Brass Lives

by Chris Nickson

  One or two people were out and about, going to and from the corner shop or the public house. Down at the far end of the road, women sat out by their doorsteps while children played in groups on the cobbles. Two or three men had gathered together to talk and smoke near the gable end of the terrace row. The rest of the street was quiet. Together, Ash and Rogers filled the pavement; trailing behind them, he felt small.

  A pause outside number eleven. Rogers brought his fist down on the door. No answer at first, then a sudden scurry of feet across the floor.

  ‘Kick it down.’

  The big boot pushed the lock back, then sent the door crashing against the wall. Ash was through, Rogers hard on his heels, running into the kitchen.

  Harper moved slowly up the stairs. Two bedrooms, both of them empty, just a tangle of sheets on the bed. He checked the wardrobes. Nobody was hiding up here. Nothing that could be used to start a fire.

  Bell and his father were standing in the tiny yard, both of them with wrists cuffed behind their backs. Sissons was bent over, retching and holding his stomach. Rogers had the warm flush of a good scrap on his face.

  Harper stood back and looked at the prisoners. He remembered the father, a brute of a man with hair shaved down to stubble and thick, quick fists. The son was nearly as tall, but he hadn’t filled out yet. He stared straight ahead, not gazing at anyone.

  ‘Take them down to Millgarth,’ Ash ordered.

  It didn’t take long to search the rest of the house. No small can of petrol, no pile of rags that could be used to start a blaze. He prised open the door of the small outhouse at the back of the yard.

  Old tins with paint dried around the rims. Stiff, stained pieces of canvas. Then, hidden away under some ratty blankets, another can. It was rectangular, the red paint flaking away from the metal, with a short neck and a cap that screwed on tight. Harper picked it up. Half-full. He opened it up and sniffed. Petrol. Billy Bell was going to have some questions to answer.

  He was sitting in the interview room, a sullen frown on his face, when Harper walked in with the petrol can.

  ‘You didn’t do a very good job of hiding it.’ The young man glanced at it then turned away. ‘Looks like you used just about enough to start a fire. Maybe the one on Albion Place. We know you like to get a good blaze going, Billy.’

  Just a slow shake of his head in response.

  Harper didn’t have the patience for this. Not when it involved Mary. Certainly not with life the way it stood just now. Better to leave Billy for Walsh. He’d be able to tie the lad in knots and ease the truth out of him. By morning they’d know, though he was already convinced. Young Billy practically shone with guilt.

  The real question was why he’d done it. He hadn’t picked the building at random; there were plenty of easier targets in the middle of town. Someone had put him up to it. Who? And why?

  ‘What have you charged the father with?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Assaulting a policeman,’ Ash replied. ‘The magistrate for him tomorrow.’

  Six months. It was the standard sentence for the crime.

  ‘Tell young Billy we might make it a lesser charge for his da if he cooperates with us.’

  Ash raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Do you think it’s necessary, sir? He’ll spill it all, anyway.’

  ‘If Walsh has any problems, he can make the offer.’

  ‘Very good, sir. I’m sure we’ll have something for you by morning.’

  ‘You will, I’m certain. That’s good work by Galt. And thank you for inviting me.’ He smiled. ‘I enjoyed that. Clean and easy.’

  ‘It was, although Sissons might disagree.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Almost ten o’clock. A velvet darkness all around him as he took the familiar walk home. The brief moments of action had been a welcome release, taking everything else off his mind. But now they were over and reality was seeping back in.

  He kicked a pebble down the pavement time after time until it vanished in the gutter. Counted the flagstones. Anything to occupy his brain and keep the thoughts away. It worked until he reached Manor Street and saw Annabelle’s Rex Touring Car parked there.

  What was going to happen to her?

  ‘Me mam went to bed a quarter of an hour ago,’ Mary said as soon as he came through the door. She was at the table, making calculations and writing figures in a ledger. ‘She said she was feeling tired.’

  ‘How was she?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Keeping herself busy,’ she answered after a moment. ‘One thing after another.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. No surprise; that was Annabelle’s way. ‘No more incidents?’

  ‘Nothing at all. She was fine.’

  ‘I’m sure she is. We found the lad who set the fire.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Who was he? Did he say why?’

  ‘Just seventeen. We haven’t dug up the reason yet. We will.’ He sighed. ‘Goodnight. Don’t stay up too late.’

  As he eased under the sheet he heard a single soft snore and a warm exhalation. She really was asleep.

  ‘Town hall, sir?’ his driver asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he began, then changed his mind. ‘No, let’s start at Millgarth. I shouldn’t be too long.’

  With luck, he’d have some good news to take to the chief constable.

  ‘It only took half an hour before he admitted he’d done it,’ Walsh said.

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘He claims he liked the look of the building and there was no one around. That’s all.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘No, sir. But I haven’t managed to break him down on that yet. I’ll take another crack at him this morning.’

  ‘Did you try the offer of a lesser charge for his father?’

  Walsh nodded. ‘He claims there’s nothing more to tell.’

  ‘Too late now, anyway. The old man will be up before the beak. Let me know what happens.’

  Fess murder

  Arson

  Metropole shooting

  Barracks robbery

  Francis Mullen

  Barney Thorpe

  Missing pistol

  Davey Mullen

  Bert Jones

  ‘One by one you’re ticking them off,’ Parker said with approval.

  ‘Still not enough, sir. We don’t know who beat Davey Mullen. And there’s a stolen Webley floating around out there.’

  ‘We solved the murders. Those were the big things. We have the newspapers off our backs.’

  ‘Maybe we do, sir, but I believe there’s much more going on below the surface. We just haven’t found it yet.’

  The chief constable chuckled. ‘You always did like a good conspiracy, Tom. Look, you’ve got some results. Be happy with that.’

  He didn’t have them all. That was what he’d been trying to say. No matter; he’d keep the men at Millgarth digging. Luck and solid police work had brought them this far. It might still give them the lot.

  Just after half past ten a rain shower passed through Leeds. For ten minutes the heavens opened and water bounced off the pavement. He stood by the open window, relishing the damp and the freshness in the air. People passed with their umbrellas raised, but no one was huddling out of the way; they all seemed to enjoy it. After it had gone, for a few minutes the air felt cool and clean. Soon enough, though, summer returned.

  He signed another form, blotted the ink and reached for the telephone as soon as it rang.

  ‘Deputy Chief Constable Harper.’

  ‘This is Inspector Cartwright, sir.’

  Cartwright? Who? There was no Inspector Cartwright in Leeds. He waited, pressing the receiver against his ear.

  ‘Special Branch, sir.’

  Now he knew the man. He’d looked a complete fool when he allowed that suffragette Lilian Lenton to escape from right under his nose after she was released from Armley. He smiled at the memory.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’

  ‘We’ve had a report that Miss L
enton is back in England, sir. I was wondering if anyone had mentioned seeing her in Leeds at all.’

  ‘No,’ Harper said. ‘I’ve heard nothing. But I’ll contact you if there’s any word.’

  A report? More likely a vague, hopeful rumour, and now they were desperately rooting around to see if there was any truth in it. He shook his head. They didn’t have a bloody clue.

  ‘Has Billy’s Bell rung any more?’

  Ash grimaced. ‘I hope you didn’t spend all your dinner time thinking up that one, sir.’

  ‘Spur of the moment.’

  ‘I trust you’ll resist next time, sir. He did give us something. The name of the man who paid him to set the fire.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Barney Thorpe.’

  For a moment it made no sense. But then things clicked into place. Thorpe had arranged Fess’s murder and the Metropole shooting. This was part of the plan to point a finger at Davey Mullen.

  ‘Why? Did he say?’

  ‘Bell doesn’t know. Walsh kept prodding at him, but it sounds as if he’s telling the truth. He was given the address and that was it.’

  ‘That exact address? Where my daughter has her business?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How much money did Thorpe give him?’

  ‘A pound.’

  Harper let out a slow sigh. ‘Was there any previous connection between Bell and Thorpe?’

  ‘Billy’s father had done a little strong-arm work for Barney. Years ago now. That’s all we’ve been able to find.’

  ‘See if Thorpe had a grievance against anyone in the building.’

  ‘We’re checking, sir. But I think we both know the truth.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t see why. Thorpe wasn’t the brains in all this. He was just another cog. He’s certainly not the one behind it. Someone else is involved and we don’t know who.’

  ‘We’re still searching.’

  And Thorpe was no longer around to tell them.

  ‘At least you can tell your Mary there’s no chance of it happening again,’ Ash said.

  That was something. She’d said nothing about it lately, but they’d all had bigger things to occupy them. Still, the worry would have remained, burrowing deeper and deeper under her skin. He could take that away.

  ‘Who’d want Mullen hanged or in jail here?’ Harper asked.

  ‘That other gang in New York is the obvious answer. The Hudson Dusters, or whatever they’re called.’

  ‘But we haven’t come up with a link between them and Thorpe. Not with Thorpe and anyone on this.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking, sir,’ Ash said. ‘We had those mysterious sightings of a third American.’

  ‘We established that he didn’t exist.’

  ‘What if he did, sir? What if there really was another one, watching Mullen and directing Fess?’

  Harper sat back on the chair, rubbing his chin and chuckling. ‘You know, just this morning the chief said I was the one who liked conspiracies.’

  ‘It would be an explanation,’ Ash said.

  ‘Then find him. Bring him here.’

  Ash grinned. ‘You always point out the snags, don’t you, sir? The men are still going through Thorpe’s papers. Maybe they’ll come up with something.’

  ‘We’re going to finish this. Keep them on it. We’re getting closer. I can feel it.’

  ‘From your lips to God’s ears, sir. We’ve had a request from the mortuary too, about the body of Mullen’s father. They can’t keep him much longer. They want to know what they should do with him.’

  There was only one man who could make that decision, and he was in the infirmary. This gave the ideal opportunity to talk to him once more. And one way or another, this time he’d need to answer.

  The matron listened, hands perched primly in her lap.

  ‘You’ve become something of a thorn in my side regarding Mr Mullen,’ she said once he’d finished. ‘However, in this case I think I can allow you to speak to him.’ She flashed him a dark look. ‘Under supervision, and only to talk about plans for his father’s funeral. I’ll send a nurse with you.’

  The woman had a face like a hawk and a brusque manner. The constable on duty outside barely had time to stand and salute as she briskly pushed the door open. Mullen was trying to turn a page in the newspaper, using the cast like an awkward paw. He stopped as he saw Harper.

  It didn’t take long to explain the problem. Every second he was aware of the nurse’s eyes on him.

  ‘As I recall, you were looking at cemeteries to decide on somewhere to bury your father. Did you find one?’

  His eyes were dark, giving nothing away. A short nod as an answer.

  ‘Where was it?’

  Mullen lifted his arms to point at his jaw. Unable to speak.

  ‘Beckett Street?’ No reply. ‘Harehills?’

  Another nod. Now they were getting somewhere.

  ‘Did you purchase a plot?’

  A third.

  ‘Would you be willing to let the burial go ahead while you’re still a patient in here?’

  Mullen stared straight ahead for a long time, then opened his mouth. What came out was a thin croak, nothing like his proper voice, but still no doubt about the word.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll take care of it,’ Harper promised. ‘And he’ll be there for you to visit once you’re out of here.’

  Two words this time. Unsteady but he could make them out. Thank you. It was worth trying one more question.

  ‘Who did this to you?’

  ‘That’s quite enough, Deputy Chief Constable,’ the nurse warned him. ‘You know what the matron said.’

  Mullen looked up with a faint, mocking smile.

  TWENTY-NINE

  ‘The Branch really rang you?’ the chief constable said. ‘To ask if we’d heard anything about this Lenton woman sneaking back into the country? You’re kidding, aren’t you, Tom?’

  ‘I wish I was, sir.’

  Incredulous, Parker shook his head. ‘They’ve got some brass neck, I’ll say that.’

  ‘I told him we’d inform them if we learned anything.’

  ‘They’ve probably been in touch with every force in the country. Anything to try and make themselves look better.’ He waved it away. ‘Enough of that. I see your arsonist confessed.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He claims Thorpe paid him to set fire to the place.’

  ‘Really?’ Parker frowned. ‘Why would Thorpe do that?’

  ‘We’re trying to find a reason.’ Harper frowned. ‘It seems funny that I used to think Davey Mullen was where all the strands came together. All along it was Barney Thorpe.’

  ‘Why, though?’

  ‘That I don’t know yet. Mullen worked it out long before we did. It’s why he killed Barney.’

  ‘You think he killed him.’

  ‘I’m positive he did, sir. I just can’t prove it, that’s all.’

  ‘Do you think you’re close?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Harper replied. ‘I really hope so.’

  Just the two of them at home tonight; Mary was out at the pictures with Len. The windows were open and the sounds of Sheepscar drifted in.

  ‘Nothing more?’ he asked as they ate.

  ‘Not a wobble.’ Annabelle stared at him. ‘I’m starting to wonder if I made too much of it.’

  ‘In a way, I hope you did.’ He smiled but she didn’t return it.

  ‘I’m scared, Tom,’ she told him in a small voice. ‘I’m terrified.’

  ‘I know,’ he told her and took her hand. It didn’t seem enough. But what else could he say? What must it be like, not knowing that something might be missing from your memory when you woke up in the morning? How could he begin to imagine that? It was a life sentence, but never knowing what punishment each day would bring. Of course she was petrified. Anyone would be.

  ‘We’ll get through it,’ he promised. ‘You and me. Together.’

  The telephone bell was hammering away as he walk
ed into his office. Not even eight o’clock; Miss Sharp wouldn’t be here for another half hour. He snatched up the receiver.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Sissons’s voice. He sounded weary, as if he’d been working all night. ‘Would you have a minute to see Superintendent Ash and myself?’

  ‘You’ve found something, haven’t you?’

  ‘It’s something I need to show you, sir.’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  Harper paced as he waited. Sissons was as steady and reliable as a detective sergeant should be. He’d never been given to flights of fancy. Whatever he’d found was solid. Real.

  It took more than quarter of an hour for them to arrive. Sissons was unshaved, the bags heavy under his eyes, and the lines around his mouth formed into deep creases as he smiled. But he looked happy as he opened his briefcase and brought out a small pile of folders.

  ‘Do you have something tasty?’

  ‘I think so, sir. Wait and see for yourself.’

  Harper glanced at Ash. The big man gave a nod. He was convinced.

  ‘I was going through Thorpe’s business correspondence, sir, and I came across this.’ He took out a single sheet of paper. ‘This is something he received. It talks about providing goods to pay back some money Thorpe had lent.’

  ‘Any specific services?’

  ‘No, sir, and I couldn’t find anything more that related to it. But there was something about it that seemed familiar. It kept worrying away at me. I was at home; I’d just had my supper when I realized what it was.’ He raised his head and beamed.

  ‘Are you going to tell us or keep it to yourself?’

  ‘Here, sir.’ He produced another piece of paper. ‘You recall I was looking at the Boys buying those houses? This was in there. Do you see? The handwriting’s the same. And there’s something about the colour of the ink. It’s an unusual shade of blue.’

  Harper put on his spectacles and compared the two. No doubt – the same person had written both. The second had a signature: John Dempster. The head of the gang.

  ‘That’s good work. You’ve connected Thorpe and the Boys of Erin. But as far as I can see, there’s nothing illegal in here.’

  ‘No, sir. You’re right. But once I’d established they were doing business, I went deeper into Thorpe’s accounts.’ He reached into the briefcase again, brought out a ledger and leafed through to a bookmarked page. ‘Here.’