His stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten, and he took out his pocket watch. Almost four o’clock. Too late for dinner, too early for tea. He walked back to the town hall, up Eastgate and along the Headrow.
Sissons would begin digging into Francis Mullen’s life, trying to discover who might hate him enough to kill him. For now, though, Thorpe and his bodyguard were the obvious suspects. Davey Mullen was innocent. This time.
But what about Fess’s murder? And who was responsible for the Metropole shooting?
‘Well, Tom?’
Harper sat, holding the tea in its bone china cup. Chief Constable Parker watched from the other side of the desk.
He gave a quick summary of events and his interrogation of Mullen.
‘Do you think it’s Thorpe?’
‘My gut says yes.’
The chief nodded slowly. ‘And the Metropole? Is he behind that, too?’
‘Honestly, sir, I don’t know. It’s like I said before – Thorpe doesn’t work that way. He’s direct and brutal. A shooting like that would be out of character for him. I want to bring in men from other divisions to work on it. Between this Francis Mullen killing and the Fess murder, Ash and his men have their hands full.’
‘That’s a sensible idea,’ Parker agreed. ‘Do it. But I’ll remind you, Tom, it’s the shooting at the hotel that really concerns people. They don’t give a tuppenny damn if criminals start killing each other, but they start to yell when innocent folk are hurt.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Parker smiled. ‘And we need to make sure they have nothing to shout about.’
The man was a good copper. It was easy to forget sometimes that he was a clever politician, too, walking the tightrope between the law, the Watch Committee, and the council.
‘We’re doing everything we can.’
‘I know you are. You’re involved in it. That’s good; things will get done. Don’t cut any corners, but make sure we get a result on something very soon.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The only thing missing from Parker’s words was the threat of ‘or else’.
It was a long evening. He and Ash needed to brief the three detectives brought in from the other divisions to work on the Metropole shooting. Harper stayed close as the men read through the notes, then answered their questions. It was after ten when he finally emerged from Millgarth. Smoke from the cigarettes and pipes left his eyes red and stinging.
He blinked in the darkness and set off for Sheepscar. A pleasant night, the warmth of the day only slowly fading. A brisk walk up to Vicar Lane, then out along North Street.
Across from Jews’ Park, a light still burned in the workroom of Cohen and Sons. Someone else working late. But it wouldn’t be Moses Cohen sewing a suit. He’d died of a heart attack two years before. Harper had grown up with him on Noble Street, not a stone’s throw from here. Now it was his oldest boy, Isaac, who ran the business, training up his own son to follow behind. Time passed, Harper thought. Soon enough it would swallow him, too. It would take them all.
He chuckled at himself and shook his head. For God’s sake, couldn’t he find something less bloody morbid than that?
‘That man.’
Mary stood in the kitchen doorway as Harper poured tea into three mugs.
‘Who? Mullen, you mean? What about him?’
One sugar each for Annabelle and himself, none for Mary. He sniffed at the milk. It hadn’t gone off yet. A little in each cup and stir.
‘Was it his father who was killed today? I heard about it.’
He handed her the mug. ‘Yes, it was,’ he replied after a moment.
‘Poor chap.’
‘He won’t bother you again. I promised you that.’
‘No. I suppose he has other things on his mind.’
‘Yes.’ A burial and his revenge, very likely. They’d keep a close eye on Davey Mullen and rein him in before he could try anything.
‘Me mam’s definitely going on this Pilgrimage, isn’t she?’
‘Of course she is. It’ll be good for her. A break from Leeds and she can spend time with all the other suffragists.’
‘To remind her why she’s doing it?’ Mary asked.
‘That’s probably part of it,’ he agreed, bemused. ‘And it’s a big celebration. Why?’
She glanced up at the ceiling and moved her gaze around. ‘I don’t know. This place will seem empty without her, that’s all.’
He laughed. ‘She’s hardly going to be gone forever. It’ll be a fortnight at most. Anyway, I’ll still be here.’
‘Yes,’ Mary answered, ‘but you’re out at all hours.’
‘Not as much as I was. It’s part of the job, though. It always has been. You know that.’ Harper smiled. ‘Your mother told me you and Len are buying the ring on Saturday. A big event.’
‘I know.’ He couldn’t hear any sense of joy behind her words.
‘You’re not getting cold feet, are you?’
‘No,’ she answered. But the word slipped out too quickly.
‘Go on,’ Harper said. ‘What is it?’
‘I started thinking about the idea of engagements.’ She pursed her lips. ‘What’s the point of them? If you’re going to get married, why not just do it, instead of all the palaver and spending money on a ring? What good does it do?’
‘It keeps jewellers in business.’ But she didn’t smile at his joke. ‘People have always done it. It’s tradition.’ He held up a hand before she could speak. ‘Don’t ask me why, I don’t know. I feel the same way about it as you. What about Len? What does he think?’
She smiled. ‘He likes the idea of putting a ring on my finger.’
‘He’ll do that when he marries you.’
‘I know. I told him.’
‘But?’
‘He likes tradition. He still wants an engagement.’
‘Will it really hurt that much to do it?’ Harper asked. ‘Will it compromise any principles?’
‘No, of course not.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘But …’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s a big step.’
‘Yes.’
He took hold of her hand. ‘For what it’s worth, only do it if you feel absolutely sure.’
Her mouth curled into a smile. ‘That’s what my mam said, too.’
‘We both want what you want for yourself.’
‘I know.’ She leaned forward and gave him a quick hug. ‘Thank you, Da.’
Then she was gone, and he wondered if it had been some kind of test.
‘Is that tea mashed yet?’ Annabelle called out. ‘It’ll be stone cold if you leave it any longer.’
‘We’ve got something on the Fess killing, sir.’
‘What?’ He pushed the receiver close against his ear.
‘It’s not much,’ Ash said hesitantly. ‘Sissons was out last night, talking to the prostitutes who work the Dark Arches. One admitted she heard the shot. She was close enough to Neville Street to see a man running out.’
‘What did he look like? Could she tell?’ Probably not, but maybe there was some tiny shred of information.
‘It was dark and she only saw his back.’
Of course. Their taste of luck didn’t even amount to a crumb.
‘Anything more?’
‘He paused when he reached the street, took his hat off for a moment. She’s positive he had dark hair. No spectacles.’
‘I suppose that’s better than nothing. But it’s still not likely to do us much good.’
‘I just wanted to let you know, sir. Rogers and Galt were out until all hours. The Erin Boys decided to act up again.’
‘What was it this time?’
‘Beating a member of another gang. In the end he decided he didn’t want to press charges.’
‘It’s coming on time to stamp on the Erin Boys,’ Harper said.
‘Once this is all over, sir. Then we’ll give them our attention.’
‘Very good. How are those officers we brought in doing on the Met
ropole shooting?’
‘They’re going back and questioning everyone again.’
‘Most of those hotel guests will have left.’
‘They’ll get in touch.’
‘Remind them that we need an answer very soon.’
‘I will, sir. And Davey Mullen has been quiet. Visiting undertakers this morning, then he went up to Harehills Cemetery.’
‘Thorpe? Duncan?’
Ash snorted. ‘If their alibis were any more solid, they’d be made of concrete.’
‘Lovingly constructed?’
‘Very, sir. One guess is that Duncan killed Francis Mullen after Thorpe gave him the order. We’ve been searching, haven’t come up with the knife yet—’
‘It’s probably down the sewer.’
‘—or any bloodstained clothes. Still, we’re chipping away at their stories. They’ll come apart and we’ll have them.’
‘Just make sure Davey Mullen doesn’t get close to them first.’
‘Don’t you worry.’ A small cough. ‘Speaking of Mullen, how’s Miss Harper, sir? Recovered?’
‘Fully. Now she’s worried about shopping for an engagement ring.’
‘Women, eh, sir? But I hope she’ll be very happy with her young man.’
‘She will. Just a few jitters.’
He’d been working for an hour, hunched over his desk with the spectacles pinching his nose, when the telephone rang again.
‘Deputy Chief Constable Harper.’
‘Yes, sir … this is Inspector Warren from Scarborough. We talked about Miss Lenton. Do you remember? The suffragette.’
He smiled at the man’s diffidence. ‘I remember, Inspector. Are Special Branch still there?’
‘They left a couple of days ago, sir. They didn’t find much, kept getting people’s backs up.’
That was no surprise. ‘They can be a little overbearing.’
‘I wanted to bring you up to date, sir. I was talking to a couple of men down at the harbour yesterday. It seems that not long after the time Miss Lenton would have arrived here, a rowing boat took a young lady out to a yacht.’
‘Do you know whose rowing boat?’
‘Already talked to him, sir. She told him her name was Miss Smith, and he had no reason to believe he was doing anything wrong. He didn’t know the owner of the yacht.’
‘Of course not. You’d better drop the Branch a letter with the details.’
‘I’ve already done it, sir.’
Lilian Lenton’s escape had been very neatly arranged. She’d be back, he felt sure about that. For now, she’d made Special Branch look like a bunch of bumblers. But if they found her, they’d make absolutely certain she paid for that.
THIRTEEN
Harper stood in the detectives’ room at Millgarth, talking to the CID officers he’d drafted in. They’d made a little progress in the Metropole shooting: one of them was in Doncaster, interviewing a businessman who’d been in an office above King Street and seen someone running from the scene. Fingers crossed for an exact description, Harper thought.
Having three experienced men able to focus on a single crime was a luxury. Usually, detectives were spread too thin, investigating three or four or five things at once. They were hard-pressed to do real justice to anything; he knew that from years of bitter experience.
‘You’re doing well,’ he told them. ‘Keep at it and we’ll soon have him.’
He turned as he heard a noise in the corridor. Rogers pushed and prodded a man towards the interview room. Harper followed and glanced through the door. A man with fair hair, a clipped moustache and a pale summer suit sat, looking confused and worried.
‘Who is he?’
‘He’s the gentleman who bought a can of petrol not long before the arson on Albion Place, sir.’ Rogers loomed over the man, big and menacing, filling out his clothes with his neck straining at his shirt collar.
‘Is that right, Mr …?’ Harper said.
‘Darbyshire.’ He glanced up at Rogers. ‘I told your man, I needed it for an experiment.’
Darbyshire sat a little straighter. ‘I tinker. I try to make things.’
‘I see,’ Harper said. ‘What kind of things might they be?’
‘All sorts. I use engines quite a bit, which was why I needed petrol. Not a great deal, that’s why I only have a small can.’
Harper raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d better give us the details, Mr Darbyshire.’
‘Yes.’ He seemed flustered. ‘Yes, of course.’
He was trying to improve the efficiency of combustion engines, he claimed. To make them do more work with the same capacity. He already had a couple of patents. When he started to wander into technical talk, Harper cut him off.
‘You needed the petrol to test the engines, is that what you mean?’
‘Yes,’ Darbyshire said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Exactly.’
With all his facts and figures and ideas, he sounded convincing. But so many liars did.
‘We’re going to need to take a look at your workshop, sir. That way we can be sure you’re telling us the truth.’
‘But—’ The man began to protest, then closed his mouth and nodded.
‘Give Constable Rogers the address and the key. He’ll nip over while you stay here, sir.’
At the entrance to Millgarth he took Rogers aside. ‘Give the place a proper going over. I know he sounds as if he’s on the level, but let’s make certain.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘How on earth did you manage to track him down? That was excellent work.’
The man gave a broad, proud smile. ‘Thank you, sir. I just talked to a few people and they talked to a few more. You know how it goes.’
He did, but it had rarely gone that easily for him. Rogers was going to prove a very useful addition to Ash’s squad.
Harper was back in his office at the town hall, trying to draft a report on CID manpower needs for 1914, when Miss Sharp tapped on the door and announced Constable Rogers.
The man seemed to fill the room, to draw in all the air and light. A handy skill for any detective; he would intimidate suspects without a word.
‘I thought you’d like to know, sir, Mr Darbyshire was telling the truth. His workshop is chock full of engines. All sizes. Never seen so many in my life.’
‘Let him go, then. Give him an apology and thank him for his cooperation.’
‘I really thought we were getting somewhere, sir.’ The man looked crestfallen.
‘Plain clothes is different from being on the beat,’ Harper told him. ‘This was never going to be easy to solve. Most of the time our work feels like running on the spot.’
‘I know, sir, but—’
‘Patience.’ Harper smiled. ‘You’ve made a very good start and I’m sure it’ll stay that way. But you’re going to be knocked back quite a bit, too. You might as well get used to it early.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Keep on looking. You’ll find the right man.’
He might find him if he was lucky, Harper thought after Rogers had left. He just hoped the man didn’t become too downhearted.
It was almost seven when he came out of the town hall. Evening, and the Headrow was quiet. His driver waited at the kerb in the Model T.
‘Millgarth,’ Harper ordered. ‘Wait for me once we’re there. You should have time to find something to eat.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Time to catch up on the day’s discoveries. For the love of God, let there be something.
And there was. He could see it from the glint in Walsh’s eye.
‘Well?’ Harper asked. ‘Are you going to spit it out or keep it to yourself?’
‘When we questioned Barney Thorpe, he claimed he was in a pub when Francis Mullen was killed. It seems that he might have been telling us a fib.’
That was enough to catch his attention. ‘Barney? God forbid he’d do anything like that. Where was he?’
The inspector looked
like a cat that had just found a bowl of cream. ‘From what I’ve been told, he was visiting a lady friend instead.’
‘In two places at once,’ Harper said. ‘A very neat trick.’
‘Especially as his missus apparently doesn’t know about this other woman.’
He thought for a moment. ‘You’ve always told us you have a way with the ladies. Go and have a word with her. Find out the truth.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If she admits Thorpe was with her, ask her exactly when. After that, drag him back in and roast him.’
Walsh grinned. ‘Gladly, sir.’
Perhaps this would break down Thorpe’s alibi. Harper wanted to find Francis Mullen’s killer. But there were still other crimes to solve. Too damned many of them. He glanced at the list on the wall. The Metropole shooting, the Fess killing, the arson, the barracks theft.
‘Davey Mullen is the connection between almost every one of them,’ he said to Ash. They were standing in the warm summer darkness by Harper’s car; he’d stayed far longer than he’d intended. ‘I know he’s not responsible for them all, but he’s the common thread. Since he came to town we’ve had a surge of crime. Why?’
‘Some people are just a magnet for trouble, sir.’
‘I don’t suppose we’ve had any more reports of a third American?’
Ash chuckled and shook his head. ‘No such luck.’
Bringing in a few detectives to work on the Metropole shooting was beginning to pay off. At least they finally had a good description of a man running from the scene: the Doncaster businessman who’d seen it had a good, clear recollection. But it was nothing like Thorpe or Teddy Duncan. And the witness hadn’t seen a gun in the man’s hand; it could just as easily have been someone fleeing from the shots. Nowhere, once again. Every hope seemed to break apart as soon as it took shape.
The shooting was still on the front page of the Evening Post. Just a small piece near the bottom now, enough to keep the anger simmering. He didn’t blame them. People wanted to feel safe in their city. They deserved answers. Sometimes, though, the police couldn’t provide them.
You had to be an optimist if you were a copper. It was the only way to survive when you saw the worst of a place, day in and day out. Or when you spent your time dealing with people who traded in misery. But you needed to believe that you could make things better. That the police could stop some of the crime. And you kept on trying, week after week, even after you learned that you hardly made a scrap of difference. There was always the faith that one day it might all change, even though you knew deep inside that it would never happen.
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