That was unusual; people rarely sought him out at home. ‘Not one of my lot, is it?’ he asked. Maybe they’d found Fess. No, couldn’t be, Harper thought; they’d have telephoned.
‘This one’s definitely not a copper.’ Dan frowned. ‘You ask me, he’s got the smell of crime about him. Young and big. Talks strange, too. Like he’s from Leeds but with something else on top that I don’t recognize.’
Harper gave a grim smile. Mullen had decided to come to the Victoria.
‘Thanks, Dan. I’ll be down in a minute.’
Annabelle was watching him. ‘You know who it is, don’t you?’
‘I can take a good guess. It’s that man I told you about, the one from New York. Mullen.’
‘The one who’s killed people.’
‘Yes.’
‘Here. In my pub.’ She glared and started to rise.
‘Give me a minute before you come down,’ he asked. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he doesn’t cause any trouble.’
‘He’d better not.’
Mullen was sitting at a table with his back to the wall, a pint of beer in front of him. He had the handsome, dark Irish looks that he’d shown in his police photograph, wearing an expensive grey suit that fitted him flatteringly, with a soft collared shirt and a brilliant red silk tie fastened with a gold pin. Flaunting his money in his clothes.
He sat with his legs crossed, shining black shoes catching the light, looking at faces and assessing their eyes for danger as Harper settled across from him.
‘You’re safe enough in here. From the customers, at least.’
A dip of the head in acknowledgement.
‘This must be different from the places you’re used to at home,’ Harper said.
Mullen grinned and showed his good, even teeth. ‘A bar’s a bar, doesn’t matter where you put it. Sláinte.’ He took a long drink of bitter. ‘I’ll tell you this, though: the Americans have a long way to go before they can brew beer like the English.’ He stared at the glass. ‘And Leeds is home, after a fashion.’
‘Some parts of it might be. But not this place. What brings you out here?’ Harper’s voice was sharper, his face hard.
‘A man told me that you lived above a public house. I was curious to take a look and see what kind of deputy chief constable would do that. Anyway, it’s only a short stroll from Somerset Street. Perfect for a summer’s evening.’
Harper saw the man’s gaze shift and his smile broaden.
‘This is the woman who owns the public house,’ he said.
‘Mrs Harper.’ Mullen stood. For the briefest moment, he looked awkward and self-conscious, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to act around a woman. ‘A pleasure to meet you. You have a very welcoming pub here.’
She sat, never taking her eyes off him. ‘Are you enjoying your visit to England, Mr Mullen?’
‘I am, ma’am. I’m enjoying being back and seeing my father again.’ Dan was right, Harper thought; there was still a definite trace of Leeds in his voice, somewhere deep in the bedrock. But much of it had been overlaid by the nasal New York cockiness. ‘I got to say, it’s changed a lot in ten years.’
‘How is your father?’ Harper asked, as if he hadn’t seen a report on Francis Mullen just the day before. The man spent the better part of his time drunk. He’d been kicked out of two beershops for trying to start fights.
‘Happy to see me,’ Mullen replied after a moment.
‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s another American in Leeds at the moment. Someone called Louis Fess. He’s from New York, too. Maybe you know him.’
He’d dropped the name to see Mullen’s reaction. It was a pleasure to watch the way his face shifted: anger first, then worry, and finally a snapped-on grin of bravado. All in the course of a second or two. Interesting; he hadn’t known that Fess was here.
Mullen ran a hand down his jacket, smoothing the material. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it don’t mean anything.’
Maybe that worked on the American police, but it wouldn’t fool any copper in Leeds. He knew exactly who Fess was, and he wasn’t pleased to hear the name. No surprise, since he was from a rival gang.
‘A suggestion,’ Harper said as the man drained the rest of his pint in a single swallow. ‘Actually, it’s more like an order. You’re going to take out that gun very carefully and leave it with me.’
‘Why?’ The man’s body stiffened, as if he was preparing for a fight.
‘First of all, you spent a lot of money on that suit and it’s ruining the cut. It’s also illegal under the 1903 Pistols Act. Do you have a licence for the weapon?’
‘I didn’t know I needed one.’
It was a lie, it showed in his eyes. He wanted to be challenged.
‘If the barrel is shorter than nine inches, the law says that you do. Since you’re a visitor here, we’ll let that pass as long as you leave the weapon here.’
For a moment, Mullen didn’t move and Harper could feel the tension grow around him. Then he reached into his pocket, brought out the gun with the barrel between his fingers and placed it on the table.
‘Satisfied?’
‘For now. Thank you.’
The outside door opened and Mary entered, waving before she disappeared upstairs.
‘Is that your daughter? Mary, right?
Annabelle turned her head to stare into his eyes. ‘I tell you what, luv, now it’s my turn to make a suggestion.’ Her voice was iron. ‘Only mine’s an order, too. You’re going to forget you ever knew her name, or that you saw her. And if you show your face in here again, I’ll bounce you out on to Roundhay Road by the seat of your fancy trousers before you can say Jack Robinson.’ She stalked away.
Mullen glared but said nothing. Harper watched as the man stifled his anger. No one would dare talk to him like that in America; he’d tear them apart for the sport of it. But New York was half a world away. He was in Leeds now. The rules were different and he was powerless.
‘I think your wife has taken against me.’
‘Very perceptive, Mr Mullen. There are plenty of other places to drink in town. You’d do better in one of those. I’m sure you can find your way back to where you’re staying. The Metropole, isn’t it?’ He stood. ‘I’ll wish you goodnight.’
The constable following Mullen was standing outside the Victoria, watching his quarry stride furiously away. Harper stood next to him. ‘Make sure you don’t let him out of your sight.’
Monday, the beginning of a new week. Early brightness outside the curtains, the hint of another pleasant summer’s day ahead. Harper lurched awake as the telephone bell started to ring, and hurried through the living room to snatch up the receiver. A hair after five o’clock.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir.’ Ash’s voice. For once his calmness and composure were missing. ‘But I thought you needed to know about this. We found Fess an hour ago.’
From his tone, there was more to come. ‘Where?’
‘Down in the arches under the station. A night watchman discovered him. He’d been shot.’
A few hours after Mullen had been in the Victoria. Interesting timing. ‘Is the body still there?’
‘I had it sent over to Dr Lumb in Hunslet. I’m at Millgarth—’
‘Stay there. Tell them to send my car and I’ll collect you.’
He glanced at the table. Mullen’s gun lay there, the metal black and dull.
FOUR
‘Along here, sir.’ Inspector Walsh guided him down from Neville Street, into the arches. The Dark Arches, people called them, as black as pitch at night. A good place for the prostitutes to do business. And for a shooting.
Farther along, torches lit up the floor and the vaulted brick ceiling as constables searched the area. Small businesses used the railway arches for storage, turning them into cheap warehouses.
‘No doors forced that we can find,’ the inspector continued. ‘His body was right here.’
All that remained of Louis Fess was a chalked outline on a co
ncrete floor. A bullseye torch showed the bloodstain where his life had slipped away in a foreign country. Not much of a memorial. He looked at the detectives around him: Ash, Walsh, Sissons, Galt. His old squad. Better at their jobs than any of the flash devils at Scotland Yard.
‘What do we know? Facts, please.’
‘A watchman was making his rounds and came across him around half past three,’ Sissons said. ‘He alerted a bobby. As soon as Superintendent Ash arrived, he recognized him. Fess wasn’t carrying any identification. No wallet. He’d been shot at close range in the back of the head. So far we haven’t managed to come up with any evidence.’
‘How long ago did it happen?’
‘After midnight, we believe. Dr Lumb should be able to say more.’
‘Turned up any witnesses yet? Anyone who heard the shot?’
‘No, sir,’ Galt answered. ‘They’ll all be long gone by now. We’ll keep asking and come back again tonight.’
‘Fess was a gang member,’ Harper said. ‘He’d killed people. He was probably here to murder Mullen. He was a professional, yet someone managed to come close enough to shoot him. That’s food for thought, right there.’
‘We’ll be spreading the word among the informers,’ Walsh told him.
‘Do we know where he went after he ducked out from Mrs Hardisty’s?’
‘We haven’t managed to trace him yet,’ Sissons replied.
‘Get busy on that.’ He brought Mullen’s pistol from his pocket and explained how he’d taken it. ‘The man’s not an idiot. He’d make damned sure he knew the law, and he was banking on me confiscating his gun. Seeing this makes me wonder why he brought it to the Victoria in the first place. And why he came when he did. He acted surprised when I told him about Fess being here, but maybe he knew. It’s all too convenient.’
‘I’ll bring him in,’ Ash said.
‘Send a pair of uniforms to the Metropole for him, and make sure they don’t treat him with kid gloves, either. Let him stew for a while before you talk to him. He’ll have been through it all before, but not the way we do.’ Harper took out his pocket watch. Not long after half past five. ‘Let’s work out where we go from here and get to business.’
They had a plan, Harper thought as he walked up East Parade towards the town hall. Walsh and Galt would try to trace where Fess had been staying and who he’d seen. Sissons would talk to the uniforms who’d been shadowing Mullen and find out his movements. He was their main suspect. He had to be. Two Americans over here, a pair of killers with a history of bad blood between their gangs, the murder attempt and revenge in New York. Then there was the matter of Mullen carrying a gun. The bulge in the suit pocket had been obvious; he’d even touched it. That wasn’t an accident or carelessness; he’d done everything but hold up a sign. The man wanted Harper to spot it and take it from him. He had a reason.
Ash and his men would break all that down. He knew them, he’d trust them with his life. Meanwhile he had a meeting with the chief constable and two officers from Special Branch.
Freshly-made coffee, biscuits from the bakery in St James’s Square; Parker was pushing the boat out for his visitors, but they didn’t seem to notice. They gobbled and slurped as if they hadn’t been fed for a week. Inspector Cartwright and Sergeant Gough. Brutal-looking characters, unsmiling, with hard eyes and slit mouths.
‘As we all know, Miss Lenton is being released tomorrow,’ Chief Constable Parker began. ‘A doctor has determined the hunger strike has weakened her to the point where being kept in prison will be detrimental to her health.’
‘They need to force feed the lot of them,’ Cartwright said. ‘That’s what I’d do.’
Parker’s gaze flickered to Harper then back again. His expression showed nothing.
‘Maybe so, but we don’t determine the rules, Inspector.’ He continued to read from the paper in front of him. ‘She’ll be released into the care of Mr and Mrs Rutter. He’s the director of the art gallery in the city and we know full well that he’s a supporter of women receiving the vote. They live in Chapel Allerton. Now, how many men do you have with you, Inspector?’
‘Six, sir. Enough to keep watch on the house twenty-four hours a day. Good men, too, I picked them myself,’ he said with pride. ‘She won’t have the chance to slip away.’
‘That’s fine,’ Parker said. ‘Tom?’
‘The Rutters live on Westfield Terrace,’ Harper began. ‘That’s a small private street of villas set back from the main Harrogate road. You won’t be able to stay inconspicuous while you watch—’
‘We want her to know we’re there,’ Gough told him.
‘—and the area beyond the back door is overgrown. Difficult to observe.’
‘Don’t you worry about my men,’ Cartwright said. ‘They’re resourceful. My job is to make sure she doesn’t escape, then haul her back to prison as soon as the quack says she’s fit.’
‘Then I wish you luck, gentlemen,’ Parker said. ‘Ask if you need anything else.’
Once the pair had gone, Parker poured more coffee for himself and Harper. ‘Still sticking with two days, Tom?’
He pursed his lips. ‘After that performance I’m tempted to switch to one.’
‘I don’t blame you. Dear God, what a pair of pompous idiots.’ He rolled his eyes, took a cigar from its case, then cut off the tip and enjoyed the ritual of lighting it with a match. ‘With that lot around, if the woman doesn’t run, she’s either very poorly or she’s got no spirit about her.’
‘She’ll go,’ Harper said. ‘She’s not a fool. But we have something more important that doesn’t concern the Branch. A murder last night. An American gangster. He was shot in the head. And we have another of them in town …’
‘Da?’
Harper looked up from his desk, astonished to see Mary standing in the doorway of his office. She was smartly dressed in a dark burgundy jacket and pale pink blouse, her skirt just above her ankles, button boots polished and shining. He sat back and looked at her.
‘You must want something important,’ he told her. ‘I think this is the first time you’ve ever come to visit me at work. Certainly since I moved to the town hall.’
He knew he’d hit the mark when she blushed. ‘I have an hour and I thought I’d take you out for your dinner.’
He cocked an eyebrow. ‘All right, now I know something’s going on. Offering me a meal? Are you paying as well?’
Reddening even more, she nodded.
With a wink, Harper said, ‘Well, I can hardly refuse that, can I?’
There were plenty of cafés to cater for the workers from the town hall and all the nearby financial offices. Mary tucked her arm in his as they crossed Victoria Gardens, then the Headrow, and down Park Row.
The owner greeted him like royalty and made a fuss over Mary as he showed them to a table at the back of the room, away from the window and the noise.
Harper waited until she’d ordered.
‘Right, what is it? Is something wrong? Some problem with the business?’
‘Of course not. It’s doing very well, Da,’ she answered with a smile. He noticed she wore a small enamel badge on the lapel of her jacket. Green, purple, and white: suffragette colours. ‘We’re so busy that I’m taking on more typists. No need to worry on that score.’
As soon as she began to talk about work, he noticed the way her face became thoughtful and serious. She’d been like that from the time she began the company. Mary had worked hard and it had paid off handsomely, more than enough to put money in the bank as well as keep her in new clothes and hats. She was just like her mother in that way; she couldn’t resist fashion.
The food arrived and he tucked into a chicken pie, mashed potatoes and peas.
‘If it’s nothing to do with the agency, then it must be romance. You and Len?’ Her look told him that he was right. ‘You haven’t thrown him over, have you?’
She coughed so hard he was worried she’d choke. Finally a swig of tea calmed her.
&
nbsp; ‘No, no. Honestly, it’s nothing like that. Da, you’re sweet.’ She treated him to another warm smile. ‘Sometimes you’re very clever—’
‘That’s probably why I’m the deputy chief constable.’
‘But you’re a man.’ She stared at him and finally the penny dropped.
‘My God. He’s proposed.’
Beaming, she nodded. ‘The night before last.’
He should have guessed; he was supposed to be the detective in the family. The signs were right there, he’d only needed to look: the joy in her eyes, the way her steps seemed to be light as air. She was bursting with the news, one of the biggest things she’d ever know in her life. He was a fool for not noticing what was right in front of his face.
‘That’s absolutely wonderful.’ He knew he was grinning. He probably looked like an idiot, but he didn’t care. ‘Does your mother—?’
‘Oh, we’ve already talked about it,’ Mary said as if it was nothing. ‘She’s over the moon. But I want your blessing, too.’ She stared at him. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
They were some of the most beautiful words he’d ever heard. Pure poetry. She wanted his blessing. This girl he’d helped to make loved her father. What more could any man ask in life? Of course Annabelle was thrilled. She was probably already coming up with ideas for the trousseau. The wonder was that she’d been able to keep quiet that morning.
‘I couldn’t be happier for the pair of you,’ he said. ‘Honestly, I mean it. You know how we feel about Len. He’s a good lad, just right for you. He’s solid, he has a good future.’
She laughed. Her eyes were sparkling. ‘You don’t have to convince me about him, Da. I can give you chapter and verse about him if you really want to hear it.’
He shook his head with a rueful grin.
‘Of course. I’m …’ He couldn’t find a word that came anywhere close to the feelings coursing through him. They’d make an ideal couple, loving, tender, both of them clever and willing to graft. Yet underneath his joy there was also the tug of loss. Mary was a woman, but she’d always be his little girl and now she was leaving him. Better to say nothing at all than put his foot in it. ‘Are you going to have a pudding? We ought to celebrate.’
Brass Lives Page 3