmed, even spoilt with toys and food.

  ‘They said if I ever told anyone they’d come back.’

  ‘They won’t,’ Harper assured him again and the man nodded slowly, tapping ash on to the pavement. ‘I need to know. Did you tell anyone?’

  ‘No,’ he answered. ‘I was too scared. But Sarah, my wife, did.’

  ‘After your son was at home again?’ the inspector guessed.

  Cookson nodded. ‘Neither of us would take the risk before.’

  ‘Who did she tell?’ He stared at the passing traffic, the omnibuses and trams. A driver whipped his horse along. A hackney dodged in and out between vehicles as it tried to make time. Everyone was in a rush.

  ‘Her sister-in-law. It was just … relief, I don’t know.’ He glanced down at the cigar as if he was surprised to be holding it. ‘I was terrified they’d find out and come looking for revenge.’

  ‘Why would they?’ Harper asked.

  ‘They said they had people in the police, they’d know if we reported it.’

  ‘They don’t. They wanted to scare you.’

  The man drew himself up straight. There was no pride in his expression. ‘Then they succeeded, sir.’

  After a few seconds of silence, the inspector nodded and asked, ‘Who’s your sister-in-law, Mr Cookson?’

  ‘Her name is Susan Keeble.’

  ‘Is she married?’

  ‘No. She’s a housekeeper.’

  ‘For whom?’

  Cookson turned to stare at him. ‘I’m sure you’ll have heard of the man, Inspector. George Archer.’

  He walked back to Millgarth. Everything had moved back to Archer. But now it made absolutely no sense at all.

  Kendall listened to the story, frowning hard.

  ‘Could Archer be responsible for everything?’ he asked when Harper finished. ‘Has he been fooling us?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘I really don’t know, sir.’ He’d believed all Archer’s denials, and they’d been honest and heartfelt. The man was no actor. He was hard but he’d never have murdered one of his own. And he knew full well that nobody gained in a war with the Boys of Erin.

  ‘It all points to him again,’ the superintendent said.

  ‘I know. But …’

  ‘Follow it, Tom.’ It was an order. Kendall still ached to see Archer in the dock; he made no bones about that.

  Where could he go? He wasn’t ready to face Archer once more. Not until he could go back with information, more ammunition.

  He needed to talk to Susan Keeble.

  Instead he sat at his desk, writing all the names on a piece of paper and trying to establish connections between them. Dinner time arrived, but still no ideas that stood up to scrutiny.


  At the Old George he ate a chop. For once he was glad of his poor hearing; the conversation around him was nothing more than a buzz of sound. Every few minutes even that was drowned out as a railway train passed on the viaduct outside, rattling the building and making the tables shake a little.

  Somerset Street baked in the heat of the early afternoon. There was no copper standing outside the murder house. There was nothing to keep safe. A man had been killed here, but what was there to see? No blood, no gore. It was just another empty building.

  He walked through to the scullery. It was a barren room with a flagstone floor, half the plaster gone from the walls, the lath showing underneath.

  How had it happened, he wondered? Bob Hill was a big, powerful man. How had someone managed to take him?

  Harper searched the floor on his hands and knees, groping for the wire that had been the murder weapon. He was concentrating so hard that he never heard the footsteps. Until a man cleared his throat he had no idea anyone was watching. Bloody hearing, he thought.

  ‘Saying your prayers?’ George Archer asked. ‘You’ll need them if I find whoever did it first.’

  Harper pushed himself upright and dusted off his clothes. ‘What brings you here?’

  Harrison the bodyguard stood in the other room, tense and ready. Archer was staring at the ground.

  ‘I had business in town. Is this where it happened?’

  ‘Right here,’ the inspector told him. ‘I don’t know for certain, but I was told he was garrotted.’

  He saw Archer’s face harden. ‘Bastard. Couldn’t face him man to man. Bob would have taken him.’

  Harper moved past him. As he slid by he said quietly, ‘I’ll find him. Me.’

  But Archer just shook his head. ‘You’re in a race against me and another against Gilmore. You’re on a hiding to nothing.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Pushing his way out of the house he bumped against Roger Harrison, forcing the man out of the way.

  A hackney carriage dropped him at the park entrance and he walked quickly across the wide expanse of grass and down the drive at Lakeside. With Archer busy in town, this was the perfect time to question the housekeeper. Word would come out later, but by then he’d have his answers. For once he’d be a step ahead.