The Year of the Gun Read online

  ‘He had a ring. Not a wedding ring, it had a square piece with some initials on it.’

  ‘A signet ring?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. On the little finger of his right hand.’

  ‘What were the initials, could you see?’ Lottie held her breath.

  ‘It was old, all worn, and the light in the dancehall wasn’t good.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She put a hand over Caitlin’s and squeezed it very gently. ‘You’ve done well, thank you.’ And they had something. A good description.

  ‘IOUGHT to get rid of half of the men in CID and just use you instead,’ McMillan said when she gave him all the details. ‘So it’s not Cruickshank.’

  ‘That’s how it looks. She was definite when I showed her the photograph.’ Lottie started the engine. ‘Where now?’

  ‘Millgarth. I want that description circulated as soon as possible. Maybe someone will know him. Hell’s bells.’ He slammed a hand down on the armrest. ‘We’re right back where we began.’

  At the station she typed everything on to Banda sheets and passed it over to be duplicated for the beat bobbies. She could hear McMillan on the telephone. He came out of his office shaking his head.

  ‘I’ve been on the blower to Sid Cohen, the furrier. Thought he might know the man. No such luck.’

  Before he could say more, DC Smith came dashing from the detectives’ office, a piece of paper in his hand.

  ‘This bloke, sir,’ he began, ‘I think I know who he is.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘If it’s the same one, his name’s George Hilliard. I had him for nicking lead back when I was in uniform. Sounds about the same, and he had a ring like that.’

  ‘There’s plenty of distance between stealing and murder.’ McMillan glanced at Lottie. ‘Can you get his sheet? Let’s take a look.’

  A couple of minutes in Records and she was walking back with the file, scanning the page. Aged thirty-two, there was a resemblance to the man Caitlin Johnson had described. He’d been arrested a few times for theft, possession of stolen property, once for assault. Jail each time. But nothing since 1940. On the way back to McMillan’s office she checked the deserters’ register. Yes, the name was there: Hilliard, George J. Came home on leave in the middle of 1943 and never reported back to camp.

  ‘He’s been AWOL for eight months,’ Lottie announced as she handed over the file.

  McMillan took a glance. ‘Look up every address we have on him,’ he told Smith. ‘I want each one of them searched top to bottom.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Lottie could sense the electricity crackling through the air. He took the photograph from under the paperclip and handed it to her. ‘Go back and see Miss Johnson. I want her to take a look at that.’

  She nodded and left. It was strange to be driving without his bulk in the back seat. Emptier, somehow. The skies had cleared; now it was just another frigid day. Roundhay Road was blocked by a broken-down lorry. She ended up taking the back streets, guided by memory and good luck until she found Luxor Drive.

  Caitlin Johnson’s mother let her in. ‘The doctor’s been. He gave her something, she’s settled down in her bed.’

  ‘It’s quite important,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ll only be a moment.’

  ‘Go on, then.’ She inclined her head to the stairs. ‘Just be quick. Rest would be a blessing for her.’

  The girl wasn’t quite asleep, but on the edge of it. Her eyes opened at the sound of footsteps.

  ‘Me again, I’m afraid.’ Lottie sat on the edge of the bed. A threadbare cotton sheet, a pair of rough blankets, eiderdown, candlewick; there’d be ample warmth in there. ‘I need you to look at something for me.’ She held out the picture.

  Johnson began to scramble under the covers.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Lottie kept her voice low and soothing. ‘It’s fine. Is this him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We have policemen out looking for him. Don’t you worry, we’ll find him. He won’t bother you again, I promise. You’re safe now.’ She stayed, talking until Caitlin was calm again, settled and dozing.

  ‘Did you get what you needed?’ Mrs Johnson asked as she was leaving.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I did.’

  ‘No doubts at all?’

  ‘None. Poor lamb was scared out of her wits.’ The line crackled a little. Lottie stood in the telephone box, watching traffic pass on Roundhay Road.

  ‘At least we know who we want now.’

  ‘Cruickshank was telling the truth.’

  ‘I know.’ She heard him cough. ‘There’s still so much about this that I can’t work out.’

  ‘Maybe it’ll all make sense after we arrest Hilliard.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said bleakly.

  She found a small café, almost every chair filled. The air was warm and the meat and potato pie suspiciously full of meat. No wonder it was busy, she thought; she’d come back if they were always this generous.

  The owner, grey-haired and smiling, gave her a wink as she paid. ‘Your lot are always welcome here.’

  Millgarth seemed to be bustling. Men walked around with determined expressions. She could hear McMillan talking on the phone, an anxious edge to his voice. As she passed his open door he waved her in.

  ‘I’ll be out there in a few minutes,’ he said, and slammed the receiver down.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A pair of Specials were out checking places where Hilliard had lived.’ From the furious look in his eyes she could see what had happened.

  ‘They let him get away?’

  ‘Through the back bloody door and ran off. They couldn’t catch him. So now he knows we’re after him and he could be anywhere. Dammit. Come on, we’re going to take a look at the place. Smith’s already there, talking to the owner. Randall’s with him,’ he added ominously.

  Long ago, Wilf Randall had been a promising light heavyweight boxer. These days he was years past his prime, beyond conscription age, but still intimidating, even if he’d run to fat. And not shy with his fists, from all Lottie had heard.

  ‘Whereabouts?’ She took the car keys from her pocket.

  ‘Out along York Road. Gipton.’

  The estate had been built ten years before, a green, airy new beginning for people uprooted from the slums in the city centre. Semi-detached houses, gardens. He directed her around the streets.

  ‘There.’ He pointed to a house close to the end of the cul de sac. ‘Do you mind talking to the Specials and getting their story? If I have to hear how incompetent they were I might go through the roof.’

  She smiled. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ He held his thumb and finger half an inch apart. ‘We were this close.’

  The unpainted wooden front gate hung open. A privet hedge hid the front garden. A special constable stood by the front door, moving from foot to foot to try and keep warm. He saluted as McMillan strode past.

  ‘Were you one of the pair who came out here?’ Lottie asked. She tried to sound sympathetic. And she did feel sorry for the poor man.

  ‘Me and my oppo.’ He had the good grace to look embarrassed.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Off beating the bushes.’ He shrugged. ‘You never know.’ He turned his head to glance at the house. ‘I suppose we’re not in the super’s good books.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ she told him. ‘I’m WAPC Armstrong. I work with Mr McMillan.’

  ‘Wilson.’ He gave a small, sad smile. ‘Joined up after the army wouldn’t have me.’ He raised one leg to show a surgical boot. ‘Right leg’s shorter than the left.’ He was a young man, probably barely twenty-one, with an expression that looked eager to please.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened.’ He started to reach for his notebook, but she stopped him. ‘Off the record.’

  ‘Well,’ Wilson began, ‘we’d been to a couple of other places searching for this Hilliard bloke. No luck; you know how it is. Either they’d
never heard of him or they didn’t want to know. Knocked on the door here, fella answered it. The next thing I know, we heard the back door slam. Bert took off running. He’s my partner. But he’s asthmatic. Managed about a hundred yards. Got a glimpse and that was it. I sent him off to phone the station.’

  ‘You didn’t think one of you should’ve been watching the back door?’ Lottie asked.

  Smith hesitated for a moment, then admitted, ‘We didn’t reckon he’d be here. Not after them other two houses.’

  ‘If I were you I’d keep out of the chief superintendent’s way until the war’s over,’ she advised. What else could she say? Wilson already knew how stupid he’d been. She had no power to punish, and she wouldn’t have done it, anyway. Everyone made mistakes. There was no point in saying anything. When she’d been a WPC, all those years ago, her record hadn’t been spotless.

  With a nod to Wilson, Lottie entered the house, and followed the voices to the dining room. A fire burned low in the grate, most of its heat gone. One man sat on a straight-backed chair, wrists handcuffed behind him. Blood spattered his face and white shirt. Big old Wilf Randall stood close by, face flushed, rubbing his knuckles, a satisfied smile across his face.

  DC Smith had his jacket off, shirt sleeves neatly rolled up. He grabbed the man in the chair by his hair, pulling the head back sharply.

  ‘Where would he go? Do you need my mate to jog your memory again?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He sounded desperate, on the verge of tears. ‘I don’t bloody know.’

  She looked across at McMillan. He was watching everything, eyes narrowed, hands bunched in the pockets of his overcoat. A few more minutes with no answers and he left the room. Lottie followed.

  ‘They’ll manage to get something from him,’ he said. ‘Probably nothing very useful.’ He lit a Four Square and stared out at the back garden. ‘Must have gone over the fence.’

  ‘The man who tried to chase him has asthma.’

  ‘This close,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Has anyone searched here?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Top to bottom,’ he answered. ‘Nothing of his. No gun.’ He nodded towards the other room ‘The fellow in there insists our friend was only visiting. I’m inclined to believe him.’

  She saw the bare trees and thought about the bitter winter cold. ‘Does Hilliard have an overcoat?’

  ‘Still hanging up in the hall.’

  ‘Then he’ll be perishing soon enough.’

  ‘Easy enough to steal a coat,’ McMillan told her. ‘Come on, we’re not going to get anything else here.’

  As they passed Wilson, she gave him a wink. He deserved that, at least.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked McMillan.

  ‘Good question,’ he said as he settled on the back seat. ‘Back to Millgarth, I suppose. Since we don’t have Hilliard.’

  A message waited on her desk: the Humber was ready. A quick trip to the garage and the relief of being behind a familiar steering wheel.

  ‘Gave it a service while I had it here.’ The mechanic winked. ‘You won’t have any trouble with her for a while.’

  And it did feel sharper, more powerful. Much, much better than that Morris. There was real power under the bonnet.

  McMillan was waiting in the yard as she arrived, and climbed in as soon as she came to a stop.

  ‘Kirkstall Abbey,’ he ordered.

  ‘Not another body? Please say it’s not.’ She couldn’t bear the thought of that. Not now.

  ‘Someone thinks they saw Hilliard.’

  Thank God for the Humber, she thought. It had the speed and the acceleration she needed. She dodged in and out of traffic, ignoring the blare of horns as she passed between a lorry and a Corporation bus. She knew it was safe. Tight, maybe, but safe.

  She made record time, pulling in by the abbey behind two more cars. Immediately, McMillan was slamming the door and hurrying down the path. A uniformed inspector she didn’t recognise seemed to be in charge. Coppers and Specials were fanning out, going through the ruins and the undergrowth by the river.

  Lottie kept her distance. This was a time to fade into the background, simply to be there when she was needed. The earth was hard under her feet, and the wind whistled along the Aire valley as it came down off the Pennines.

  It was hard to believe people had chosen to live out here when this was a truly wild place. The monks who’d founded the abbey must have been hardy men. But they had faith, that was what drove them. Who had anything so powerful these days? All she believed was that they’d beat the Germans and the Japs one day. Soon, she hoped.

  But that would need another front, troops marching through France and Belgium to take Germany. Many of them would be Americans. Cliff Ellison would be among them. He’d leave and become nothing more than a memory, and perhaps a name on some letters. Much safer to keep her defences up. He was only here for a little while.

  She was suddenly aware that McMillan was calling her name, dragging her away from her thoughts.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I want you to liaise with the inspector here. He’s in charge of the search. I think Hilliard’s gone, if he was ever here, but we’ll keep looking. It’s the best we have for now. Worth a try.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She gave the uniformed officer a nod and the phone number at Millgarth. ‘Something made me wonder,’ she said as they walked back to the car. ‘He must have got here sharpish from Gipton It’s a fair distance and the buses aren’t that regular.’

  ‘I know,’ McMillan agreed. ‘I don’t really expect to find anything. But we’d have looked a right bunch of Charlies if he’d been here and we hadn’t checked. Just take the report when it comes in.’

  It was already dusk. The men would only be able to search for a few more minutes. They wouldn’t find anything. Hilliard was somewhere in Leeds, but not here. All they had to do was find him before he killed again.

  SHE saw the Jeep as soon as she turned the corner. He was sitting behind the steering wheel, huddled in his greatcoat and reading a book, looking up and smiling as she approached.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d take you by surprise. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Too late for that, she thought. He was already here. All the neighbours would have peered through the blackout curtains and seen him. Not the first time, either. Tongues would be wagging again in the morning.

  ‘You might as well come in.’

  She lit the fire, glad when the heat started to fill the room. It was already bitter out and the temperature would fall further tonight. In the kitchen she put the kettle on the gas then looked through the larder with a frown.

  ‘I can make a sandwich if you’re hungry, but the only bread is the National Loaf.’ Lottie made a face. ‘Good for you but it tastes disgusting.’

  ‘I think I’ll be fine with tea. I hadn’t heard from you. I hoped you’d forgiven me.’

  ‘It’s been busy. Let me make the tea and I’ll tell you.’ When she returned he was smoking, a packet of cigarettes balanced on the chair arm behind the glass ashtray. ‘We found del Vecchio.’

  ‘I heard.’ He grinned. ‘Came in ranting and raving about the Limeys going after him. Thundered round for thirty minutes yelling at anyone who came close, then took off again.’

  ‘Yes, he seemed a charming man,’ she said drily. ‘We had another woman attacked.’ She saw his eyes widen. ‘She got away unhurt, and we have an identification. Almost caught him, too.’

  ‘He escaped?’

  ‘Let’s just say the boss isn’t happy. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing too important. How did you identify this guy?’

  ‘Luck. And someone’s memory.’

  The conversation seemed to founder. The flow had vanished. Lottie felt as if she was sitting with a perfect stranger. Why, she wondered? Ellison was a pleasant enough chap. Maybe that was the problem. Lottie finished her tea.

  ‘Would you mind if we called it a night?’ she asked. ‘I came
home with a pounding headache.’

  ‘Of course.’ Before she knew it, he was only his feet, looking solicitous. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘It’s fine. A good sleep and it’ll pass.’

  ‘I’m sorry for just turning up.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘I’ll lie down for a while.’

  She felt relief go through her as she closed the front door behind him. She did have a headache, it wasn’t a lie; but it was only minor. Mostly she wanted to be on her own, not have to talk to anyone. It all felt like too much effort.

  McMillan was in a foul mood. He glared at her as she entered, then snapped his questions, demanding this and that. After an hour of it she marched back into his office and stood, hands on hips.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You,’ she told him. ‘It’s like being round a grumpy bear.’

  ‘We could have ended this yesterday if those Specials—’

  She cut him off. ‘Well, they didn’t, and that’s the end of it.’ Lottie moved over to the door, closing it quietly. ‘I wish they had, too. I dread going through the missing persons list every morning and hoping there’s no one on it.’

  He grunted.

  ‘I’ve known you a long time, John McMillan.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a hiss. No reason for the whole building to hear. ‘You’re acting like a child having a tantrum. We don’t have Hilliard. Taking it out on me and everyone else isn’t going to make him give up. We’re all trying to do the same thing.’ She stared at him until he finally turned his face away. She’d said her piece; with luck it had struck home. She opened the door again. ‘Anything else for now, sir?’ He shook his head slowly and she returned to her desk.

  Of course he was angry. They all were. But there was no excuse for having a short fuse around people who were trying to do their jobs. He was in charge, he needed to set an example. Lottie could sense the frustration inside him, building up like a head of steam. Letting it out on everyone around wasn’t fair, though. He needed to be reminded, and she was probably the only one in the station who could do it without setting off an explosion.