Brass Lives

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Did he keep many papers here?’

  ‘In his library. Over there.’ She pointed to a closed door and snorted. ‘Well, Barney called it a library, although there’s hardly a book in it. Somewhere to hide and plot, more like.’

  ‘Would you mind if we took a look in there?’ Harper tried to make it sound offhand and casual, the most ordinary thing in the world. He hoped her hatred of her husband was strong enough to give them permission. Neat, and perfectly legal.

  ‘Help yourself.’

  They cleared the first hurdle. Now for the second. ‘We might want to take some things. Documents.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said, ‘as long as it doesn’t stop me getting what I’m due.’

  Sissons was in there for an hour. He came out carrying four heavy bags crammed with paper. His face gave nothing away. Harper said his farewells to Mrs Thorpe and remained quiet until the car was gliding down the road.

  ‘Worthwhile?’

  Sissons opened the briefcase he always carried and took out two pieces of paper.

  ‘I have plenty to go through, but I thought you’d want to see these, sir. They don’t tell us who wanted Fess dead, but they’re still very interesting.’

  A spidery scrawl of ink on paper, something written quickly. Harper put on his spectacles, slowly making out three or four words, then more. A description of Fess, as if Thorpe had jotted it down during a conversation. All the details, even the fact that the man was at Mrs Hardisty’s lodging house.

  He moved on to the second note.

  Make sure Bert tracks down Beckett and supplies gun.

  ‘This is good work. Another step forward, at least.’

  ‘There’s still plenty we don’t know,’ Sissons said. ‘Who gave Thorpe that information, for a start.’ He hesitated. ‘I found this, too.’ He drew out a Webley revolver. ‘It was right at the back of the drawer,’ he continued. ‘Just the one. The serial number matches those stolen from the barracks.’ He grinned.

  Harper beamed. ‘I think you just earned your pay today, Sergeant. Every penny.’

  Progress. Real progress. They’d demolished that brick wall again.

  ‘That’s the third gun,’ Harper said. ‘I don’t think the fourth one is there. They’d have been together if he’d had it.’ He raised a hand to quiet the objections. ‘I’ve been in touch with Mrs Thorpe and she’s agreed to let us do a proper search. But if we assume it’s not there, where the hell is it? Who’s got it?’

  Walsh examined the pieces of paper from Sissons’s briefcase. ‘Who could Barney have been talking to about Fess? A visitor?’

  ‘No strangers came to the house in the days right before Fess was killed,’ Harper said. ‘I asked his wife and she doesn’t remember any.’

  ‘Did he have a telephone?’

  ‘On the desk in his library,’ Sissons said. ‘But he must have been talking to someone in Britain.’

  Of course. His instructions couldn’t have come from a New York gang; there were no phone lines to the far side of the ocean. That meant someone else was involved. Someone closer to home.

  ‘Rogers,’ Harper said, ‘you went back to talk to Mrs Hardisty. What did she have to say?’

  ‘Very little I didn’t already know, sir. But there was one gem: someone came looking for him at her place. Not asking by name, but for the American.’

  ‘When?’ Harper asked.

  ‘The day he vanished, the way she tells it. Fess went out in the morning and never came back.’

  ‘The same day we hauled him in here,’ Ash said. ‘Who was looking for him? Could she give you a description?’

  Rogers smiled. ‘She went one better than that, sir. She gave me a name.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Harper interrupted. ‘Bert Jones.’

  ‘Spot on, sir. She knew his sister back when she was younger. She recognized him.’

  All too often these days Leeds felt like a huge, sprawling city. But sometimes, at moments like this, it was a tiny village.

  ‘Jones didn’t mention this when you questioned him, did he?’ Harper asked Walsh.

  ‘Not a dicky bird, sir.’

  ‘Have another session with him. Maybe you can jog his memory. Push him again on who might have paid Barney for the killing.’

  The men had plenty to keep them busy tomorrow. Harper watched them all leave; only he and Ash remained as day edged towards evening.

  ‘It’s a mess, sir.’

  ‘Half the time I feel we’re getting more questions than answers,’ Harper said. ‘Maybe it’ll seem clearer after a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Look on the bright side: we’ve had some good successes. We’re doing well, sir,’ Ash said with a smile.

  ‘Yes,’ Harper agreed. But why didn’t it seem that way?

  Mary was over at Len’s. Now they were engaged, not just courting, the families would become a bigger part of their lives. Last night had shown the lad fitted in well here. He’d seemed more comfortable, less on display. Just as well; they’d be seeing plenty of him in future.

  Harper looked over at his wife. ‘Nothing more?’

  She shook her head. ‘Absolutely normal. Didn’t even need a little snooze.’

  ‘Good.’ He paused. ‘I’ve been wondering. Do you think we should tell Len? He’s going to have to know sooner or later.’

  ‘Later.’ Her tone made it clear there was nothing more to say on the matter.

  He was in an old-fashioned hackney cab, the horse galloping out of control over bumpy ground as he bounced up and down on the seat holding on for dear life. Slowly the scene began to fade around him. Someone was shaking his shoulder.

  ‘Telephone, Tom. It’s Rogers.’

  He’d been dead to the world, slept all the way through the ringing.

  ‘Harper.’ His voice was thick and groggy. He pressed the receiver against his good ear.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but you need to come in. Bert Jones has escaped from Armley. And it looks like he killed Beckett before he left.’

  Christ. He took a breath. ‘Send a car for me.’

  ‘It should already be waiting.’

  Harper glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven minutes past three. He dressed in a rush and hurried out to Roundhay Road. The streets were empty and dark as they sped along. Almost before he knew it, the driver pulled up outside Millgarth.

  The squad were all in the detectives’ room, listening as Ash briefed them on what he knew. A pot of tea sat on a desk. Harper poured himself a cup as he listened.

  ‘The best we can tell, there was a disturbance after midnight. It was arranged. A few prisoners set fire to their mattresses at the same time and the warders took them all out into the yard while the smoke cleared and everything was cleaned up. Jones must have had some kind of weapon. He took advantage of the confusion to knife Beckett in the throat.’

  ‘How did he get out of the gaol?’ Galt asked.

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Ash said after a moment. ‘But he escaped. That’s definite.’

  ‘What are Armley and Wortley Division doing?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Every man they have is out looking. The chief constable’s taken command there. We’re watching Jones’s home. And Thorpe’s house, in case he decides to go there.’

  ‘I want you to go over all his friends and associates,’ Harper ordered. ‘Any name you can dredge up. Go through their houses. Let them know they’ll be in a cell if they help him.’

  He was fully awake now, as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over him. The men disappeared, grim-faced and determined. Leeds had more than a quarter of a million inhabitants. Finding one determined to stay hidden was going to be a thankless task.

  ‘Where do you want me, sir?’ Ash asked.

  ‘Right here, keeping an eye on things. I’m going to be out there myself. I don’t suppose you had any revelations about any of it during the night, did you?’

  ‘No such luck.’ He gave a wistful smile. ‘What about you?’
/>
  Harper shook his head.

  Dawn wasn’t far away. The air had a different smell, not as soft. He wanted to walk, to let his thoughts flow. Sellers were already setting up at the outdoor market, moving through the half-light with practised grace as they unloaded handcarts and laid out their goods ready for the day.

  He’d been a detective for over a quarter of a century. He’d known hundreds of people, quite possibly thousands. Some of them must have had dealings with Bert Jones. But that was the problem with rank. Stuck in an office all day, he’d lost contact with so many. The old links rusted and fell apart.

  Suddenly, in the middle of the pavement, he stopped. Yes, that was a good place to start. Not yet, though, he decided after looking at his watch. It was barely five o’clock; another hour or so, at least. Time for breakfast.

  It didn’t matter whether it was first thing in the morning or the middle of the night. Word would have passed that there was a plain clothes copper walking around the Bank. The Erin Boys were no longer the force they’d once been up here, but they still had their network of young lads who kept their eyes open.

  Harper had had his moments in this place. A few pitched battles when he’d gone in with constables to arrest people. He still carried the scars. As he strolled, he could feel eyes watching him, even if he couldn’t see them. His hand closed around the cosh in his pocket and he slipped the leather loop over his wrist.

  Let them watch him. This was Leeds, he was a copper and he wasn’t going to be cowed, no matter what area. The police kept order for honest people, and there were plenty of those on the Bank.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Stephen Scargill had once been married to Bert Jones’s younger sister. He still was, for all Harper knew, but she’d left him years before, run off to Birmingham with a man she’d met, taking the children and leaving him all on his own.

  It was ancient history, but there was no love lost between Scargill and Jones. Bert had taken his sister’s part; back when the wound was still raw, it had often come to blows after the pubs closed. That was long ago now, but Harper hoped the grudge still festered, and Scargill had stayed aware of Jones.

  He turned the corner on to Bread Street. Three men loitered across the road, hands in their pockets, staring at him. Trying to intimidate, to remind him he wasn’t welcome.

  He walked to number twenty-four and knocked on the door. Ten seconds and Scargill opened up, fully dressed and ready for work. He glanced up and down before letting Harper inside.

  The man was older. What remained of his hair was grey, pomaded down against his scalp. But his body was still strong. The years of physical work showed.

  ‘I’ve got ten minutes before I have to go,’ Scargill said. ‘You’re taking your life in your hands, coming up here on your own. Must be important.’

  ‘Bert Jones.’

  He snorted. ‘I could guess that. I’m not bloody simple. I thought you lot had arrested him. If you’re here, something must have happened.’

  ‘He was in Armley Gaol. Killed another prisoner and escaped overnight.’

  ‘Well, I’m not likely to be hiding him here.’ He opened his arms wide. ‘Take a look around if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘Do you still know all about him?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Not the way I used to.’ Scargill shrugged. ‘But I can probably tell you this and that.’

  ‘I need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘I told you, ten minutes. And I’ll be eating while we talk. I’m not going in on an empty belly for anyone.’

  Worth his time, Harper thought as he started back down the street. From up here, Leeds lay spread out before him. Haze from the chimneys, the dirty ribbon of the river and canal. Muck everywhere. Plenty of brass with it, too, for the right people.

  He was aware of the man coming up behind him. A hand tried to grab his upper arm. He turned into it before the fingers could get a grip on his jacket. The man had yellow teeth and a feral grin. Brown hair cut in a short back and sides, and a cheap black suit.

  ‘Coppers aren’t welcome round here.’

  Harper stared and shook his head, disappointed. ‘Is that it? That’s your message?’

  ‘This is Erin Boys territory.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ The young man seemed startled by the words. ‘This is Leeds. You might want to remind Johnny Dempster of that.’

  Dempster. The leader of the Boys, in charge since his brother went to prison. Ambitious and greedy by all accounts, and wanting to make the gang a force on the Bank again. With himself in absolute control. But he had a brain.

  ‘I could make you—’

  He didn’t have the chance to say anything more. Harper brought the cosh down on his hand. A short, vicious swing. He felt the bones break and heard the man whimper. Then he turned and walked away. Over in a second and no one had seen.

  Ash sat back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. ‘I have to say, sir, it’s been worthwhile having you working back here.’ He glanced at the list of names he’d just scribbled down.

  ‘No guarantee Jones will have had contact with any of them.’

  ‘It’s still somewhere to go. We were only aware of two of these. I’ll put Sissons and Galt on it.’

  ‘Any more word from the chief?’ Harper asked. ‘What do they have to say over at Armley?’

  ‘The governor has promised there’ll be an inquiry into how Jones managed to escape.’ His moustache twitched. They both knew what that meant. It had happened through incompetence and stupidity. Maybe corruption. They’d try to cover it up behind long words and committee meetings. ‘The chief constable is still directing operations around the gaol.’

  A murder and an escape meant that no one was going to be sitting in his office until Jones was back in custody. There was no doubt now that he’d hang, and he knew that as well as anyone. He had nothing to lose.

  ‘I don’t want anyone trying to tackle him alone,’ Harper said. ‘They all have police whistles. They can call for help.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m not going to give Bert Jones the satisfaction of any more bodies.’

  ‘Did you have any trouble on the Bank, sir?’

  He smiled. ‘Not so as you’d notice.’

  Harper visited two other men who’d once known Jones, but they had nothing to offer. He’d had his one small stroke of luck; best to be satisfied with that.

  At noon he strode down Albion Place and climbed the stairs to the Harper Secretarial Agency and School. He wanted a distraction, something to take his mind off Jones and Thorpe and Mullen for a few minutes. A little joy.

  Mary was in her office, going over a piece of work with another woman. So different from how she was at home. There, she was his daughter, bustling around, at ease. Here, she was a businesswoman, an adult, serious, intent and professional. She knew exactly what she was doing, efficient and in control. He realized he’d never looked at her quite that way before. Then she glanced up and saw him, and instantly she was his little girl once again, gliding towards him with concern in her eyes.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there? Nothing’s happened to me mam?’

  He laughed. ‘If it has, no one’s told me. I thought I’d buy you some dinner.’

  ‘Well …’ She glanced over her shoulder at the work piled on her desk. ‘Go on, then, as long as we’re quick.’

  The Kardomah was just around the corner, not overrun with midday customers yet. A chance to talk without Mary’s words being drowned by the hubbub of noise.

  They talked about Annabelle. Mary was a woman – she saw things he’d never notice. Observations, ideas that might help. It was a conspiracy, but he felt no guilt. They both wanted the best, to be able to discuss their worries and fears.

  And it was time with his daughter. To enjoy the simple pleasure of her company. Jones’s escape meant he’d probably be late home, and God only knew what the next few days would bring.

  By the time they parted company on Briggat
e, prisons and death seemed a world away. Another minute and they’d crash back into his life. For now, though, he’d take the break and be grateful.

  Millgarth was bustling. The air was thick with the stink of unwashed bodies and buzzing with the hum of voices.

  ‘They’ve brought in some of the people Jones knows, sir,’ Sergeant Mason said from behind the front desk. ‘Questioning them now.’

  ‘Those names you gave us have been helpful, sir,’ Ash said with a smile. ‘At least we know the first place Jones went after he got out of Armley.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Nick Harris. He’s only about half a mile from the gaol. Claims Jones turned up in the middle of the night, tossed gravel at his window to wake him. He told him to go away.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘I do. Sissons noticed the gravel when they went to question him.’

  ‘That’s a start.’ He nodded at the map on the wall. Ash had placed pins at the gaol and Harris’s house, a piece of ribbon between them. ‘Where next, do you think?’

  ‘Anyone’s guess, sir.’ He gave a deep, thoughtful sigh. ‘Just in case, I’ve warned the copper at the hospital guarding Mullen to be on his guard.’

  It didn’t seem likely. But better to be prepared.

  Four o’clock, and the last of the men they’d brought in had walked back into the sunshine. None of them had seen Jones in months. And he was still out there. Harper stared at the map as if it might suddenly give him the answer.

  The telephone rang.

  ‘There you are, Tom.’ The chief constable’s voice crackled and hummed down the wire. ‘Exactly who I wanted. How are things coming along?’

  ‘Nowhere, sir. Anything in Armley?’

  ‘Not a peep, other than that man you had. A couple of possible sightings just after dawn, but we couldn’t confirm them. And nothing since.’

  ‘Where were they?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Down through Wortley. Why?’

  ‘I’m trying to put together a picture, sir.’ Harris’s house was on the way to Wortley. It fitted. But what did that give them? It was more than twelve hours ago. He could be anywhere now. Far from Leeds, if he had the chance and a scrap of sense.