Brass Lives

by Chris Nickson

  Rogers had two men standing in the kitchen. The floor was a chaos of pots and pans.

  ‘They weren’t too keen on me searching, sir. I don’t know why. It’s not as if we found anything.’

  ‘We have the gun. But it turns out these two have been very handy with their fists. They gave Davey Mullen his pasting. Put the cuffs on them and take them to the wagon.’

  One of them tried to run. He hadn’t gone two steps before Rogers kicked him on the knee. As he cried out in pain, a constable threw him down to the ground, turned him over and locked on the handcuffs in quick, practised movements.

  ‘Right, are we ready? Draw your truncheons, we’re likely to have a battle royal.’

  ‘Just one moment, sir,’ Rogers said. He disappeared and Harper heard feet running up the stairs.

  ‘They’re not watching the back,’ he said as he returned. ‘We can slip out that way.’

  It bought them a few yards, nothing more. Through the yard, down the ginnel and into the street. But as soon as they turned the corner, the crowd spotted them. Shouting and baying for blood.

  Harper hurried them along the cobbles, glancing over his shoulder. They didn’t have a hope of escape. He took out his police whistle and gave two short blasts, then turned. One of the constables stood beside him.

  ‘Let’s show them they don’t have free run of the streets, eh, sir?’

  They couldn’t win; it was two against twenty or more. But they could slow up the mob a little. Enough for the others to rush the prisoners to the wagons.

  A fist banged him on the side of the head, hard enough to rattle his teeth. He brought the cosh down and hit something, feeling a bone crack as a man cried out in pain. One of them out of the game. But another was right there, a fist like iron thumping him in the chest to send him spinning backwards.

  They were on him like a pack of animals, ready to tear him apart. Harper curled himself into a ball, one hand protecting his skull. Make yourself small, that was what he’d been told when he began on the beat. There’s less they can damage that way.

  It still hurt like hell. A torrent of blows, kicks from boots with steel caps. Nothing he could do to defend himself. He just needed to survive this …

  Then it stopped. Suddenly, swiftly. For a second he was too frightened to move; it might begin again. A broad hand reached down and grabbed his wrist.

  ‘You’re all right now, sir. They’ve gone.’

  Ash pulled him to his feet. Harper’s left arm hurt, his ears were ringing, but he could stand. When he put one foot in front of another, he could walk. He could see clearly, nothing blurred in his vision. Everything seemed fine inside.

  He took a breath. ‘Thank you.’

  Ash grinned. ‘I think the lads enjoyed wading in. We kept a few of the big ones for the magistrate and threw the minnows back.’

  Harper looked down. Dust and dirt all over his suit. It was ripped in two or three places. Five years old and only fit for the bin.

  ‘We’ve got the gun,’ he said. ‘And the men who beat Mullen.’ Harper shook his head. ‘Almost everything solved.’

  ‘Sir!’ someone shouted. His eyes moved around, searching for the sound.

  ‘It came from over by the wagons, I think, sir,’ Ash said. He began to sprint.

  As soon as he tried to run, Harper felt a searing pain in his ribs. He pressed a hand to his side, pushing down on the bone; a little better.

  But only until he turned the corner on to York Road. One wagon was standing there. Two constables lay on the ground by the wheel, three others bent over them.

  ‘They’re starting to come round,’ Ash said. ‘Looks like they’ll be fine. Sore heads, that’s all.’

  ‘Where’s the other wagon?’

  ‘On its way to Millgarth with most of the prisoners.’

  Thank God for that. Then fear rose up from his belly and he tasted bile at the back of his throat.

  ‘Most?’

  ‘Dempster was in this one, sir. As soon as I brought men to help you, another group must have attacked here. They freed him.’

  He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, willing away the stabbing pain. Dempster could be anywhere up here. Too many people would be willing to hide him. Or too frightened to refuse.

  ‘Put the injured men in the wagon and take them to the infirmary,’ he ordered. ‘How many do we still have up here?’

  ‘Probably ten, sir.’

  ‘Then let’s start searching.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  He shook his head. ‘You weren’t to know they’d go this far. Nobody could. It’s happened. Send someone down to Millgarth. I want this area flooded with coppers. Start a house-to-house. I want any more information we can gather.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ash answered. ‘Do you want to rest? We’ll have men here in a quarter of an hour.’

  He shook his head. ‘Let’s crack on. Dempster has a head start. He won’t go far, though. The bastard thinks he’s king of the Bank.’

  He kept one hand pressed against his side. It eased the pain as he took a breath. A broken rib, he guessed. Quite likely a few. He’d had it before; he knew he’d heal. He’d got off lightly, really. But the attack on him had only been a diversion so the gang could free Dempster. Who was hiding close by, laughing at the police. He might even be in one of these houses, watching them right this minute.

  The streets were dusty. Even on a day of rest, the air was heavy with the smell of the mills and the ironworks. Half an hour and he was sweating in the heat as he walked, a constable beside him, ready and wanting revenge. Moving, looking … searching.

  He’d seen a pair of police patrols going along the roads, checking every address.

  The church bells started to ring, calling people to early mass and they came out of their houses, couples and families in their Sunday best, trooping along to church. As they passed, they gave him sidelong, wary glances. No surprise. With his torn, dirty clothes, people must have taken him for a tramp.

  His ribs burned. Pain sliced through him every time he breathed. Nothing to be done about that for now.

  ‘Keep your eyes open,’ he told the bobby. ‘With all these people around, Dempster might try to slip away.’

  A young constable dashed up the street, one hand hanging on to his helmet. ‘Message from Superintendent Ash, sir. Someone spotted Dempster on Berking Terrace. He’s sending some of the men over there.’

  Two minutes’ walk away.

  ‘Very good. Tell him I’ll take command there.’

  By the time he arrived, four officers were already busy, knocking and asking their questions. Mostly they got short shrift, doors closed or slammed in their faces. But one man seemed happy to talk, pointing towards Harper.

  ‘He wants you, sir. Says he knows you.’

  Up here? That didn’t seem likely. At first Harper didn’t recognize the face; just another old, weary man. It was only when he came closer that it clicked. Peter Richmond. Someone he hadn’t seen for years, not since his time on the beat. Richmond had lived in Fidelity Court. He must have moved up here when his old home was torn down to build County Arcade. Back then, everyone knew him as the Doctor. He’d gathered a little knowledge from somewhere, and he’d mix up potions for people when they were ill. Never charged them a penny. He worked as a signalman at Marsh Lane railway station; still did, to judge by his uniform.

  ‘Mr Richmond. I’m sorry, I don’t have time to reminisce.’

  The man smiled. His teeth were brown from a lifetime of smoking. ‘I know that, lad. You’re after Johnny Dempster. The whole neighbourhood knows. Looks like you took a hammering trying to get him, too.’

  ‘I did.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the constable. The man was itching to move on, to keep hunting.

  ‘You going to need to strap up that rib,’ Richmond said.

  ‘Later.’

  ‘I saw him go by. Him and two other big lads. Slipping in and out of the church crowds.’

  ‘Which way?’r />
  ‘Over towards Chantrell Place. I’ve seen him go over that way before. I think there’s a place they use.’

  ‘Which place? Do you know?’ Harper asked. His palms were slick with sweat and his head throbbed as the pain from the kicking began to take hold.

  ‘I can’t say for certain. But there’s one that’s been empty for years. You can’t miss it, it’s a strange shape.’

  ‘Why are you telling me?’ Harper asked. It never hurt to be suspicious. On the Bank, most people didn’t volunteer information.

  ‘I had a dog. Dempster killed it because it ran towards him once. I told him it didn’t bite, it just wanted to be friendly. Killed it and walked away like it was nothing. He deserves everything he gets.’

  A hatred that had grown and grown in the man’s mind. And now he could have his revenge.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The building on Chantrell Place stood out. Definitely a strange shape. It wasn’t rectangular; one of the corners stood at an angle, as if it had been shaved away for some reason. Three of the windows were cracked, the glass covered with a fine, unbroken layer of cobwebs.

  ‘Go and find the superintendent,’ he said to the constable standing beside him. ‘Tell him to bring everyone here.’

  ‘Is Dempster in there, sir?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He didn’t take his eyes off the building. He knew the man was here. He could smell him, taste him. Dempster was close. ‘Hurry, I want them all up here as soon as they can.’

  He stood, gripping the truncheon tight and pressing his hand against the broken rib. All the churchgoers had disappeared; the priest’s voice drifted up the hill.

  Just him. If any of the Boys of Erin were watching, they had an easy target right in front of their faces.

  Harper looked around. A few old men. A couple strolling arm in arm. He could feel his heart beating so hard it might burst through his chest.

  Waiting. Bloody waiting. Sometimes he felt as if he spent half his life standing around and waiting for something to happen. But Dempster was in there, and this time Harper would make sure that no one came to free him.

  A low creak, and the door of the building swung wide.

  Harper glanced over his shoulder. No sign of any more coppers yet. He tightened his grip on the truncheon.

  Dempster came out from the shadows, two men on his heels. They were both big, built like brick walls. Brothers, by the look of them, with red hair and hard eyes. All three carried clubs and the light glistened and shone on the knife in Dempster’s right hand.

  ‘Put it down,’ Harper said. The strength of his voice surprised him. ‘You don’t want the trouble that’s going to bring. You put it on the ground now and I’ve never seen it.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Dempster took a pace forward. For half a second, Harper believed he was going to give up. Then he turned like an eel and started to run. The two men with him moved, trying to block the path.

  Harper was faster. He kept his eyes on Dempster. He wasn’t going to get away again. As one of the red-headed guards tried to reach for him, Harper crashed the truncheon down on the man’s hip, hearing him shriek in pain as he fell.

  He was running. Panting, grimacing from the broken rib, trying to squeeze it down so it didn’t stab him. His whole body ached from the kicking, but Dempster was in sight. The man kept looking back over his shoulder. You never did that. It was too easy to stumble if you didn’t watch where you were going.

  Harper pushed himself harder. It all came down to this. Him and Dempster. He wasn’t gaining ground, but he wasn’t falling behind. How long could he last? Every part of his body was screaming. A bit further. A bit more. Dempster would make a mistake. He’d fall, do something stupid.

  All Harper had to do was keep going.

  Dempster was young. He had energy. But he wasn’t a runner. The only spur he had was fear.

  There were a few people on the street now, men and women who stopped to stare, a couple of boys who started to give chase until voices called them back. Dempster still had the knife in his hand.

  The gap was starting to widen. Harper couldn’t keep pace; the pain from the rib shot through him every time his foot landed on the pavement. But his quarry was still in sight.

  The dog lunged from the ginnel, straining against the lead as an old man tried to control it. Suddenly it was growling and snarling around Dempster, snapping at his ankles, even as the owner shouted out commands and attempted to drag it back to heel. Dempster swerved, bringing his knife hilt down on the animal’s skull. It yelped and scuttled backwards. Less than a second, but enough to slow him down and throw him off his stride. His steps were suddenly ragged and uneven.

  Harper was closer now. Every breath was painful. His lungs were on fire. But he could catch the man, he was sure of it. Belief was enough to make him draw in air and keep going. He blinked away the sweat. Dempster was beginning to panic. Each of his steps seemed a fraction shorter than the one before.

  Push a little harder. A yard nearer. He forced his feet down, face set, breathing hard through his mouth. Almost time to bring him down.

  Two more paces. One. He launched himself at Dempster, arms outstretched. This was it. Do or die. Either he’d bring him tumbling down to the pavement or he’d miss and the man would get away.

  His shoulder hit the back of Dempster’s thighs and he wrapped his arms tight around his legs.

  The man fell, all the breath knocked out of him. He couldn’t move. Harper batted the knife from his hands and locked handcuffs around his wrists.

  He sat, pressing down hard on his broken ribs, gasping for air, too exhausted to even say a word. Every part of his body ached to scream. Dempster was moaning softly, his face still red.

  A good three minutes passed before Harper felt strong enough to climb to his feet. His knees hurt, his chest burned, and his head still throbbed from the pounding he’d taken.

  ‘Get up,’ he said, reaching down and grabbing Dempster by the collar. The man tried to surprise him, springing up, head lowered, ready to charge. But after so many years Harper knew all the tricks; he’d fallen for half of them when he was still green. Now he had Johnny Dempster under arrest, he wasn’t about to give him the opportunity to escape again. He flicked the truncheon down. It caught Dempster on the back of the skull and sent him sprawling back to the ground.

  ‘Don’t play silly beggars.’ He was tired, he wanted a bandage tight around his chest. He was sick of this whole bloody thing. ‘Now get up.’

  Harper put the knife in his jacket, drew out his police whistle, took a breath and blew hard. Now all he had to do was wait.

  The first constable took less than a minute. He looked at Harper, then at Dempster and muttered, ‘Bloody hell’ under his breath. Then he let out two long, shrieking blasts on his own whistle. Five minutes and they were all there: Ash, Rogers, Walsh, Sissons, Galt, and a small troop of uniforms. They all looked the worse for wear, battered, bloody. A couple of them would have glowing shiners in the morning. But they all wore that same smile. Victory. They’d come through it, they’d won.

  It was probably plastered across his face, too, Harper thought. Why not? They deserved it. They’d had to battle for this. He watched as the coppers marched Dempster away down York Road. Enough of them to stop any more rescue attempts, and all of them primed to fight.

  ‘That building on Chantrell Place,’ he said. He had to keep stopping to catch his breath. ‘I want it searched. The gang probably had things in there. Papers, all sorts.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Ash said. ‘How did you manage to find it?’

  ‘Someone told me. A man I knew back when I was on the beat. Dempster killed his dog, so he wasn’t about to do him any favours. It’s ironic,’ he added after a second, ‘it was a dog that slowed him enough for me to catch up.’

  ‘Not always a man’s best friend.’

  ‘Certainly not Dempster’s.’

  The church bell tolled eight as they strolled back towards Millgart
h. He felt as if he’d already lived an entire day since he slipped out of bed. No, much more than that. A week.

  At the station he drank a cup of tea and telephoned the chief constable at home to report on the raid.

  ‘That’s excellent news, Tom. You got the gun and you got the men who put Mullen in hospital. That’s a fine morning’s work. Give them my congratulations.’

  ‘I will, sir. Two of ours are in the infirmary. They were guarding Dempster in the wagon when they were attacked. Keeping them in for observation overnight, but they’re all right.’

  ‘If you find whoever did that, let’s throw the book at them. Meanwhile, the ones you brought in can stew in the cells. Tell the men to go home. They’ve earned a rest.’

  ‘I will, sir. Thank you.’

  He waited until they’d all gone, then asked the duty sergeant to telephone for his car. A soft ride over to the hospital. He was too weary to walk.

  Harper sat, placid, as the doctor wound a bandage round and round his chest, strapping him in. The tightness was comforting; it took away most of the pain and he could breathe easily again.

  ‘You were in the wars. How’s your eyesight? Any blurriness?’

  ‘No,’ he replied.

  ‘Head aching?’

  He hesitated before he replied. ‘A little.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Someone used your skull like a football. It must be thick, there doesn’t seem to be much damage. Take some aspirin powder. If the headaches persist, if you still have them tomorrow, come back here. You might have a concussion.’

  And then to Mullen’s room. No talking to the matron first, no permission this time. He was beyond caring what she’d allow.

  Mullen looked up, surprised to see him, eyes widening a fraction at his ragged appearance.

  ‘We’ve arrested the men who put you in here.’

  Maybe it was childish, but he wanted to give him the news. To show him that Leeds Police could do their job. To gloat a little.

  ‘It means you won’t have any chance for revenge once you’re discharged, of course,’ Harper continued. ‘They’ll be in jail by then. Still, you’ll make a fine witness, looking like that with the wires round your jaw. You won’t have to say a word.’