Missing pistol
Davey Mullen
Bert Jones
As he walked up the Headrow he felt the first drops of rain and lifted his face to the sky. It wasn’t going to be more than a light shower, but it was still welcome. He strolled on, relishing the damp and the brief coolness in the air.
‘Are you back with us now, sir?’ Miss Sharp asked as he settled behind his desk.
‘Seems like it. Barring anything unforeseen.’
‘I’d better bring you a cup of tea, then.’
The office smelled musty. He pushed up the sash on the window to air it out. It let in the smoke and soot and noise, but even that was an improvement. Miss Sharp wrinkled her mouth disapprovingly when she returned but said nothing. Tea and the morning post. Straight back into the routine.
He’d been busy for two hours, reading reports and letters, initialling documents to show he’d seen them, when Miss Sharp entered.
‘Someone to see you,’ she said. ‘A Mr Dempster.’
Well, well, well. It hadn’t taken the man long to find his way here. Perhaps he shouldn’t be too surprised, after all. He thought for a moment, then said: ‘Send him in.’
The same careful attention to his appearance as yesterday. The young man was fastidious. His nails were clean and carefully trimmed; you didn’t often see that on a man, especially on the Bank. A different suit, a pale grey pinstripe with a starched white shirt.
‘Sit down.’
‘You recaptured Bert Jones.’
‘We did.’ Everyone in Leeds knew that by now.
‘It seems you found my information useful.’
‘Yes,’ he acknowledged. ‘I hope your – cousin, was it? – is recovering?’ Ash’s men had checked into her; there was nothing to tell about Catherine Taylor that they’d been able to find.
‘She’ll be fine. No damage done.’ He ran his tongue across his lips. ‘Tell me, Mr Harper, would you say that what I told you made the difference in recapturing Bert Jones?’
A very strange question. But Dempster seemed to specialize in them. What did he really want? Whatever it was, Harper was going to be wary. ‘It helped, yes. As I’m sure you know, the police always appreciate people being good citizens.’
Dempster folded his hands on his lap and gave a faint smile. ‘This was a little more than being a good citizen, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Was it? What would you call it? Helping the police is what people should do. Leeds is for everyone. All of us.’
‘I was hoping you could publicly acknowledge my contribution.’
So that was it. Recognition and the idea that the coppers approved of him. Gratitude. Maybe something he could twist to make people imagine there was a partnership of some kind. Something that would give him weight and standing. A lever he might be able to use to win a council seat in time. Ash was right; Dempster was devious, but nowhere near as bright as he believed himself to be.
‘If anyone asks me, I’m very happy to say we acted on information received.’
‘From me.’
‘We never give names, Mr Dempster. I’m sure you know that.’
The man plucked an imagined shred of lint from his sleeve. ‘You could make an exception this time.’
‘I’m afraid not. But I can tell you I’m grateful for what you did.’ And that was all the man would receive. Nothing public, and certainly no endorsement.
Dempster sat and stared for a second, then rose in a single, flowing movement and left.
He’d been gone for almost a minute before Miss Sharp came and stood in the doorway. ‘Who is he?’
‘Someone who desperately wants to be somebody and thinks we should help him.’
‘I don’t often take against people straight off the bat,’ she said, ‘but there was something about him.’ She gave a shudder.
Harper laughed. ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he’ll be back.’
‘Thank the Lord for that, at least.’
Dempster had some plan, some game in his mind. But Harper wasn’t going to play. He had other things to consider.
Saturday afternoon and all the offices were closing for the week.
Still warm, though, as he began the walk back to the Victoria.
It gave him time to think without interruption. He was feeling like one of those acts at the music hall, dashing around to keep all the plates spinning on sticks without any of them crashing to the floor. And the longer it continued, the harder it became. With everything that was going on at home, how long could he keep going before it all fell around him?
For now, though, he needed to push on, to finish this. Tomorrow he’d go to the infirmary again. No doubt the matron would refuse him permission to see Davey Mullen. Still, he needed to try. That man was the key to too many things.
Sunday morning, Mary cancelled her ride with the Clarion cyclists again.
‘Too much to do,’ she said. ‘I have to finish the accounts for the month.’
‘I’m not an invalid,’ Annabelle said.
‘I mean it, Mam, I have plenty to keep me busy. Len’s going to pop in later, once he’s back from the cycling. Come out for a walk with us,’ she said, as if the thought had just occurred to her.
‘Give over.’ But Annabelle was smiling.
At the infirmary, a few patients stood outside the hospital in their pyjamas and dressing gowns, taking in the sun as they stood and smoked.
The matron’s door stood open. As he knocked, she turned and gave him a disdainful glance. ‘What can I do for you, Deputy Chief Constable?’ Polite, giving him the due of his rank, but without too much respect.
‘Davey Mullen.’
‘I gave you the answer before. I’m not allowing you to question him. He still can’t speak or write. Or did you imagine some sort of miracle had happened? I can assure you it hasn’t.’
He didn’t let her words touch him. ‘I simply wanted to know how he’s progressing.’
She sniffed. ‘You should know better than to ask me that. You’ll need to talk to the doctor.’
Harper caught the man between wards, the same one he’d seen the other day.
‘Physically, he’s improving. There doesn’t appear to be any internal damage.’ The doctor shook his head in amazement. ‘That’s remarkable enough, given the hammering he took. Mr Mullen is starting to heal.’
‘Could he answer questions?’
‘You know he can’t sp—’
‘I mean nodding or shaking his head. He doesn’t have to try and say a word.’
‘Is it that important?’
‘Yes,’ Harper said. ‘Truly, it is.’
The doctor took out a cigarette and lit it, closing his eyes for a moment as he sucked down the smoke. ‘Come back tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave the order. But no more than ten minutes, and I’ll make sure the nurse enforces that. Less if he becomes distressed.’
Annabelle curled against him in bed, his arm around her shoulders. It felt natural, it felt right.
‘Did you go for that walk?’
‘A little wander, listening to the lovebirds natter nineteen to the dozen. Made me feel like I was chaperoning them. Ruining their fun.’
‘Mary wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t want you there.’
‘We both know exactly why she asked me, and why she stayed here this morning. She wanted to keep an eye on me. The monthly accounts have always waited before.’ She turned her head, and he could feel her eyes on him in the darkness. ‘Did you two cook this up between you?’
‘No,’ he replied. It was a lie, but maybe better if she never knew the truth.
‘Is this how it has to be from now on? Someone watching out for me?’
That was a question he didn’t want to answer.
TWENTY-SIX
The hospital was just a short walk along Great George Street from the town hall. By nine o’clock, most people were at work, the streets quiet as Harper strode out. The air was dusty, soft with summer warmth and shimmering with soot.
The matron didn’t say a word; her disapproving glare spoke volumes. But she led him along the corridor to the room. The constable outside the door hurriedly pushed his newspaper away as he saw his superior officer.
‘A nurse will be here in a moment, Deputy Chief Constable. I expect you to obey what the doctor said to the letter.’
‘I will. Thank you.’
‘Has anyone tried to visit?’ he asked the copper once the matron had gone.
‘Just doctors and nurses, sir. Not many of those, to be honest. He’s mostly on his own in there. I feel a bit sorry for him.’
‘Don’t. He’ll survive.’
The nurse arrived and opened the door. Mullen turned his head, eyes widening as he saw Harper.
He was sitting up in bed. A newspaper lay open on his lap; with his arms in plaster, he couldn’t hold it. No one had shaved him and now a thick, dark beard covered his cheeks and chin. It gave him a serious air, impossible to recognize as the same cocky man who’d turned up at the Victoria.
‘You look as though you’re improving, Mr Mullen.’
A slight shrug was his answer.
‘I need to ask you a couple of things.’
Mullen inclined his head.
‘Who did this to you?’
Under the beard, his mouth seemed to tighten. His gaze hardened. But no response. Harper hadn’t expected an answer, but he needed to ask.
‘You killed Barney Thorpe, didn’t you?’
Harper saw a flicker of worry cross Mullen’s face. He’d be wondering what the police had discovered. No need to let him know it was nothing at all, just suspicion, that he was free and clear. Let him stew and fret.
‘Well?’
A firm shake of the head.
‘Do you know the Boys of Erin?’
Mullen’s eyes narrowed, but he shook his head once more. He looked at the nurse.
‘Is that all, Mr Harper?’ the nurse asked. ‘The patient is growing tired.’
At the door, he glanced over his shoulder. Mullen was smirking.
‘He’s untouchable in there, sir,’ Harper said. He paced around the chief constable’s office, working off his anger. ‘He knows it, too.’
‘There’s nothing we can do, Tom. It’s not as if we have firm evidence against him for anything at all, is it?’
‘He murdered Thorpe, I’m absolutely convinced of it.’
Parker blew smoke towards the ceiling. ‘I daresay you’re right. He probably did. He certainly has form. But, like I said, we have no proof, do we?’
‘No. And he’s not willing to tell us who beat him.’
‘Then we’d better come up with the answer by ourselves. We’re the police, after all. It’s our job.’
‘Yes, sir. But …’
‘I do understand, Tom. It’s the frustration. I’ve experienced it often enough, myself. Look, you and the detectives at Millgarth have worked wonders so far on all this.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You can crack it. I have faith.’
That was more than he had himself at the moment.
A morning of correspondence and reports in his office. Two meetings with the heads of C and D divisions about manpower. He’d slid so easily back into the routine, right down to tea and a biscuit at half past ten.
He’d just finished his work, put the cap on his fountain pen and blotted the last sheet, when the telephone rang.
‘Busy, sir?’ Ash asked.
‘About to go for my dinner,’ Harper answered. ‘Why?’
‘When you have a moment, you might want to come over to Millgarth, sir.’
‘What have you got?’
‘It can wait until you’ve eaten. No rush at all.’
How could he eat when temptation like that had been dangled in front of him?
‘Well?’ Harper asked the superintendent.
‘Sissons has something.’ He waved the sergeant in.
‘I did a quick search on the house where we found Bert Jones. It’s owned by the Boys of Erin through a company they have.’
‘By the gang?’ Harper asked. That didn’t seem likely.
‘Yes, sir.’ Sissons nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. ‘After I saw that, I checked a little further. In the last nine months they’ve bought four properties on the Bank.’
‘Properties. What do you mean, exactly?’
‘All houses, sir.’
‘What are the addresses?’
Sissons placed a list on the table. Right there, the house where he’d met Dempster. Where they’d arrested Bert Jones.
‘They’re all occupied. Dempster lives in one of them, and as far as I can tell, the tenants in the others are his relatives.’
‘Yes.’
‘It made me wonder where they’d come up with the money for these places,’ Sissons continued. ‘They paid cash in every instance.’
‘Do you have any answers?’
‘Not yet, sir. I’m still working on that.’
‘And loving every minute of it,’ Harper said.
‘Can’t deny that, sir. The work suits me.’ He grinned. ‘And I’m still going through all the papers I took from Thorpe’s house. There’s quite a bit to look at, sir.’
‘What do you make of it?’ he asked after the sergeant had gone.
‘Something’s going on, no doubt about it,’ Ash replied. ‘I’m very curious about where they found the money.’
‘So am I.’ Harper frowned. ‘We’ll keep this on the back burner for now.’
‘You look frazzled,’ Annabelle said as he walked into the living room.
‘I am.’ He settled in the chair and popped his collar stud. ‘When this case is over, I’m going to sleep for a week.’
Her mouth became a knowing smile. ‘Do you know how many times I’ve heard you say that, Tom Harper? And when it’s all done and dusted, the next morning you’re up and off again at the usual time.’
‘Maybe so,’ he admitted with a laugh.
Perfectly normal. But for how much longer?
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘How are things coming along with Thorpe’s papers?’ he asked Sissons.
The sergeant gestured at the pile on his desk and three more on the floor. Slowly dwindling, but still daunting to anyone who didn’t enjoy paperwork.
‘I wouldn’t have guessed he was such a stickler for detail, sir. That’s good for us. It means everything’s in there. But it takes an age to go through it all when I’m working on my own.’
‘Anything in there about the guns?’
‘Nothing. I’d have told you straight away. Sorry, sir.’
‘Keep at it.’ It had to be in there somewhere. Had to be.
‘What do you think?’ he asked Ash.
‘I’m hopeful, sir,’ the man answered after a little thought. ‘Galt seems to think he has a tip on something.’
Harper felt a stir of possibility. ‘Did he say what it was?’
‘No, sir. Scared of hexing it. We’ll hear if it turns into something.’
‘It feels like we still have so much to do. Too much.’
‘We’re getting there. Bit by bit.’
‘If you say so.’ He sighed. ‘Seems to me we’re walking uphill with a force ten gale blowing in our faces.’
‘Don’t you worry, sir. We’ll sort it out.’
‘Yes.’ But at the moment it was hard to feel confident about anything.
When he returned the next day there was a hushed atmosphere of study in the detectives’ room at Millgarth. All of them with their heads down as they read files and made notes. It was an unusual sight.
Harper raised his eyebrows in a question as he entered Ash’s office.
‘I decided it would be best to have them all sifting through the rest of Thorpe’s papers. It would take Sissons the rest of the year on his own.’
‘How long have they been at it?’ he asked.
‘Since first thing, sir. They’re going over every scrap with a nit comb.’
A small shrug. ‘He says he has to talk to someone else later.’
That happened. One person sent you to another. A chain. Sometimes it paid off. More often, it petered out to nothing. But it all took patience and persistence.
Out to Morley for a meeting that stretched on and on, and finally back into town, past the Jewish cemetery on Gelderd Road and through all the aching, dismal poverty that was Beeston and Holbeck, over the river to the centre of the city and the town hall. Miss Sharp had left for the day. He checked through the papers on his desk. They could all wait for tomorrow.
He was about to close the door when the telephone rang.
‘Galt’s tip came through,’ Ash told him. ‘We have a name on the arson.’
‘The arson? Who is it?’
‘A lad called Billy Bell. No record as an adult, but he was up for setting fires when he was a boy.’
Harper felt his heartbeat quicken. ‘How old is he now?’
‘Seventeen, sir.’
‘Does he have any connections with anyone?’
‘With Thorpe, you mean, sir? Nothing that we know of at the moment.’
‘Have you brought him in?’
‘Just arranging it. He’s in Burmantofts. Haymount View, close by the brick works. I telephoned to ask if you want to join us, since you have a personal interest.’
‘I’ll meet you up there.’
He heard the pleasure in Ash’s voice. ‘Give us a quarter of an hour, sir.’
This was better than having to think and brood. Something to send a jolt through his system.
‘Rogers, you and I will take the front door,’ Ash said. ‘Walsh and Galt at the back.’
‘Where do you want me?’ Harper asked.
‘Come in behind us at the front. Billy lives with his father. Stephen Bell.’ He glanced at Harper. ‘I’m sure you remember him, sir.’
‘All too well.’ It explained why the superintendent wanted the whole squad here. Ten years before, Stephen Bell had knocked out two constables with his fists before another four managed to bring him down and arrest him. Not just violent, but strong.
‘Two minutes to get yourselves in position,’ Ash continued. ‘Be ready as soon as I blow the whistle. I’ll knock on the door first. If they don’t answer, we’ll hammer it down.’
Brass Lives Page 21