Brass Lives

by Chris Nickson

  Witnesses. Half of them weren’t worth a damn; they had memories like sieves. At least this was vague enough to feel real. But as Harper searched through all the faces in his memory, he couldn’t match the features to anyone. Certainly nobody they’d talked to on this case.

  ‘Any ideas?’ he asked.

  ‘One or two, but nothing exact,’ Ash replied. ‘Rogers is chasing them down with Walsh. Good practice for him.’

  ‘We need the gun from the Metropole shooting and whoever fired it.’

  ‘I’m doing everything I can, sir.’

  Harper had telephoned the heads of all the other divisions. Everyone was searching, it was a citywide hunt. The reward would keep tips coming in. Most would be useless, but they only needed one tiny spark of luck. But luck had a habit of running off just when you wanted it most.

  He stared at the list he’d pinned to the wall. Only four items, but it seemed like so much.

  ‘Let me know what they learn from Duncan. I can’t recall him well, but I can’t imagine him as a shooter.’

  Ash chuckled. ‘He’d probably end up wounding himself if he tried. Good with his fists, a piece of wood or a knife, but those are his limits.’

  A brisk walk back to his office. Miss Sharp had gone for the day, leaving a fresh stack of papers on his desk. Nothing urgent; it would all still be there in the morning. No messages shouting for his attention.

  He sighed and walked out, down the town hall steps, patting one of the carved lions as he passed. A warm summer afternoon. It would be perfect if it wasn’t for all the crimes. But when had a copper’s lot ever been different?

  The car crawled to Sheepscar through the traffic. Smoke and petrol fumes in the air. He sat back and thought, trying to find some answers to all the questions. But nothing matched up. By the time the driver pulled on to Manor Street, all he felt was frustration.

  ‘Old iron,’ a voice chanted in the distance. ‘Old iron.’ The rag and bone man making his rounds.

  ‘Usual time tomorrow, sir?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Make it half an hour earlier,’ Harper replied. Maybe there would be some new information overnight. Maybe.

  The map was spread across the entire dining table. England, Scotland, Wales, from the northern tip all the way to the end of Cornwall. Harper studied it for a moment, trying to remember the facts he’d learned in geography at school, then walked through to the kitchen.

  ‘Planning your route for next week?’

  ‘That’s already set,’ Annabelle replied. ‘I’m just getting a rough idea where I’ll be each day. Oh, I promised to put up a couple of marchers for the night they’re in Leeds. We have those two empty rooms in the attic.’

  ‘All right.’ They’d all need somewhere to stay. Why not here?

  ‘I’ll get them aired out.’

  They ate a light supper, tongue sandwiches with some lettuce, tomato and cucumber, while Annabelle traced the path of the Pilgrimage to London for him.

  ‘It’s pretty much straight south until we join up with the women from Norfolk.’ She moved her finger along a line from town to town. ‘But there are marches starting all over the place. Carlisle, St Austell, different parts of Wales, Manchester. I’ll tell you something, though; it’s going to be huge by the time we all meet up in London.’

  He could see the dream and the hope in her eyes. The wish that this might make a real difference and change the mind of the government. But the men in Westminster had become too entrenched in their position. To give in now would make them look weak.

  ‘Where are you going to sleep on the way?’

  ‘Anywhere we can,’ she said. ‘People will offer beds. There’ll be tents. We’ll make do.’

  ‘You in a tent?’ Harper chuckled in disbelief.

  ‘I could manage.’

  ‘I’d pay good money to see that.’

  ‘Cheeky beggar. Just for that, you can try to fold that map up while I wash the pots.’

  He woke early. A tiny breeze fluttered the curtains as he eased out of bed, but the air was still balmy and full of summer. Harper washed and dressed and spread dripping on a thick slice of bread as he waited for the tea to mash.

  If there had been a big breakthrough, someone would have rung him during the evening. But perhaps some tiny glimmer of light had come in overnight. Anything at all would be an improvement.

  The chief needed the shooting solved. He wanted to parade someone in court, to prove that the streets were safe in Leeds. It made sense; that was his job. Once again there had been articles criticizing the police in the newspapers. But the editors trotted them out every time something bad happened. The same words, just a few variations for the differing circumstances. These days he hardly noticed them.

  Harper wanted the Metropole gunman, too. Far more, though, he was after Fess’s killer. That was murder. Had Mullen pulled the trigger in that one? He still couldn’t say. Not with absolute certainty.

  If not Mullen, then who’d done it? It was a tangled, bloody web.

  He tapped the hat down on his head and walked out to Roundhay Road to wait for his driver.

  ‘What did you squeeze out of Teddy Duncan?’

  ‘Not much at all, sir.’ Ash’s voice crackled at the other end of the telephone line. ‘He said he didn’t know anything, and I believe him. He’s not bright enough to lie convincingly.’

  ‘Did he come up with any names?’

  ‘None we didn’t already know.’

  Another brick wall. Maybe he should have gone down there and questioned the man himself. But it wouldn’t have made a scrap of difference if he had nothing to tell.

  ‘What about the man who bought the can of petrol? Any luck tracing him?’

  ‘Rogers is working on it.’

  Nothing there, either. ‘Keep me informed.’

  Back to the endless piles of paper on his desk. Not even a meeting to distract him this morning. By dinner time he needed to be outside, to look at something that wasn’t written on a page.

  Walking down Eastgate, he felt as if he’d been released. Daft, he thought. No one had forced him to become deputy chief constable. He’d worried long and hard and talked it over with Annabelle before he took the job. If he had any regrets, they were his own fault.

  At the bottom of the hill, he turned right. Millgarth police station was no more than a few dozen yards away. No coincidence that his feet had led him here, Harper decided, then stopped short as four coppers dashed out of the door and began to run.

  Two more constables pushed by him as he reached for the handle. From the desk, Sergeant Mason was shouting orders.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Harper yelled.

  ‘Somerset Street, sir.’

  He felt a chill go through his body. Where Davey Mullen’s father lived.

  They’d already set up a cordon around the house. He saw Galt and Sissons questioning the neighbours. Harper pushed past the uniforms and through the open door into number twenty-five.

  Francis Mullen lay sprawled across the floor. His blood had soaked into a tattered rag rug and pooled on the wooden boards. Ash stood over him, rubbing the back of his hand across his chin.

  ‘Where’s the son?’ Harper asked.

  ‘We’re looking for him, sir. A woman down the street heard shouts and a scuffle and went to find the copper on the beat. By the time he arrived, it was like this.’

  ‘Stabbed?’

  Ash nodded. ‘Stomach. Looks like an upwards blow. Might have been a long enough blade to reach the heart. Dr Lumb will be able to tell.’

  ‘Barney Thorpe,’ Harper said. Francis Mullen had owed the man money.

  ‘Rogers is already on his way to bring him and Teddy Duncan in for questioning, sir.’

  A noise in the doorway made them both turn. Davey Mullen, taking in the scene and letting out a roar as he lunged forward. Ash moved in front of him, and a constable grabbed hold of his arms.

  ‘I want him outside,’ Harper ordered. ‘Two of you, and make sure you
keep him under control.’

  ‘Having Mullen around won’t make it any easier,’ Ash said. He beckoned to one of the constables, speaking and listening in a quiet voice.

  ‘That’s the man who’s been following him,’ he said after the uniform had gone. ‘He was here all morning. Arrived a little after nine. Left about an hour ago and walked over to Fairburn’s on Boar Lane for his dinner.’

  ‘Before anything happened here,’ Harper said.

  Ash nodded. ‘Well before. I never pegged him for killing his father, anyway. Did you, sir?’

  ‘No,’ But who had murdered him? Thorpe? Someone else who wanted revenge on Davey Mullen? He stared down at the old man’s body. It added another question mark to the identity of Louis Fess’s murderer.

  ‘I’ve seen dead people before.’ Davey Mullen was pacing up and down Somerset Street. He’d walk a few yards, turn and come back. Over and over and over. He was smoking, taking quick, angry drags on the cigarette. Everything about him felt taut and nervous, a man about to explode into violence.

  ‘I know you have,’ Harper said. ‘If the New York police are right, you’ve killed a few yourself.’

  Mullen shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘It’s different when it’s your kin. Especially close family.’

  Mullen carried on walking and smoking. ‘Where’s Thorpe?’

  ‘We’re questioning him.’

  ‘I’m going to kill him for it. He stabbed my da.’

  Harper reached out and grabbed the man’s arm, turning him until they were facing each other.

  ‘You’re not going to do a damned thing. I’m sorry about your father. But this isn’t America. We’re not the Wild West. You’re going to let us do our job and find whoever’s responsible for this. You try to handle it yourself and I’ll put you in a cell. Are we clear on that?’

  For a moment the world became still. It was touch and go whether Mullen would draw back his fist and throw a punch. If he tried, there were enough coppers here to put him down and drag him away before he could land a second blow.

  Mullen took a breath. It passed. Harper let go and the man pulled away, smoothing the sleeve of his suit.

  ‘Don’t go in there,’ Harper said. ‘I mean it. It’s best that you don’t remember him this way. And if you see him, that’s what will happen.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He started to walk again, dropping the cigarette butt on the cobbles, taking out a packet and lighting another with awkward, jerky motions. All his style and smoothness had vanished.

  ‘We’re going over to Millgarth. I need to take a statement from you.’

  A small hesitation, then a nod. They began to walk side by side, a uniformed copper trailing behind.

  Pray God they didn’t see Thorpe, Harper thought. He’d managed to defuse this situation once. He doubted he could do it again.

  The room was bare. A table, the wood scratched and gouged, four chairs. How many men had he questioned here over the years? He couldn’t even begin to guess. Hundreds, definitely. The guilty, the innocent, the witnesses and families; the list stretched on and on.

  ‘Constable, bring us two mugs of tea, please.’ Once they were alone, Harper said, ‘Tell me what happened this morning.’

  Nothing out of the ordinary. Francis Mullen was suffering from a bad hangover. He was listless, in a mean, foul temper. Finally his son had given up and gone to eat dinner.

  ‘I needed to get away from him. If I’d stayed we’d have ended up fighting.’ He ground out a cigarette and immediately lit another.

  ‘Has that happened before? Fighting?’

  Mullen nodded. ‘A time or two. Fists. Nothing too serious, but …’

  But a father and son coming to blows? Not exactly a loving family.

  ‘You went to Fairburn’s?’

  ‘The place on Boar Lane? Is that the name of it? I’d never paid attention. Yeah. I ate and came back. You saw the rest. One of your officers was following me the whole time. He can tell you.’

  ‘Did you hit your father before you left?’

  Mullen stared. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I’m asking a very simple question,’ Harper said. ‘Did you hit him?’

  ‘No, I did not.’ His voice was even and cold. His face flushed, highlighting the bruises on his skin. He held up his hands. ‘See, not a graze on the knuckles. Not even a scratch. I did not hit him and I did not kill him. Is that clear enough for you?’

  ‘Did he hit you?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t in any fit state to try.’ He shook his head. ‘Do you know the last thing I said to him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was still hurting from the hangover. I told him, don’t die before I come back, old man.’ The pain burrowed deep in his eyes as he looked up. ‘I didn’t …’ He took a deep breath. ‘Thorpe. He’s behind this. He killed my da.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Harper said.

  ‘Don’t I? He wants his revenge. He set me up on Fess, on the fire and the shooting. Now he’s murdered my father.’ The anger was rising again in the young man’s face.

  ‘Sit here and drink your tea. I’ll be back in five minutes.’

  A break might take the edge off the tension.

  ‘Where’s the man who was following Mullen?’ he asked one of the constables.

  ‘Over there, sir.’

  ‘I want you to go to Fairburn’s and make sure he didn’t duck out and return through any back door,’ Harper told him. ‘Find out what he had to eat, too.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Galt was sitting in the detectives’ room, copying information from a file.

  ‘Thorpe?’ Harper asked.

  ‘The super’s giving him a grilling. Walsh has Teddy Duncan. They both deny it, of course.’

  Of course. He didn’t expect a confession. ‘They’ll have alibis. I want them checked seven ways to Sunday.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Any luck with Mullen?’

  ‘He’s not guilty. We never believed he was.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘Not of this, anyway. He’s about ready to explode, I’m just trying to keep a lid on him.’

  ‘You can’t blame him, sir. It’s his father, after all.’

  ‘I know. But every time I think of that, I remember how many people Davey Mullen has killed.’

  TWELVE

  Mullen had smoked two more cigarettes, the ends squashed out in the ashtray.

  ‘You and Thorpe,’ Harper said. ‘When you gave him a beating.’

  ‘I told you before.’

  ‘Tell me again.’ Harper smiled. ‘Indulge me.’

  The story was the same. One or two more details to flesh it out. It was the truth – he was certain of that. And very humiliating for Thorpe, left in a puddle of his own piss with his flies open.

  There was no doubt that he’d have demanded his pound of flesh for that. But would he have taken it out on Francis Mullen? Maybe; the original debt had been his. And it would send a powerful lesson.

  ‘We’re talking to people who live on Somerset Street,’ Harper said. ‘We should be able to find some witnesses.’

  ‘They didn’t like my da.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He was the type who’d pick a fight with anyone when he’d had a few drinks. He probably argued with every one of them over the years.’

  ‘This is different. He was murdered.’

  ‘People can forget what they’ve seen,’ Mullen said. There was absolute certainty in his voice.

  Of course, he knew it was true. The man had made it happen himself. And Harper had seen the effects of intimidation. But whoever killed Francis Mullen hadn’t had time to threaten any witnesses. A little luck and they’d come up with someone.

  ‘I’ll tell you this once again: you go anywhere near Thorpe or anyone associated with him, and I’ll have you back here.’

  Mullen shrugged and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Do we understand each other?’ Harper asked.

  ‘I heard what you said.’


  ‘Test me and you’ll find out I don’t make empty threats.’

  ‘What will you do then? Another beating? I got to tell you, Mr Harper, your guys got nothing on the New York cops. They really know how to hurt a man.’

  ‘Do what I say and it won’t be a problem.’

  ‘Is that it? I’m free to go?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Mullen, you are. You have a funeral to arrange. Just leave the police to do their business.’

  The man gave a dark look as he left, crisp, quick footsteps echoing down the hall.

  The constable trailing Mullen was waiting. Before he left, he said to Harper, ‘He was in Fairburn’s the whole time, sir. Had the egg and chips.’

  ‘Good. You’d better hurry. And watch yourself. He’s on edge.’

  Harper stretched, then went into the detectives’ room. ‘What have you managed to find out?’

  ‘We have a woman who saw someone knocking on Mullen’s door at dinnertime,’ Galt replied.

  He felt a flutter of hope in his chest. ‘Reasonable description?’

  Galt frowned and shook his head. ‘She only saw his back. Dark suit, cap, average height, not fat. It could be anyone.’

  ‘Did she see him come out again?’

  ‘She wasn’t looking.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘Three women at the other end of the street. They saw people come and go, but don’t know where they went. They weren’t paying close enough attention to remember what they looked like. Sorry, sir.’

  Damn it.

  ‘Anything more on Thorpe and Duncan?’

  ‘They’re still being questioned. But you know they’ll have solid alibis.’

  Of course. If they were behind the killing, they’d have made sure of that.

  He unpinned his list and set it on the desk, then took out his fountain pen and added another item before replacing it on the wall.

  Francis Mullen

  Nothing more he could do here. Everyone knew what was needed and they’d all be pushing for answers.

  ‘Have Superintendent Ash telephone me later.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He came out into the daylight, surprised for a second that there was so much more in the world than Franny Mullen’s death. Leeds was still a loud, lively place, filled with people who bustled past and paid him no mind.