The Tin God

by Chris Nickson

  Harper watched as she looked around the faces, her breath steaming in the air. She was smiling.

  ‘I’ll tell you something else. You vote for me, and you can help send him packing. More importantly, you’ll be electing someone who wants to help the poor, not punish them. You there, John Winters, Frank Hepworth, Catherine Simms. You all know me. You know where I live. Maybe the Temperance people might not like the landlady of a public house holding office. Yes,’ she told them with a grin, ‘I’ve heard that grumble. But you know that when I start something, I do it properly.’ She paused and drew in a breath, straightening her back so she seemed taller. ‘You’re ratepayers. You can vote. I’m asking you to put your X next to my name. Thank you.’

  ‘Where did you find that about the Archbishop and the Secretary of State?’ Harper asked as they walked home. He could sense her excitement, the way the street seemed barely able to contain her.

  ‘Miss Ford copied it from the newspaper. Same way she got those figures.’ She stopped and turned to him. In the gas light he could see her eyes glistening with pleasure. ‘I’m really starting to believe we can do it, Tom.’

  ‘You will,’ he assured her and held her tight.

  ‘He keeps trying, but he hasn’t stopped them,’ Harper said. ‘It’s not long to the election. He must be getting desperate.’

  ‘He’s always been that, sir,’ Walsh said. ‘Bombs, murder, arson. Hardly the actions of a sane mind.’

  ‘Twisted,’ the superintendent agreed. ‘I’m worried he might be reaching the stage where he makes a direct attack on one of the women.’

  ‘We have bobbies on all of them,’ Ash pointed out.

  ‘So far they haven’t had much to do. Make sure they’re all still alert. If they’re not, replace them.’ He turned to Fowler. ‘Have you had any luck comparing that list from the Leeds Club with names in the case file?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. None of the people we’ve talked to are there.’

  ‘Something will match up, sooner or later.’

  ‘It’s sooner we need to worry about,’ Ash said. ‘Later might be too late.’

  ‘Then we’d better make sure we do things sooner,’ he told them. ‘That’s all, gentlemen. Inspector, a word if I might.’

  Once they were alone, Ash stretched out his legs.

  ‘He was the one who incited them at the hustings,’ Harper told him. ‘I was studying the faces from the moment they all arrived and I never spotted him.’

  ‘We said he was so ordinary that people never noticed him.’

  ‘I know my hearing’s gone to pot, but I always thought my sight was sharp.’ Harper snorted. ‘It makes me wonder how good I am at this any more.’

  ‘We’re closer, sir. You know that.’

  ‘Yes.’ Inch by inch they were gaining on him. ‘I just wonder if we’ll catch him before he does something drastic.’

  ‘We’re all doing everything we can.’

  He could hear the faint resentment in the inspector’s voice. Defending his men. The same thing Harper had done so often when he held that rank. It all goes around, he thought wryly. He knew they were doing a fine job. He couldn’t ask for anyone better. But from this chair, it was the results that mattered.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You are. Please make sure everyone knows that.’

  ‘How’s Mrs Harper bearing up? They say she’s an odds-on favourite to be elected.’

  ‘She has her ups and downs,’ he answered after a moment. ‘She’s terrified, but she’s also determined.’

  ‘I can believe that,’ Ash said with a broad grin. ‘Women. They’re made of tougher stuff than us. What about your little girl? Has she recovered?’

  After that single day of crying and sleeping, there’d been no sign of anything, as if it had all passed. He wanted to believe that, but he suspected the truth wouldn’t be so easy. Time would tell. But he did know he could kill the man who’d caused it all without a twinge of regret. This was someone who didn’t care what damage he caused to families as long as he stopped women.

  He was ready to leave for his dinner after a morning spent reading and signing the endless mountain of papers. No sooner had he sent them all off than more arrived; it never ended, just the way Kendall had warned him when he’d taken over the job.

  Harper looked up as he sensed a shadow in the doorway. Chief Constable Crossley. He started to rise, but the man waved him back.

  ‘No need, Tom. I had some business at the market and I thought I’d pop in and see how you were progressing. Why don’t you tell me while we eat? My stomach’s telling me it’s time.’

  Crossley listened carefully, settling back in his chair and lighting a cigar to go with his coffee. He seemed perfectly at ease in the luxury of Powolny’s. The waiter knew him by name and made sure he had a table looking out over Bond Street. Without asking, he brought them each a snifter of brandy to finish the meal.

  ‘Do you have any idea at all who it could be? I’m not asking for proof. Just the merest hint of suspicion.’

  ‘I wish I did, sir. At this point I’d have him in before his feet touched the ground. We have threads, but they seem to lead nowhere at all. He might live in one of the streets around Hyde Park – if Walsh saw the right man at that meeting in Hunslet. And he was a guest or a member at the Leeds Club at the beginning of the summer, if this Ericson is correct. Nothing’s connected up yet—’

  ‘While the election draws closer every day,’ the chief said. ‘I know. And you can believe Mr Ericson. I’ve met him a few times. He’s a little strange—’ Crossley gave a crooked grin ‘—but he’s quite reliable. An excellent memory.’ He studied the tip of the cigar for a few seconds. ‘By the way, I owe you an apology, Tom. I threatened you with bringing another officer to handle this.’

  ‘It made perfect sense, sir. A fresh pair of eyes.’ He knew he had to swallow his pride and say that, however much the words grated. There had been truth to it, he’d said as much himself.

  ‘I thought about it later. There’s far more to gain from your family involvement in this than there is to lose. I’m sorry I ever suggested it. But you have a free hand and my complete backing. I want you to know that.’

  That was what this luncheon had been about, Harper decided. Crossley’s studied apology. And complete backing might arrive with a smile, but it also had a price. The responsibility was completely his. The message was unstated: fail and it was his head on the block, no one else’s.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Damn them all, he was going to succeed. He was going to catch this man, relish every day of his trial, and be there the morning they put the noose around his neck in Armley Gaol.

  On the way back to Millgarth he bought a copy of the Mercury, going through the pages until he found the editorial.

  Those wards that have Tory Boards of Guardians have suffered under the most incompetent administration we can recall. They have quarrelled with almost every public body in Leeds, and in almost every case they been shown to be in the wrong. The poor man’s vote is now of the same value as the rich man’s vote. The Tory Members of Parliament tried to prevent passage of the bill which allowed that by placing every obstacle they could in its way. When the last election for Guardians took place, the Tories published a bill where they said that a new hospital, on which the Liberals proposed to spend £10,000, was absolutely unnecessary. Now the Tories want to spend £12,000 on exactly the same thing. We urge our readers to support the Liberal candidates in this election. As for those women who are standing, our considered feeling is that while ladies fulfil so many invaluable roles in our society, their place is not in the hurly-burly that is politics in our city. We could point out that the unseemly fracas at the hustings in Sheepscar Ward the other evening was caused by the presence of a woman on the podium. This can only be an indication of the deep passions aroused by ladies involving themselves in politics. We urge more decorum in Leeds, and strongly believe that stability and real progress in treatment of the poor can only c
ome from our Liberal male candidates.

  Rubbish, Harper thought as he crumpled the newspaper in his fist. Blind bloody tosh. He tossed it in the bin behind a market stall and wiped the ink from his fingers.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Reed heard the rattle of the letterbox, then Elizabeth came into the kitchen holding a letter.

  ‘For you, Billy love. It looks like Tom Harper’s writing. There’s a Leeds postmark.’

  He ripped open the envelope and took out the single sheet.

  ‘They’re definitely coming for Christmas,’ he told her as he read. ‘He asked if you could go ahead and book the rooms for them. One for him and Annabelle, another for Mary.’

  ‘Oh, it’ll be lovely to see them again,’ she said, smiling. Maybe things would be better now, he thought. Maybe he and Harper could become friends again, after a fashion. Time had passed, and there was enough distance between them. Not the way it had been, not as close as their wives. But enough to rub along amiably for a few days. ‘A separate room for Mary, though? She must be growing up fast. What else does he say?’

  ‘The election’s not far off. They’ve had a lot of problems, but he doesn’t give any details. Just that Annabelle looks likely to win.’

  ‘Poor Law Guardian.’ She rolled the words around, savouring them and shaking her head. ‘Well, good for her. But I can’t see anything like that happening here. Not women holding office. Not in a place like this.’

  He’d listened often enough as she fumed at the men she’d had to deal with about her tea room. Those who wanted to speak to her husband and take their orders from him. Others who refused to listen to her, thinking they knew better. Slowly, though, things were taking shape. No hurry, she insisted on that. She’d open once everything was just right. And she’d make sure people knew all about the place first.

  Elizabeth had spent a few afternoons at the Inglenook, talking to Mrs Botham, eager to take advice from someone who knew the town and the tradesmen. She’d met others, too, women who ran their own businesses. Like friends, she said, helping each other, passing on tips and ideas.

  He left the letter on the table.

  ‘It’s here if you want to read it. I’d better be on my way.’

  It was a blustery day, a wind blowing onshore to whip up the waves. The tide was on its way in, the breakers crashing loud and hard as he took the long way to the police station, down the Khyber Pass towards the Coast Guard station. The waters out to sea looked dangerous, but the boats moored by the pier were safe enough, barely bobbing in the harbour.

  The fishermen were talking, smoking and drinking tea as they inspected their nets and worked on their vessels. They all looked happy enough. But his eyes were searching for one man. No sign of Terrier John. It was early, but after their meeting the day before he suspected Millgate wasn’t sleeping too well.

  ‘Anything to report?’ he asked Sergeant Brown at Spring Hill.

  ‘Dead as the grave, sir. Not even a fight or a pocket picked. Leastways, nothing reported to us. Maybe we’ll be able to put our feet up for a while.’

  ‘Let’s hope, eh?’

  Someone had lit the fire in his office, and the room was cosy and warm as he settled behind the desk. He had papers to go through that he’d been putting off for a week. No excuses now. Through the window he could hear the squawk of the gulls over the estuary. The quiet life. That was what he’d wanted, and he certainly had it. Once Terrier John decided which way to turn, it would become livelier for a while. But this suited him, he thought with satisfaction. Away from all the industry and dirty air and madness of Leeds. No danger of burning up or falling when he attended a fire.

  Elizabeth would have her business, and they’d build a solid life here. It was a place to stay, with plenty of beauty all around, somewhere to grow old.

  A knock on the door and Brown appeared.

  ‘I thought you might fancy a cup of tea, sir. I was just brewing up when you arrived.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. You must have read my mind.’

  Brown laughed. ‘Now, if only I could do that with my missus, my life would be grand. Not easy to live with, these Whitby women.’

  The piles of wood for the bonfires kept growing on every piece of waste ground, Harper noticed with a smile from the top of the tram. Some tiny, others put together with meticulous care so they’d burn long into Bonfire Night. At least some things never changed. First, the malicious pleasure of Mischief Night, when children took their revenge on every house in the neighbourhood where they’d had a clout or a ticking-off. Then, the evening after, lighting the fire as soon as it was dark. Burnt toffee, parkin, potatoes baked in the embers. A special feast they anticipated for months. The memory would remain on the way to school the next morning, with the smell of the blaze lingering in the air, and the ashes black on the ground.

  The soot stung his eyes and he rubbed them with the heels of his hands, blinking them clear. Another day had brought them no closer to the killer. The chief constable might have taken him out to eat, but he’d given his message: solve it.

  In his head, Harper could almost hear time ticking away to the election. What was the man going to try next?

  How had he hidden himself at the hustings? That was a question that niggled and scraped in the superintendent’s mind. He was a detective. He knew how to observe, to see. And the man had slipped right through his fingers. Again. He slammed his hand down hard against the seat, loud enough for a few of the passengers to turn their heads and stare.

  No sooner was he through the door then Mary was bounding up to him, holding out a piece of paper, her face brimming with anticipation.

  ‘Look, Da, another star. I got everything right.’

  Sums. He’d always been terrible at them. She must have inherited that talent from her mother.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ he told her, kissing the top of her head. ‘Who knows, maybe you’ll end up as prime minister at this rate.’

  She frowned. ‘No,’ she told him seriously. ‘I want to run a business and make lots of money.’

  ‘Well, you’d make a better rich woman with clean hands. Look at those. What have you been doing, anyway, rubbing them in mud? Run along and give them a scrub.’

  ‘I heard her,’ Annabelle said as he walked into the kitchen. ‘“Make lots of money.” She should be so lucky. If you’re scraping along you’re doing well these days.’

  She was stirring a pot on the range. He put his arms around her waist and held her close.

  ‘How was the campaign today?’

  ‘Delivering leaflets.’ She groaned. ‘If I’d known it involved so much walking, I’d never have stood for election. All I’ll get from this is bunions.’

  ‘No problems?’

  ‘A few arguments on the doorstep. Nothing I can’t handle. Having that constable close by helps.’

  ‘Glad I insisted?’

  After a brief hesitation, she nodded. ‘I suppose it does make me feel safer.’

  Her admission felt like a small victory. With no meetings for the next several nights, everyone could rest. It was easier to keep the women candidates safe. And it gave them a breathing space to continue the hunt.

  In the end, they were curled up and asleep by nine. No disturbances, Harper hoped. It didn’t feel like too much to ask.

  ‘A quiet night,’ Walsh said with a yawn. ‘My missus was pleased to see me. I think she was, anyway. I was away to the world before there was a chance for anything else.’

  ‘Maybe it’ll stay like this for a while,’ Fowler said hopefully. Harper glanced at Ash. They knew better. The killer might have had a silent night, but he was planning his next move.

  ‘Let’s find him and make sure that happens,’ the superintendent told them.

  ‘How, sir?’ Fowler pushed the spectacles up his nose. ‘We’ve tried everything. We’ve been working ourselves ragged. You know that.’

  ‘I do, and I appreciate it.’ What could he say to put some spirit in them? They’d explored eve
ry avenue, come up with ideas. No coppers could have done more, and they still had no results. ‘About all I can say is keep on pushing. I’m as frustrated as you are. I was the one who missed him at the hustings.’

  ‘We’re doing it all by the book and beyond,’ Ash said. ‘But there might be two more things we might try, sir.’

  ‘Go on.’ At this stage he’d entertain any idea.

  ‘That sketch we have of him – why not give it to the newspapers after all and see what comes in? And since Walsh thinks he went to Hyde Park, have the bobbies there go round with copies of it and ask people if they know him.’

  ‘Yes,’ Harper agreed after a moment. He hadn’t wanted to involve the papers, to make their failure so public. It was an admission of defeat. But perhaps it was time. The man had been too smart for them. ‘I’ll let you take care of it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They were still hammering out their thoughts when Sergeant Tollman knocked on the door.

  ‘Mrs Morgan is here, sir. She’s very upset.’

  ‘Bring her through,’ he ordered. ‘And get her a cup of tea, please.’

  Something else had happened. That was the only reason she’d be here. He felt the tension tighten against his forehead and closed his eyes for a moment.

  She was with Blythe, the copper who’d been assigned to her. He was holding a small box covered in brown paper. The woman sat in Fowler’s chair, trying not to let anything show on her face.

  ‘I’d knocked on the door and said my good mornings,’ Blythe began, ‘and I was patrolling the street when the postman arrived.’ Why did bobbies have to explain everything this way, Harper thought, as if the choice of words made it more official. ‘He delivered something to Mrs Morgan. A minute or so later she appeared in the doorway, calling for me. She appeared very distraught.’ He held out the package. ‘This was on the kitchen table, sir.’