Brass Lives Page 9

  ‘It’s a bit of a stretch. Do you really think it connects to this?’ Harper tried to imagine Barney Thorpe as a mastermind behind a burglary. No. It wasn’t possible.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Ash replied. ‘But they both involve guns. When was the last time we had any crime involving them?’

  Years; they both knew that. It seemed unlikely, but it was worth asking some questions. ‘Grab Bert Jones and put him through the wringer. Bring Thorpe in too, we might as well have the pair of them. Telephone me at home with any information.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  He walked into the ginnel, thinking he could still smell cordite in the air. Turning, he had a perfect view of the hotel entrance.

  There was nothing else he was going to discover here; his men had already searched it all. At least no one had been seriously hurt. Tomorrow would do.

  The car was waiting, and the driver turned his head as Harper climbed in.

  ‘Home, sir?’

  ‘Not just yet. Town hall first.’ He needed to bring the chief constable up to date.

  All the clerks had long since left for the night and the cleaners had taken over, bustling round with their dusters and mops. After giving his report he came back down the stairs, footsteps ringing off the marble, said goodnight to the watchman and was walking towards the Headrow when he heard a shout. Loud enough even for his hearing. He turned to see Galt running and waving.

  ‘I talked to Mrs Morton, sir.’

  ‘Did she admit she’d been with Mullen?’ Harper realized he was holding his breath as he waited for the answer. But what was he hoping she’d said: yes or no?

  ‘It took a little persuasion, but yes, she did. Just as well her husband was out. She’d never have spoken to me otherwise.’

  ‘Do you think she’s telling the truth?’

  ‘She’s got no reason to lie, sir, not with Jigger Morton’s temper if he finds out. She begged me to keep it quiet. And she described all the scars on Mullen’s chest. They seemed to fascinate her. She told me he has one right here’ – he pointed to a spot below the collar bone – ‘that’s perfectly round.’

  ‘Did she, now?’ He thought for a moment. Mullen could have told the truth for once. ‘Come on, in the car. Metropole,’ he told the driver.

  ‘Take off your shirt and the top of your combinations,’ Harper ordered.

  ‘What?’ Mullen stood, glaring. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I told you. Just do it.’

  He had eyes full of questions and resentment as he stripped. Skin as pale as a ghost, a perfect canvas for all the bruises. And a tracery of scars all across his flesh. Puckered, healed holes, white lines from knife cuts. Mullen had taken his share of violence. His history was written on his body. A tattoo on his bicep that rippled as he moved his arm: a skull with the motto Hello Mr Death. There were more: a heart just below his other shoulder, Mom inscribed beneath it. A dagger. All amateur work. He’d seen better on sailors who’d returned from the East. Still, he thought, they showed who the man really was. He might own expensive suits and clothes and think he ruled the world, but underneath he was still the raw child from Somerset Street, desperate to prove himself, and he probably always would be.

  And exactly where Anthea Morton had said, an exact circle, whiter than the rest.

  ‘You can put your clothes back on.’

  ‘What the hell was that about?’ Mullen asked as he dressed.

  ‘Proof.’

  He frowned. ‘Did you find it?’

  ‘I think I did,’ Harper told him.

  He knew they’d ring. He’d settled down at home, just starting to read the paper, and the telephone bell gave its metallic jangle.

  ‘Deputy Chief Constable Harper.’

  ‘It’s Sissons, sir. I’ve been questioning Jones. He claims Thorpe sacked him as his bodyguard just a few days ago.’

  Now that was interesting. It made Mullen’s story about Thorpe sound more likely. ‘Why?’

  ‘He won’t say, but he doesn’t look happy about it.’

  ‘Keep pressing him. Is Thorpe there, too?’

  ‘He’s with Mr Ash.’

  ‘How does he look?’

  ‘Stiff,’ Sissons answered after a moment. ‘He’s moving awkwardly.’

  ‘Let me know what happens.’

  ‘Is that the shooting?’ Annabelle asked. ‘I’m surprised you’re not down there with the rest of them.’

  ‘I trained them all too well. I’d just be standing round like a spare part.’ He lifted the receiver and asked the operator to connect him to Chief Constable Parker at home to give him the latest developments.

  A soft, pale morning. Some high cloud, a thin haze over Leeds. The car dropped him at Millgarth. Harper found Rogers and Galt in the detectives’ room, writing up reports and looking as if they’d spent the whole night there. Unshaven, wrinkled clothes, and a line of grime around their shirt collars.

  ‘What do you have?’

  ‘The square root of nothing, sir,’ Rogers told him. ‘We hammered away at Jones for hours, but we might as well have been talking to the wall. All he’d say was that he used to be Thorpe’s bodyguard, but he’d been sacked and he didn’t know anything else.’ He rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. ‘A waste of time.’

  ‘What about Thorpe?’

  Galt shook his head. ‘Virtually the same, sir. Mr Ash did everything, but he’d barely even admit to his name.’

  Harper had dealt with Thorpe in the past. He knew exactly what the man was like. He never gave an inch. It was easy to imagine him sitting there as if he was made out of stone.

  ‘Sissons said he was moving awkwardly.’

  ‘Very gingerly, sir, and he had some bruises on his face. He told the super he fell.’

  ‘Did you hear the other story, that Mullen gave him a good hiding?’

  ‘I did,’ Galt answered. ‘I believe it.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you got any names from either of them?’

  Rogers shook his head. ‘We’re rounding up some of the other people Thorpe uses this morning.’

  ‘Do we know who took over as his bodyguard?’

  ‘Not yet. He was at home when we found him; there was no one with him.’

  Harper pushed his lips together, then said: ‘Ask around; he’ll have someone. And I want Sissons to go back and look at everything on the robbery from the Territorial Barracks. Circulate the information again, including the serial numbers of the pistols. Maybe we can shake something loose this time.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  He took an empty piece of paper and began to write a list.

  Fess murder

  Arson

  Metropole shooting

  Barracks robbery

  When he finished, he pinned it to the wall. It would be right there, whenever he looked. A constant reminder of the crimes they needed to solve.

  Parker paced around his large rug as he smoked a morning cigar.

  ‘What do you think, Tom?’ he asked. ‘Be honest. Is Mullen behind the shooting? Or is it Thorpe? I have to talk to the reporters in a few minutes.’

  ‘I’m almost certain it’s not Mullen.’

  ‘Almost?’ The chief pounced on the word.

  ‘Unless he has some plan that I don’t understand, then I’d say it’s not.’

  ‘How about Thorpe?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know, sir. Someone gave Thorpe a beating. If it really was Mullen, he’d want his revenge.’

  ‘But?’

  Harper weighed his words. ‘Thorpe’s way is usually much more direct. This all seems far too subtle for him.’

  ‘Maybe someone’s giving him advice,’ Parker said. ‘It would take plenty of planning.’

  ‘Who, though? That’s what I can’t see. And there’s also the question of who carried out the shooting. How’s the woman, by the way?’

  Parker sighed with relief. ‘Nothing more than a bad scratch, thank God. The Metropole said they won’t charge her and her
husband for their stay. They’re going to ask Mullen to leave, too. Keep on top of this, Tom. You’ve given me a little to tell the reporters, but I’d like to have it wrapped up today if we can.’

  ‘No promises, sir.’ It sounded more hopeful than no chance.

  ‘I know, but … Arthur Blake, that chap who owns that furniture business, is putting up a reward of fifty pounds for information leading to a conviction for the shooting.’

  Harper raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘And we both know what rewards mean. Every chancer in town will crawl out from under his rock.’

  Harper pushed up the window sash in his office. The wood groaned and complained, but finally it shifted, letting in the stink of the city and the noise of the traffic along Great George Street, and a brief draught of cooler air.

  He settled to work, forcing himself to read documents. But the words floated through his head without settling. As soon as he turned a page, he couldn’t remember what he’d just read. After half an hour he straightened his tie and picked his hat off the hook.

  ‘I’ll be at Millgarth,’ he told Miss Sharp.

  ‘When will you be back? You have a meeting at two.’

  ‘Cancel it for me, will you? Rearrange for tomorrow or something.’

  She pursed her mouth and lifted an eyebrow. ‘The shooting? You need to look after the other things, too.’

  ‘Yes. You know, you’re sounding more and more like my wife.’

  The day felt close and humid as he strode up the Headrow. By the time he reached Briggate sweat was dripping under his arms. Even in a light summer suit, he was hot, fanning his face with his hat. Everyone looked red and overcooked.

  A turn through Kirkgate Market, where the fishmongers had their wares displayed on ice, did little to cool him off. When he walked into Millgarth, he was thoroughly damp.

  Ash was in his office, sitting back and stroking his heavy moustache as he thought.

  ‘Penny for them,’ Harper said.

  ‘At the moment you’d get three farthings change and probably feel cheated, sir.’

  ‘No ideas?’

  ‘Plenty, but they don’t seem to lead anywhere. There’s no doubt Thorpe took a beating, even if he won’t admit it.’

  ‘Would he have used someone with a gun to have his revenge on Mullen?’

  ‘That’s the part that doesn’t fit for me, sir. None of the narks have come up with a name of a pistol shooter, and Thorpe’s the type who’d want to watch someone being hurt and see the pain for himself. A gun is too impersonal.’

  Harper nodded. He agreed; it was more or less what he’d told the chief constable.

  ‘That leaves two big questions, doesn’t it? Who and why?’

  ‘And that’s where I’m stuck, sir.’

  ‘This mysterious third American?’

  Ash chuckled. ‘It would be a good solution, wouldn’t it? Shame it’s not true. Mullen couldn’t have set it all up himself, could he?’

  Harper shook his head. ‘I’ve had plenty of doubts about him, but I’m convinced the arson and the shooting aren’t his doing. What’s he been up to today? Anything unusual?’

  ‘Over to see his father first thing. The last report I had, he’d just been to Massey’s bookshop on the Headrow.’

  A reader. He wouldn’t have predicted that.

  ‘Keep people on him. Twenty-four watch, same as before.’

  ‘Still don’t trust him, sir?’

  ‘Not completely.’ He paused. ‘And it might be for his own safety, too. Someone appears to have it in for him.’

  Mullen’s leather cases lay open on the bed. He was packing quickly, with sharp, angry movements. A few books sat on the table: Jack London, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Conan Doyle.

  ‘I shouldn’t have to leave just because someone takes a shot outside the hotel.’ He stopped and stared at Harper. ‘It had nothing to do with me. I wasn’t even here.’

  ‘One of those shots hit another guest.’

  ‘I’m sorry for her,’ Mullen said, ‘but it’s not my fault.’

  ‘You attract trouble,’ Harper told him. ‘No point in denying it. It’s what you do.’

  ‘Not here.’ He picked up a cigarette from the ashtray and took a deep draw from it.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I got a room at the Queen’s Hotel.’ He crushed out the cigarette. ‘I’ll tell you now to make it easy for the guy you have trailing me.’

  ‘I’ll make sure he knows.’ He leaned against the door jamb. ‘Tell me, you’ve been insisting someone’s setting you up. Who fired those shots yesterday? And the arson?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He turned, his voice raised, arms wide. ‘Maybe it was Thorpe.’ He stopped and turned away. Then the words started to flood out of him. ‘All I can say is, I didn’t do any of them. I didn’t kill Louis Fess, I had nothing to do with that blaze. Someone’s trying to make me look guilty. I’ll tell you something else: it scares me. And I don’t scare easy.’

  ‘Then we need to find out who’s responsible.’

  ‘That’s your job,’ Mullen said.

  Harper smiled. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘It’s not me. How many times do you want me to say it? Now I got to finish packing and get out of here. The manager said they won’t charge me for my stay.’ He snorted. ‘Generous of him, huh?’

  Harper walked up King Street, then cut through to Park Square, standing in the small patch of grass in the middle. A few people were sitting in the shade of the trees, talking or reading newspapers as they ate sandwiches.

  This felt like an entirely different Leeds from the one that contained Davey Mullen. It was respectable and solid, tethered firmly to the ground. And his job was to keep people in places like this safe from the rest. But beyond the sensational stories in the newspapers, most of them didn’t even realize another side of Leeds existed. He shook his head, followed the path through the gate in the railings, back to the town hall.

  Later in the afternoon he was out of the office again, walking through town. A light breeze was blowing, enough to take the edge off the heat and blow away the worst of the soot and smoke. For once, Leeds smelled fresh and welcoming. Enjoy it while it was here, Harper thought; it would move on soon enough.

  He passed the market, hearing the vendors crying their wares, six for a shilling, seven for ninepence, then crossed the road beyond Millgarth and started down Somerset Street. The bricks were black with generations of dirt and soot. Half the cobbles were missing from the road. Nearly as many broken windows as shattered dreams.

  Harper knocked on the door of number twenty-five. It stood out from all the others. The woodwork was freshly painted a glossy black. It was still clean and unmarked; that spoke volumes about how quickly Davey Mullen’s reputation had spread round here.

  Francis Mullen was a compact version of his son. A similar stare in the eyes, the same defiant tilt of the chin. But thinner, wiry, someone who’d never known any taste of good living. Half his teeth were missing, the cheeks sunken, white stubble on the skin. He wore a grubby shirt without a collar, the sleeves rolled up to show hairless forearms.

  ‘You’re a copper.’ His breath reeked of alcohol and stale smoke.

  ‘Deputy Chief Constable Harper. I’m here about your son.’

  ‘Arrested him again, have you? Trying to set him up for something else he hasn’t done?’

  ‘I want to see if you have any idea who’s trying to make him look guilty of murder.’

  ‘Tried Barney Thorpe?’

  ‘We have.’

  He folded his arms and leaned against the door jamb. ‘Then you have your man.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. Any other ideas?’

  ‘Some. But me and our Davey, we’ll take care of them.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Harper told him. ‘The police don’t like people who think they can take the law into their own hands. It’s not far to Millgarth. I can easily have you bounced over there every day
. Do you understand?’

  The man shrugged, reached into his trouser pocket and brought out a packet of Woodbines. He lit one, blowing smoke towards the sky. ‘I heard what you said.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘All the names went right out of my head.’

  Harper stalked away, keeping his fists clenched in his pockets. Safer than staying and taking a swing at the man. On the way back to the town hall he had a word with Sergeant Mason behind the desk at Millgarth. Constables would be dragging Francis Mullen away at all hours for a while. If he wanted to be clever, he could pay the price.

  ELEVEN

  ‘Things might be starting to shift, sir,’ Ash said. He and Harper stood by the window of the superintendent’s office at Millgarth, watching the late afternoon crowds flood along the pavements by the outdoor market.

  ‘Why?’ He felt a brief surge of hope. ‘Have you found the gun?’

  ‘Nothing so lucky, sir. But we do have Barney Thorpe’s current bodyguard in a room down the hall.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Teddy Duncan. You must know him. In and out of jail for assaults.’

  Harper narrowed his eyes. ‘I think I arrested him once. It must have been ten or fifteen years ago.’

  ‘You probably did, sir.’ Ash smiled. ‘Seems like half the force has pinched him at one time or another. Galt and Sissons are questioning him now.’

  ‘Let’s see what he has to say. From what I recall, he was handy with his fists but not too clever.’

  ‘That’s him to a tee. And we have something else, too.’ He gave a small, satisfied smile. ‘A report of a man buying a small can of petrol a few hours before the arson at your daughter’s office.’

  ‘What?’ Harper asked quickly. ‘Who? Where?’

  ‘A garage on Whitehall Road. We even have a description from the chap who served him.’

  ‘Well?’ Harper asked. He could feel the hope bubbling up inside. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Nothing like Mullen, so he’s definitely out of the frame for that one. Shorter, with thinning sandy hair, moustache, a little down-at-heel.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s better than I expected, although he can’t swear to it all.’