The Year of the Gun Page 3

  McMillan’s tread was heavy on the stairs. At the bottom he turned and looked back up, as if he was assessing something.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing much. All I really found was this.’ He held out a crumpled note.

  It was a man’s handwriting; Lottie was certain of that. Small, cramped. An address on Lower Basinghall Street.

  ‘At least we have somewhere to go,’ she said. ‘But I’m still not convinced. I haven’t seen anything that says Kate Patterson was here.’

  ‘It’s just… call it copper’s instinct.’ He groped for the words to explain. ‘Sometimes you know. I’m going to get the fingerprint and the evidence crews out here.’

  Lottie glanced at the crumpled underwear.

  ‘Was she wearing knickers when her body was found?’ The uniform skirt had been in proper order; impossible to tell.

  ‘No idea. It’ll be in the pathologist’s report. Put those in a bag and bring them along.’

  She did as he ordered, picking them up with a pencil. Silk. Expensive. Not something you’d get at Woolworth’s with clothing coupons. She took the handkerchief, too.

  ‘I need to talk to the chap next door first,’ McMillan said. ‘See if I can get more from him.’

  ‘He said the girl was put in a Jeep?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There are American cigarette ends on the floor. Lucky Strikes. British ones, too.’

  ‘Then the Yanks were involved. And if I’m right and Kate Patterson was here, you’d better prepare for some hands across the water.’

  The neighbour was waiting expectantly outside his front door. He looked close to eighty, comfortably plump even on the ration, a yellow waistcoat bulging over his belly. The type who didn’t approve of a woman in uniform; she could see it in the glare he gave her.

  That was fine. She could sit in the car, open her book, and spend a little time with Graham Greene and the whisky priest. As she sat, a tune popped into her head: Imagination. She’d heard it twice on the radio in the last week and now it wouldn’t leave her alone. She didn’t even particularly like it. She began to read, humming under her breath and wishing the song would go away.

  It was impossible to park on Lower Basinghall Street without blocking the entire road. Even walking down it gave her the creeps. The buildings rose to block out all the light and warmth of the day; it felt like stepping down into a chilly cellar.

  ‘Number seventeen,’ McMillan said. Judging by the brass plates outside the main door, it was a warren of offices. Insurance, a commissioner for oaths, manufacturers’ representatives, a jumble of mankind scraping a living.

  ‘What name?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘It’s not written down. Just the address.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’

  ‘Just a thought: maybe a cup of tea before we start. We can make a plan. We don’t even know what we’re looking for.’

  He jingled the coins in his pocket and nodded, glancing again at the list of businesses.

  ‘Probably a good idea,’ he agreed.

  At least the British Café in the crypt of the Town Hall did a decent cuppa. Strong enough for a spoon to stand up, plenty of sugar. A bunch of servicemen crowded round one of the tables, caps through the epaulettes, cradling the mugs lovingly as they talked. A woman walked by, her legs a curious brown colour, the stocking seam a suspiciously crooked line. Painted with diluted gravy browning, the seams marked in with eyebrow pencil. God, Lottie thought, that was vanity.

  ‘How do you suggest we approach it?’ McMillan asked. He lit a Four Square, holding it with fingers stained gold by nicotine.

  ‘Maybe someone at Basinghall Street has the keys to the house.’ She’d considered it as they walked. Something to do with business seemed the only feasible connection.

  ‘That’s possible,’ he allowed.

  ‘If it’s someone young, they might have been at the party.’

  ‘Good thought.’ McMillan nodded. ‘If there was a party. I’m not convinced it was as wild as that.’

  ‘What did the old buffer next door have to tell you?’

  ‘Evidently the chap who owned the house died a year ago. The will’s in limbo for now. One of the heirs is dead, the other two are off fighting. I’ll get someone to track down the solicitor and ask questions.’

  Lottie ran her cup around the rim of the saucer. She knew what she wanted to say; finding the words was the hard part.

  ‘This seems to be an awful lot of work just for a hunch.’

  ‘We know someone was in that house,’ he told her.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed slowly. ‘Someone. A man and a woman, maybe more, we can’t tell yet. And with a Jeep and the Lucky Strikes, one of them could well be American. But that’s all we know. Right now there’s absolutely nothing that links it to the Patterson murder. No evidence. Only your hunch.’

  She felt better for getting it off her chest. He was a detective, he had a good record, but nobody was right all the time. At least they’d known each other long enough for her to be candid. ‘I’m sorry,’ she added.

  ‘No, you’re right,’ he agreed. He didn’t look annoyed. If anything, there was relief on his face. ‘See, this is why I’m glad I asked you to be my driver. You stop me getting carried away. You’re right: the feeling is all I’ve got. But I can sense it.’ He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘The P-M and the other reports won’t be in until late afternoon. I’ve nowhere to turn before them. And this feels right. That’s why we’re following it.’ He stared until she nodded her agreement.

  He started from the top floor while Lottie worked her way up from the ground. Office after office of old men who looked expectant and hopeful when she opened the door. Each time she disappointed them. No one knew anything about the address on Shire Oak Road.

  The last door. Finally. A Commissioner for Oaths. She didn’t even know what that was. Perhaps Ewart Hardy could tell her.

  He was close to seventy but still with a twinkle in his eye, the Times spread across his desk. A clipped moustache, a good suit, old but cared for, a heavy beak of a nose.

  ‘How might I help you, young lady?’ An educated voice, crisp and clear. He looked like someone who’d retained an appetite for life and found it endlessly amusing.

  ‘I’m WAPC Armstrong, sir. We’re making a few enquiries in the building.’

  He gestured at a chair. ‘Make yourself comfortable and enquire away. It’s a pleasure simply to have a visitor during the day. A lovely young lady is a bonus.’

  Lottie smiled and sat, back straight. Who could turn down a compliment like that?

  ‘Are you familiar with Shire Oak Road, sir?’ The same question she’d already asked a dozen men. This time though, it brought a surprised gaze.

  ‘I should hope so. I live there.’

  She felt a shiver along her spine. Something. She had something.

  ‘Whereabouts, sir? I know it’s a fairly long street.’

  ‘The cheap part, I’m afraid, down towards the shops on Otley Road,’ he answered with a bewildered smile. ‘Why, what’s going on?’

  ‘Do you know the empty house that looks out over the valley?’

  ‘I do. It’s funny, someone was asking me about it just last week.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lottie took out her notebook and pencil. ‘Would you mind telling me about it, please?’ she asked, trying to make it sounds like nothing.

  ‘An American,’ Hardy told her. ‘I think he was an officer. It’s so hard to tell with them, isn’t it? There was something on his shoulder, anyway, and a hat, not a cap. I was walking past, going to take the dog down on Woodhouse Ridge. He was standing by the entrance to the house, with his hands on his hips.’

  ‘What did he ask you?’

  ‘Who owned it, how long it had been empty, if it was for rent.’ He shrugged. ‘The usual things, I suppose.’

  ‘What did you tell him, sir?’

  ‘Not a great deal. I didn’t know much. It’s been vacant a year or
so. I wrote down the address here for him. Said if he came in I’d see what I could do. But he never turned up.’ He paused, just a fraction of a second, then smiled. ‘You found my address there.’

  He’d already put it together, not that it took a genius.

  ‘Can you remember anything about the man?’

  ‘He was taller than me. Broader. But the Yanks are all like that, aren’t they? Strapping.’ He stroked his chin as he tried to recall. ‘I didn’t pay him much attention. We only talked for a minute or so. Oh,’ he said suddenly, ‘he had a mole on his right cheek. Bang in the middle. I do remember that, I thought it was a smudge of dirt at first.’ He grinned and for a moment she could see the cheeky schoolboy who still lurked under the old skin.

  ‘Was there a Jeep parked close by?’

  Hardy frowned. ‘Not that I recall, no. I’m sure I’d have noticed.’

  ‘Which day was it? Do you remember?’

  ‘Thursday. I’m positive about that. I’d closed at twelve, I had an appointment with the doctor. Went home and took the dog out before I went to the surgery.’

  Last Thursday. Today was Wednesday. Six days. She wondered if that meant much.

  ‘If anything else comes to mind, could you ring Detective Chief Superintendent McMillan at Millgarth?’

  ‘Of course,’ Hardy agreed easily. ‘But I doubt there will be.’

  At the door she turned. ‘If you don’t mind me asking one more thing, sir, what exactly does a commissioner for oaths do?’

  ‘Very little these days, it seems.’ He gave a rueful sigh. ‘But the idea is we take affidavits and witness documents that have to be done under oath. Things like that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Good work,’ McMillan said when she told him. ‘You haven’t forgotten the job, at least.’

  ‘If I read the instructions properly, I’m not supposed to be doing the job at all,’ she reminded him. ‘I’m just a driver.’

  ‘Then you can drive us back to the station. And you’re still better than most coppers on the force.’

  ‘Do the Americans have a base round here?’ Lottie asked as she nosed the car down Commercial Street, weaving around the vans and pedestrians.

  ‘They must have, from all the numbers around. I know there are a few of them out at the old Masonic Hall.’

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, pushing hard on the brake to avoid an old woman who had strayed into the road.

  ‘It’s the HQ for this area. More high ranks and decorations than you can shake a stick at, all parading around and looking important. Not the best idea considering it’s supposed to be hush-hush.’

  Standing at the bottom of the stairs in Millgarth, for a fleeting moment she thought about Cathy Taylor. They’d been policewomen together, two decades before. The only two on the force back then. On patrol together every day. They were friends after a fashion, but never that close; Lottie was always surprised that Cathy had resigned from the force after her dismissal. After that they met a few times for a cup of tea, exchanged Christmas cards for a while, then drifted apart. Where was she now? Doing war work? At home with children?

  A long time ago. Truly another life.

  Standing in the bathroom, Lottie caught sight of herself in the mirror. She desperately needed her hair styled; it had been over two months. There was too much grey in there, it made her look old. And feel it. Saturday afternoon, she decided; she’d make an appointment on the way home.

  A banging on the door pulled her out of her thoughts.

  ‘Are you hiding in there?’ McMillan shouted.

  ‘Just coming.’ She rubbed a sleeve over the shiny WAPC badge on her cap and put it back on her head. ‘Where now?’ she asked as she emerged.

  Lottie had to check the Leeds map she kept in the car. She’d never heard of Castle Grove Masonic Hall before. But there it was, in Far Headingley, no more than a stone’s throw from the Cottage Road cinema.

  The house was a grand pile of weathered stone, looking bleak and unloved in the winter light. It could have belonged to a family that had once been wealthy and lost most of its money. But the staff cars parked on the gravel and the sentries on the gate told the truth.

  The warrant card got them inside. She glanced in the mirror. McMillan looked strained, heavy bags under his eyes. He ran a hand over his shiny scalp.

  ‘Should I wait here?’

  ‘You might as well come along,’ he said. ‘No one’s going to notice another uniform. Maybe if you trail around behind me they’ll think I’m someone important.’

  But nobody had much time for a civilian. This was a fishing trip, she knew it as much as McMillan, but no worms were nibbling. After a quarter of an hour of being shuttled around they ended up with Master Sergeant Andersen, his close-cropped hair so blond it was almost invisible. Tall, broad-shouldered in his tailored olive drab uniform, impeccably polite and with the whitest teeth she’d ever seen, he listened patiently before shaking a cigarette from a green packet of Lucky Strikes and lighting it.

  ‘We do have some troops in the area,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m not sure why you need to know, if you understand me, Chief Superintendent.’

  ‘The incident I mentioned,’ McMillan told him. ‘From the description, the Jeep had an American insignia. We want to make sure the young lady who was carried out is fine.’

  Andersen ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. ‘Has any girl been reported missing or injured?’

  Would McMillan mention Kate Patterson, Lottie wondered? How public was he willing to be with his hunch?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you can appreciate I’m reluctant to say more. It sounds a bit like—’ he flashed a brilliant smile ‘—a storm in a teacup. That’s what you guys say, right?’

  ‘Maybe it is,’ McMillan agreed. ‘I’m just trying to make sure the storm doesn’t overflow on to the table.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about this house you’ve mentioned, OK?’ Andersen waited for a nod. ‘Something like that would be completely unacceptable if it’s true. But right now it sounds like all you’ve got is rumour and conjecture.’

  ‘We have an American officer with a mole on his cheek who was asking about the place.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean anything to me.’

  ‘And there were cigarette ends,’ Lottie pointed out. ‘Lucky Strikes, like yours.’

  ‘Standard PX issue.’ He held one up. ‘And plenty of GIs give them away or trade them for something.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve all heard for what,’ she said, surprised at how prudish she sounded. ‘But we know there are Americans here. I’ve seen plenty of them in town. That’s hardly a secret. We’d just like to know where they’re stationed. After all, Sergeant, we’re the police.’ He wouldn’t know she wasn’t really a copper.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he began, then: ‘What the hell. You can probably find out through other channels if you want. We have a detachment of men out at an RAF base. Church Fenton.’

  ‘That’s not especially close to Leeds,’ McMillan said.

  ‘This is the nearest big city.’ Andersen shrugged. ‘If a guy’s got some free time, that’s where he’ll go looking for fun. And to an American it’s not that far.’

  ‘Who should we talk to out there?’

  ‘No one.’ The sergeant’s words had a hard finality. ‘I’ve told you where the men are. Unless there’s a pressing reason, you don’t need to go there, do you?’

  ‘I don’t imagine we do.’ McMillan rose, holding out his hand. The sergeant shook it warily. ‘But if I get a sniff of something I’ll be out there like a shot.’ He tipped his hat. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  ‘Like getting blood from a stone,’ Lottie complained as she drove back along Otley Road.

  ‘That’s the military for you.’ He looked at his watch and sighed.

  ‘You decided not to say anything about Private Patterson.’

  ‘Not yet, anyway.’ He smiled. ‘We can always come back. Millgarth now, I think.’
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  She knew he’d be in the office long after her shift was over, going over reports, asking questions. There were all the other investigations to supervise. The black market goods that never seemed to run out, a glut of them in the last few months, the protection rackets. He’d told her once that these days the uniforms kept their eyes open for deserters and prostitutes; too many of them, and too few men in CID. He had to select what they looked into. Even then all the men had caseloads that never ended. And McMillan was responsible for it all.

  ‘What time do you go home?’ she asked not long after she’d started the job.

  ‘Late,’ he answered, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘Sarah knows it’s like this until it’s over. Still, it could be worse. At least I’m in my own bed every night.’ Not like his sons; he didn’t need to say it. He’d served in the last war. He knew exactly what it was like.

  ‘What are you going to do when peace comes?’ Over the last few months she’d heard the words more often. They still seemed tentative, but each time they felt a little more solid. They’d go on and beat Hitler, then the Japs. Maybe it was the Americans who gave them heart. Maybe the Allies’ progress in Italy. Whatever it was, the hope was taking shape.

  ‘Retire,’ he answered. No hesitation. ‘I feel like I could sleep for a month. What about you?’

  ‘Go back to my life, I suppose.’ She hadn’t given it much thought. She’d been too busy with everything going on now, juggling it all. ‘There won’t be much call for women my age to do things.’

  ‘You might be surprised. Everything’s going to change.’

  ‘Is it?’ She had her doubts. ‘They said that the last time.’

  ‘The politicians will have learned. And people have had enough. You can smell it. The mood’s shifting.’

  He wouldn’t be drawn more than that. Lottie had raised it a couple of times, but he’d sidestepped the conversation.

  A queue at the Co-op for sugar. She handed over the buff ration book, watching as the assistant cut out her coupons. No butter, of course, but at least they had some marge and a quarter of Bourn-vita. Then a dash to the hairdresser to wheedle an appointment from Denise for Saturday afternoon.