Chris Nickson's Blog, page 20

The Leaden Heart On Tour (And A Video)

32 days…just over four weeks and The Leaden Heart will be leaping out of the publisher’s hands and into the shops.

It’s the seventh Tom Harper book. Over the course of the series he’s risen from Detective Inspector to Detective Superintendent, in charge of ‘A’ Division, Leeds City Police, based at Millgarth. It’s 1899, and that promotion happened four years earlier, but he’s still the same Tom. He and Annabelle still live at the Victoria public house in Sheepscar, which she owns. She’s two years into a term as Poor Law Guardian, very involved in her work.

But Tom’s life is about to undergo seismic changes, when his old colleague Billy Reed telephones from Whitby. His brother has died, he’s coming to Leeds and needs a place to stay for a few days.

Going through his brother’s papers, Billy discovers more than he wanted to know. And Tom Harper learns that crimes have been going on in Leeds that he never even knew about. As he tries to put an end to it, the violence becomes ever more brutal.

That’s the essence, and I’ve put together a video trailer. I think it gives some of the atmosphere of the novel and the time…

The Leaden Heart will be available for reviewers and bloggers on NetGalley from the beginning of March. If you’re on there, please request a copy (or drop me a line if you need help).

You can pre-order on Amazon, although both Speedy Hen and Hive are much cheaper and don’t charge postage. And the ebook will be available globally from May 1.

Finally…The Leaden Heart is going on tour over the next couple of months. These are the dates and it looks as if there may be more to come. If you can, why not come along? All the events are free….no tour tee shirts I’m afraid – but there will be merchandise (books!)

Thursday, March 7, 2019, 1:10pm-1:50pm, Holy Trinity Church, Boar Lane, Leeds. Part of Leeds Literature Festival.

Saturday, May 11, Leeds Central Library, (time tbc) #foundfiction festival.

Thursday, May 16, 2019, the Leeds Library, Commercial St., Leeds, 6.30-8pm. In conversation with Candace Robb and Sara Porter (editor, Severn House)

Tuesday, May 21, 2019, De Grey Lecture Theatre, York St. John’s University 6-8pm. In conversation with Candace Robb and Kate Lyall Grant (publisher, Severn House)

Saturday, June 8, 2019, Yorkshire Archaelogical Society, Swarthmore  Education Centre, Clarendon Rd, Leeds, 11 am

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Finding The Leaden Heart – The Tin God

Tom Harper is returning very soon – just over a month from now – but it’s impossible for me to look ahead to The Leaden Heart without glancing back at The Tin God.

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I’m immensely proud of this book, not only for what it is, but the things it spawned. It celebrated real history, women being able to vote and stand as candidates in some local elections, an event that was the first real step on the road to the democracy we understand these days. And Annabelle Harper was at the heart of it, running to be a Poor Law Guardian for the Sheepscar ward. She was one of seven working-class women around the city running to be Guardians.

But there was a man who would do anything to keep women out of politics. Anything at all.

That didn’t stop Annabelle giving speeches – like this one.

The clues the man left at every scene were snippets of folk songs, so Harper consulted a local song collector, a real name named Frank Kidson. Out of this book came this article I wrote on the man:

And, of course, a playlist of music he’d collected that featured in the book.

For once, Annabelle really did take centre stage, even if it was Tom and his men who had to solve the crime. She had to try and be fearless, not easy when someone was trying to kill you.

The book was launched at an exhibition called The Vote Before The Vote. I was incredibly proud to be involved with it, celebrating those Victorian Leeds woman who were working for the vote and women’s rights before the Suffragettes appeared in 1903. I was even more proud that Annabelle had her own board as part of it. From fiction, she’d stepped directly into Leeds history. She’d have been over the moon.

That launch even sparked a film of its own, a glorious mystery from film maker Daisy Cale.

The book was a gift. It came to me in a flash when a historian friend – who actually curated The Vote exhibition – said ‘Why doesn’t Annabelle run for office?’ After that it was all so clear.

I did my only blog tour for the book, and it received some glowing reviews – and even a wonderful review in the Morning Star. These are some snippets or click here to read more.

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It left me with a problem, however. How do I top it? Can I top it?

The Leaden Heart is my attempt at doing just that. You’ll be the only ones who can judge whether I succeed. And you can do it soon – even pre-order the book…

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Finding The Leaden Heart – Skin Like Silver

It’s interesting to revisit the Tom Harper series of books leading up to the publication of the seventh, The Leaden Heart, on March 29 (obligatory self-promotion inserted). I’ve found myself think deeply about them and understanding things that hadn’t always made sense to me before.

Writing Skin Like Silver, I knew the books were taking a turn, and that Annabelle Harper was fighting her way forward to become a more important character, someone more than Tom’s assertive, gobby wife. And she succeeded. She became involved with one of the growing issues of the 1890s – suffragism. This was before woman had any representation at all, even on the local level (that would start in 1894), and a full decade before the Suffragettes formed.

The idea of women standing up was at the heart of the novel, but somehow or other, Annabelle’s involvement with the Suffragist movement, becoming a speaker, grew into a central idea. I thought of it as her book, and perhaps it was, although that would change (if anything really is Annabelle’s book, it’s The Tin God. But more of that next week).

Skin Like Silver did make me understand how important she could be in the series, and that the idea of family needed a greater and greater role. Well, I had no choice. Annabelle demanded it. And with this much of the complexion of the series changed. While it didn’t become about her – although she’s figured strongly in the books since, the series has turned more into the chronicle of a family in late Victorian/Edwardian times as much a series of crime novels.

It was a sign that Annabelle was carrying everything before her that she was there for the book launch at the Leeds Library, giving one of the Suffragist speeches she makes in the book. A surprise for the audience, too, when she appeared out of the darkness. Actor Carolyn Eden did a remarkable job (as she has several times with Annabelle), inhabiting the character.

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Very likely all crime writers believe the same, but I realised that the Tom Harper novels were more than just murder mysteries. It sounds pretentious, and God knows I want them to entertain, but I wanted them to be more. Windows into how people lived and struggled. What Leeds was like back then.

I’m still trying. And here’s me rabbiting on about the book just before the launch.

I still love this book. It feels bigger than its pages, somehow. With the writing of it, the entire series pivoted. I’m still a little astonished by that. It proves writers are conduits. The words flow through us, rather than being formed by us. And that’s a piece of magic I don’t want to investigate too closely in case I jinx it.

Finding The Leaden Heart – Two Bronze Pennies

When I started out, I had a plan of sorts for the Tom Harper books, a series arc, if you like. Of course, like all good books, they’ve long since ignored that and developed their own scheme that looks further into the future than I’d ever imagined when it all began.

But in 2015, when Two Bronze Pennies appeared, it was still sticking close to the idea.

I definitely wanted to write about the Jews in Leeds. They’ve been such a powerful, vital force, although in 1890, most of those here were poor and powerless, crammed and squeezed into the Leylands, just north of the city centre.

I did that, and I hope I did it well. There are some references to the legend of the Golem (at one point I wanted to call the book The Golem of Leeds, but my publisher said no. A wise move, in retrospect).

It’s a novel of changes. The influx of immigrants to Leeds, the prejudice against them that still echoes in today’s Islamophobia. The change, the rift that occurs between Tom and his sergeant, Billy Reed.

And there’s another story in there, too, that of Louis Le Prince, the man who arguably invented the moving picture. He lived in Leeds, developed those early movies here, and vanished without trace on a visit home to France.

Le Prince’s first film, taken in his father-in-law’s garden in 1888

Traffic Crossing Leeds Bridge, shot by Louis Le Prince in 1888

Even today, more than a century on from those times, no one knows what happened to him. But a mystery like that was too good not to use in a book about Leeds at the time. Sometimes life makes your decisions for you.

I wanted to capitalise on the wonderful reviews that Gods of Gold had received. I had plans for the launch people. Big plans. Something that could involve people from all over the world.

Live streaming was still new and unusual then. Hard to believe, I know, when it was only five years ago, but that’s the case. I signed up to use a particular platform. I was going to talk, answer questions people typed, and my friend Shonaleigh, a storyteller and drut’syla, was going to tell a Jewish story (please go and see her if you ever have the chance; she’ll transport you).

For whatever reason, when the time came, I wasn’t able to connect to the platform. It was all a bit of a bust. I felt foolish, that I’d let everyone down and disappointed them. My big plans had crumbled, defeated by technology. I did the only thing I could – hurriedly made this video the next day and posted it (apologies for the sound quality). The beard has long since gone, you’ll be pleased to know.

The reviewers liked the book (thankfully). And with two books, Tom Harper was on his way. From swearing I’d never write Victorian crime, I was up to my neck in it. But the characters didn’t intend to keep to the plans I’d made for them…

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Finding The Leaden Heart – Gods Of Gold

As I’ve mentioned before – and I’ll be saying again and again – the end of March sees the publication of my new book, The Leaden Heart. It’s the seventh in the Tom Harper series, set in 1899, on the cusp of a brand-new century that is set to bring more changes that anyone could imagine.

In the weeks leading up to it seeing the light of day, time to revisit some of the book in the series…

Hard to believe that it’s only five years since Tom made his first appearance, met as he sprints down Briggate in pursuit of a thief. That’s where it all started, with Gods of Gold, set during the 1890 Leeds Gas Strike, which the union won in just three days, a rare example of the workers coming out on top.

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It was strange that the book even appeared. I’d written six Richard Nottingham novels, and my publisher asked for something different. I’d always sworn I’d never set anything in Victorian times. But after that I read about the gas strike and I knew it ought to be celebrated. I received help from a strange source, a woman I’d met before, as I’d written a short story about her (Annabelle Atkinson and Mr. Grimshaw). She sat down next to me and said, ‘I was there, luv. I was the landlady at the Victoria. Why don’t you let me tell you about it?’

And so Gods of Gold came about. The title is from a poem by Tom Maguire, one of Leeds’ great unsung political figures, a man who did so much for the working classes here, only to die in poverty far, far too young. He’s buried at Beckett Street Cemetery.

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Joanne Harris, the bestselling author (who has a new book coming called The Strawberry Thief) was generous enough to praise the novel: “A vibrant sense of living history, with strong, well-drawn characters…I loved it.”

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I made a trailer for the book, and here it is, all dusted off and YouTube shiny.

For the launch, I even had 10 tee shirts made, featuring the cover image. Remarkably, nine of them sold, and I still have the other in a drawer. And there were book marks.

Apart from Tom, the book also featured Detective Sergeant Billy Reed, who’s featured in every book so far, as well as Constable Ash, who’s grown since his introduction in uniform. But there was someone else, that woman who told me all about the strike. Annabelle Atkinson.

She’s Annabelle Harper now, of course, and has been for a long time. But they were still courting in those early days, and I had no idea how important a figure she’d become in the series, it’s emotional linchpin, in fact. As the series progresses, in many ways it’s become the story of the Harper family, how they change and age over the years, as much as they’re crime novels or historical fiction. Or why not all three? I ended up writing a play about Annabelle, called The Empress on the Corner, which was performed a few times. A couple of scenes were filmed, including this, which recounts how she and Tom first met. The Victorian pub is part of Abbey House Museum in Leeds – they were kind enough to let us film.

In those days I didn’t know the books would end up taking on such a life of their own. At the risk of sound pretentious, the series has taken on the feel of my magnum opus. Like any writer, I was fumbling in the dark, not sure where things were heading. I have a much clearer sense of things now. That doesn’t mean the people will do what I expect and hope. After all, they’ve gone their own way in the past six books.

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The Road To Here

Let me begin by saying (once again, probably) that I have a new book coming out at the end of March. It’s called The Leaden Heart, and it’s the seventh Tom Harper novel. Safe to say I plan on giving your details before the publication date, and a video trailer is in the works, too. If you’d care to order it, be aware that amazon is the most expensive site currently. I’d suggest here or here – both significantly cheaper and with free UK delivery. It appears that both companies full their proper taxes in the UK.

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That’s the self-promotion out of the way. But with something fresh hurtling down the tracks, I found myself wondering just how did I get here? I don’t like the word journey, but it’s been a long strange trip. I probably wrote my first novel when I was 20, its name long since forgotten. I do remember that it was very heavily influenced by Richard Brautigan and Kurt Vonnegut (well, it was 1974) and not very good. By which, of course, I mean derivative, not as clever as it imagined, and piss-poor.

A couple more fairly mainstream novels arrived after I moved to the US. Both naïve, but I was young, those were different times, and I was learning my craft. And then, a detective novel, set in Cincinnati, where I was living. It received some interest, from a couple of publishers and an agent, who wanted me to rewrite it as a young adult novel, as I recall. But in the end it all went nowhere. I was hugely disappointed, but in retrospect, I’m grateful. While some of the idea and characters were okay, it simply wasn’t a good book. Naivete and a crime novel don’t mix, and I still had plenty of growing up to do, even if I didn’t realise it.

My next book was written in 1992/93. Called Career Opportunities, after the Clash song, and set in the London punk scene of 76-78, with the main character an American student over there study. Audacity on my part. I hadn’t been there at the time. I’d already left England. Hell, I hadn’t really been in London much at all in my life.

I still have the manuscript, I remember the general story. I’ve never dared look at it again. I’m sure it’s cute. And that was the problem. My writing was cute. It told a story. Once in a while it could tell it reasonably well. But it couldn’t pierce to the kernel of truth at the heart of a person or a tale. My friend Thom Atkinson has always been able to do that. He’s simply one of the best short story writers and playwrights I know, and we’ve been close for 35 years. Read a piece of his here and you’ll see what I mean. He has it.

I kept writing, of course, but it was mostly music journalism and quickie unauthorised celebrity biographies. They kept me very busy for a number of years and paid well. Important with a mortgage and a young son. But also great writing discipline. By the time I returned to fiction in 2005 I had a clearer vision, even if I was seeing a much older version of Leeds.

I’d become fascinated by the history of my hometown and started to discover it, as best I could on annual trips which involved walking and buying books, and finding old volumes on eBay. Somehow, in all there, I found my soul, my kernel of truth.

The first book I write set in 1730s Leeds was called The Cloth Searcher and featured cloth merchant Tom Williamson and his wife Hannah. A minor character was the town constable, Richard Nottingham.

The setting, the characters, the writing all had something. Just not quite the right thing, though. An agent liked what I was doing, although not that particular book. Try again, I was told.

I did. But first I thought a while. A crime novel, even one set in Leeds in the 1730s, was going to make more sense when someone from the right side of the law was the main character.

That involved a shift. Richard Nottingham became the protagonist, with his family (Mary, Rose, Emily) fairly central, along with his deputy, John Sedgwick. Poor Tom Williamson found himself on the periphery.

I write the book. In 2010 it was finally published (and the road from writing to that is another story). It was The Broken Token.

It might seem that things really started there. It often seems that way to me. But it was had begun 36 years earlier. Just the blink of an eye, really…

Prosperity Street

I’m not quite sure where this came from – even less where it’s going. Maybe nowhere. We’ll see.

But it’s Leeds, it’s 1968. Times are finally beginning to change.

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Leeds, 1968

He had a description – five feet five, slender, fair hair neatly set, blue eyes, conservatively dressed – and a sample of her handwriting, the start of a letter back to her parents in Ireland. No photographs; she’d taken them all from her lodgings when she left. Her mother was putting a couple from the last holiday in the post.

That was it. Five days had gone by since Sheila Grady vanished. She was over twenty-one, the police barely wanted to know. The Irish grapevine had finally come up with Gerry Hanlon’s name, an enquiry agent who might be able to help. And Hanlon had palmed the initial slog on to him.

‘Ask around,’ he said. ‘You were a copper. You know what to do.’

Oh yes, he did.

Graham Blake parked the Mini on Albion Place. All around him, Leeds was busy, full of Friday afternoon fever, the anticipation of the weekend on the faces. He pushed open the door to the building and climbed three flights of stairs to the Top Temp offices.

Caitlin Parsons had been just sixteen years old when first he’d seen her in 1959. Just over from County Mayo and living with the Rileys. She’d found work in three days, already out skivvying every hour God sent.

But she watched. She learned quickly. Within two years she’d shed all her country manners and acquired a soft sheen to her personality. Her accent had become a gentle, welcoming lilt. She’d grown out her hair and bought clothes were more sophistication. Growing up

Now she was twenty-five and stylish in her mini skirt and tights, still almost as thin as the day she’d stepped off the train, her hair in a fashionable Sassoon bob. No more cleaning for others. She’d been clever enough to spot a gap in the market and she’d started a business. A temporary agency for employers who needed extra staff for a week or a month. Secretarial, most of them. Filing, clerical.

It was flourishing. An office on Albion Place, the new Triumph Herald Vitesse parked outside. She was a success.

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‘Mr. Blake.’ She stood up to shake his hand. ‘I haven’t seen you in a long time.’

‘Two years,’ he told her.

‘That’s right.’ She smiled as she sat behind the desk. ‘A party, wasn’t it?’

‘Engagement.’

‘Susan Williams.’

‘Susan Anderson now,’ he corrected her and they grinned.

‘Times flies,’ she said. ‘Is this business or pleasure?’

‘Business,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering if you’ve ever come across a girl called Sheila Grady.’

‘No.’ She frowned. ‘Not that I know. Should I have?’

‘It’s a long shot. She’s twenty-one. Went missing at the start of the week. She’s Irish, so…’ He let the word hang and shrugged.

‘And of course every Irish person abroad knows each other.’ But there was no anger behind her words.

‘I though it was worth trying.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Blake said. He looked around the room. Trendily decorated, colourful, plenty of light. Beyond the door, he could hear the sound of telephones and typing, the two women who worked for her. ‘You’re doing well.’

‘I’ve been lucky. How about you. Since you left the police, I mean.’

Allowed to resign for the good of the force. That was how the superintendent had put it. Fitted up to take the blame by a detective sergeant, not that anyone would listen when he told them. He’d been lucky enough to find this job after all that.

Back when he first met Caitlin Parsons he’d just passed out from cadet to constable, on his fist beat in Harehills. Now she was a success and he was…whatever it was he’d become. Strange what a difference nine years could make.

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2019…It’s Arrived.

Well, here was are, squarely in a new year. That means it’s time to look ahead, especially as I’m putting the final touches to what I hope will become the eighth Tom Harper novel – if the publisher wants to put it out, of course.

New beginnings.

Before any of that, however, the seventh Tom Harper book will be published at the end of March. Called The Leaden Heart, it’s set in 1899 in a Leeds that’s changing and pushing its way towards the 20th century. Here’s a very short extract:

Harper had just finished putting together the duty roster for August when the telephone rang, the line crackling harshly enough to hurt his bad ear.

‘Tom? It’s Billy. Billy Reed.’

Reed had been a good friend once, the sergeant to Harper’s inspector, until they fell out. Then he’d transferred to the fire brigade and been promoted. Two years ago he’d taken a job in Whitby, in charge of police there.

Annabelle and Elizabeth, Reed’s wife, were still close, exchanging regular letters. She ran a tea shop now, close to Whitby Market. Harper and his family had visited the Christmas before last. It had been a pleasant few days, but not the way it had once been. That would never return.

‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ Reed answered quickly. ‘I hate to ask, but I could use a favour.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘My brother died, so I have to come back to Leeds for the funeral. I think you met him once.’

Long ago. Charlie? He thought he vaguely remembered the name. Thin and pale, with mousy hair and a waxed moustache.

‘I’m sorry, Billy.’

‘We were never that close, but…’

Of course. It was family. Harper understood.

‘Do you need somewhere to stay? Is Elizabeth coming with you?’

‘If you don’t mind. He lived in Harehills and the Victoria’s close. It’ll only be for a few days, if that’s all right. Elizabeth is run off her feet at the tea room. Whitby’s full of holidaymakers and the tea room is packed every day. Besides, she never really knew him.’

They had an empty attic room at the pub. It wasn’t much, but the bed was comfortable.

‘Of course. You know you’ll be welcome, as long as you need,’ Harper said. ‘When are you arriving?’

‘This afternoon. The telegram only came an hour ago.’

‘We’ll expect you.’

He lowered the receiver, picked it up again and asked the operator for the Victoria. They’d had a telephone installed at the beginning of the year. Between his rank and Annabelle’s post as Guardian, he hadn’t been able to fight the idea any longer.

She picked up on the third ring, listening as he explained.

‘I’ll air it out for him.’

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You can pre-order the book already. The cheapest price seems to be here, with free postage in the UK, although the company seems to have mixed reviews. Here is slightly more expensive, but also has free shipping and is highly-rated.

I also seem to be quite busy with events this year, and maybe more to add to that list. I’m not entirely certain how that’s happened, but they’ll all be fun, especially the two with my good friend Candace Robb and editors from the publisher that issues both our books. It all begins next Friday, January 18, with a talk at Kirkstall Abbey – a place with a very deep history of its own – on the Battle of Holbeck Moor, the incident which kicks off The Dead on Leave. My notes are already prepared…

There will be one more book to come this year, out at the end of September. It’s the sequel to The Hanging Psalm, and it’ll be called The Hocus Girl. Here’s a taste…

 

The man uncurled his fist to show the pocket watch. Candlelight reflected and shimmered on the gold.

‘Open it up,’ Simon Westow said.

Inside the cover, an inscription: From Martha to Walter, my loving husband.

‘See?’ the man said. ‘The real thing, that is. Proper gold. Keeps good time and-’

The knife at his throat silenced him.

‘And it was stolen three days ago,’ Simon said. He held the blade steady, stretching the man’s skin without breaking it. ‘Where’s the rest?’ With a gentle touch, he lifted the watch out of the man’s palm and slipped it into his pocket. ‘Well?’

‘Don’t know.’ The man gasped the words. His head was pushed back against the wall, neck exposed. ‘I bought it from Robby Barstow.’

‘When?’ A little more pressure, enough to bring a single drop of warm blood.

‘Last night.’

The man’s eyes were wide, pleading, the whites showing. It was the truth. He was too terrified to lie.

‘Then you’d best tell Robby I’m coming for him.’

‘What-’ His eyes were wide, pleading.

‘-about the watch?’

‘Yes.’ He breathed out the word, trying not to move at all.

‘Consider it a bad investment.’

Outside, he blinked in the light. A coach rumbled past on the Head Row, the driver trying to make good time on his way to Skipton.

Simon would hunt for Barstow later. The watch was the important item; Walter Haigh was desperate to have it returned, a gift from his late wife. He’d promised a fine reward.

That was what a thief-taker did. Find what had been stolen and return it for a fee.

 

2019…maybe it’s going to be a good year for us all.

Roaring 30s – The Final Part

I hope you’ve enjoyed it, and Happy Holidays to you all!

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

‘Last chance, Sergeant.’ Cogden weighed the weapon in his hand.

Johnny knew he didn’t have a choice. He still didn’t believe the man would kill, not yet. But he daren’t take the risk. With a sigh, he nodded and began to walk forwards.

‘I suppose we’d better go, then.’

‘I’ll be right behind you. I’d advise you not to try anything. Got it all, Timmy?’

Carey nodded. Johnny led the way out of the council chamber, through the back door. Cogden kept the gun barrel against his back, telling him which way to turn, until they came out near the rear entrance to the Civic Hall.

‘One of my men is out there,’ Johnny said.

‘Then you’d better tell him to keep his distance.’

The sunlight seemed very bright, reflecting off the white stone, as he walked out. From the corner of his eye he could see Gorman moving forward and waved him away. A Riley Adelphi was parked at the kerb and Cogden pushed him towards it, yanking the back door open.

‘In.’

He settled on the seat, the leather creaking under him, Cogden next, aiming the gun at his belly. Carey threw the sack on the passenger seat and started the engine, pulling away with a squeal of tyres.

Johnny pulled out his cigarettes and lit one, staring out of the window as the car travelled out towards Headingley, painfully aware of the gun trained on him.

‘At least it’s a pleasant day for a drive.’ He turned to look at Cogden. ‘I hope we’re going somewhere scenic.’

‘How does it feel to be humiliated, Sergeant?’

Johnny thought for a moment.

‘Not as terrible as I’d expected.’ He grinned. ‘But don’t worry, the situation will change.’

‘Oh?’ Cogden cocked his head. ‘From where I’m sitting, you don’t seem to be holding much of a hand.’

‘Do you know who you robbed back there?’

‘Councillors, employees, spectators.’ He shrugged.

‘One of whom was the biggest criminal boss in Leeds. Have you ever heard of Balthazer Jones?’ Cogden shook his head. ‘You will,’ Johnny told him. ‘No doubt about that. And you won’t be a pretty sight when he’s done with you.’ He raised his voice. ‘Neither of you will.’

‘He’ll still have to catch us first. You haven’t managed it.’

‘I’d be far more worried about him, if I were you.’ He shifted on the seat and faced Cogden. ‘The best thing you two can do is give yourselves up. You’ll be safe then.’ He paused. ‘Safer, anyway.’

‘A nice fiction, Sergeant.’

‘Fact,’ Johnny told him.

‘Full marks for creativity. Do you mind if I call you Johnny?’ He waved the gun around the car, speeding out into the country beyond Weetwood. ‘Given the situation, I think we can skip the formalities.’

‘Feel free. I wasn’t lying about Barry Jones, by the way. He’s a dangerous man.’

‘He’d have to find us first.’

‘He will,’ Johnny promised. ‘If it’s the last thing he does.’

They passed the turning to Yeadon and continued out towards Otley. He’d been there the year before, a picnic up on the Chevin with Violet on a balmy summer’s evening. Carey geared down for a corner and started on the long hill down towards the town. Halfway down, Cogden tapped Carey on the shoulder.

‘Pull over here,’ he ordered. As the car juddered to a halt, he turned to Johnny. ‘End of the line for you.’ He levelled the pistol. ‘Time you had a bit of a walk. Can’t take you with us, I’m afraid, but thank you for the company.’

Warily, Johnny opened the door and stood on the gravel at the side of the road.

‘I’d say goodbye, but we’ll be seeing each other again.’

‘I do hope so.’ Cogden smiled. ‘I really do.’ He turned to Carey. ‘Let’s go.’

 

It took him almost half an hour of tramping along to reach the small police station in Otley. A constable glanced up in surprise when he opened the door.

‘Hello,’ Johnny said, looking around and smelling the beeswax of the polished wood. ‘I’m Sergeant Williams from Leeds CID. Would you mind if I used your telephone? And could someone make a cup of tea?’

Randall picked up on the first ring.

‘Where are you?’

‘Otley.’

‘Cogden and his friend?’

‘Gone. There wasn’t much I could do to stop them.’

‘I heard what happened at the Civic Hall,’ the superintendent told him. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘Not a scratch. He was quite the gentlemen. The worst is sore feet.’

‘You know Barry Jones was there? He’s seething.’

‘I’m sure he is.’

‘We’d better catch them before he does.’

‘I warned them. They decided to take their chances.’

‘Any idea where they’ve gone?’

‘Too many possibilities. Ilkley, Skipton, up into the Dales…’

‘Right. Get back to town. We’ll talk in the morning.’

Johnny put the receiver back on the cradle and looked at the constable. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a lift back to Leeds, too, is there?’

 

They were sitting in the bar of the Queen’s Hotel.  He’d telephoned Violet from Otley, hearing a slight gasp before she cleared her throat and asked,

‘So why did he kick you out?’ Her voice was raspy on the line. ‘Did you bore him?’

‘Hardly. I was the soul of wit and information.’

‘There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.’

At the table he could see the relief in her eyes. She’d hugged him close when he walked in.

‘What do you think your friend Barry will do?’ Violet asked as she took a sip of her martini.

‘He won’t be happy, that’s for certain. Barry will want his pound of flesh.’ Johnny grimaced. ‘Probably literally, for a stunt like that. If I don’t find them first, there won’t be anything left to find.’

‘And there’s the rub,’ she said. ‘You won’t need your plan with Mad Mike and his chums.’

‘Very true,’ he agreed. ‘From where they dropped me off, they could have gone into the Dales. Or headed back to Leeds.’

‘Do you think Cogden would have hurt someone?’

‘Oh, I don’t believe so. But I couldn’t take the chance. And I knew he wouldn’t kill me.’

‘He might if he’d spent more time with you.’ She paused. ‘Where do you think he is? What does your gut tell you?’

He drained the last of the whisky and soda.

‘My gut says it’s time to eat. The rest can wait until morning.’

 

‘I couldn’t have done anything,’ Gorman said. ‘Not when he had that gun on you.’

‘I was safe enough. Cogden fancied a drive in the country, that’s all.’

Johnny had seen the Yorkshire Post. News of the raid covered the front page, a mix of outrage and admiration. There were interviews with councillors and clerks. They wanted Cogden caught as soon as possible, demanding that the police do their job. He was growing tired of reading the phrase.

‘Jones is going to be hunting him,’ Randall pointed out. ‘As well as Fish and that lot.’

‘And we don’t even know where to start,’ Gorman added. He was the type to wear his hat in the office.

‘Neither does Barry,’ Johnny said. ‘That’s one thing.’

‘Where do we start?’ asked Forbes.

‘Leeds,’ Johnny told him. ‘This is where they operate. They won’t be too far away.’

‘So you don’t believe they’re up in the Dales?’ Randall asked.

Johnny shook his head.

‘Not once I had chance to think about it. They have somewhere close. The car would have been loaded otherwise. The loot’s stashed somewhere, and that’s where they are.’

Silence filled the room.

‘We’d better get to it, then,’ Johnny said brightly. He took the trilby off his desk and tapped it on his head. ‘You know the routine, gentlemen. Places to go, people to see, questions to ask.’

‘A minute before you go,’ Randall said, and disappeared into his office. Johnny followed. ‘Close the door,’ Randall told him.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s all very well sounding chipper, but we don’t have a clue right now, do we?’

‘Keep digging and we will.’

‘How dangerous do you think Cogden really is?’

He’d thought about it in bed, lying awake as Violet snored softy in her sleep. This time the man had been fine, threatening but not deadly. But in future…

‘I don’t think he’ll want to go to jail,’ Johnny answered, as if that said everything. ‘I’m not sure about Carey; he seemed more scared than anything, just doing what he’s told.’

‘You think they’ll shoot before we take them?’

He took a long time to answer.

‘Cogden probably will.’

 

The Webley felt awkward in his suit pocket. It ruined the line and dragged down on the material. He’d never handled one in his life – during the war it had been an officer’s weapon in the war – and he wouldn’t be able to draw the damn thing quickly. Carrying it around, the weight so ominous, he seemed foolish.

But Randall had insisted. When they found Cogden and Carey, if they couldn’t persuade them to surrender, it could come to guns, and he wanted his officers to be prepared. As he drove the Austin out to Alwoodley, though, it simply didn’t feel right. Carefully, he removed it from his jacket and tucked it under the seat. Immediately, the world seemed brighter.

Anna Bramley was in the house, listening to recordings on the phonograph as she stared out of the window at the back garden. She had a pile of discs next to the machine, the new Al Bowlly record, “The Very Thought Of You,’ playing as the maid ushered him into the living room.

He wait until it finished, the needle clicking in the groove, before he coughed. She turned sharply, eyes widening as she saw him.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Johnny said.

‘I was miles away. His voice always does that to me.’ She settled in a chair.

‘I saw your boyfriend yesterday.’

There was a flicker behind her eyes, then a sad smile.

‘My former boyfriend,’ she told him. ‘Mummy and Daddy insisted I drop him.’

‘Has he rung?’

‘Twice. They put the ‘phone down on him.’

‘But that doesn’t stop you being in touch.’

Anna gave him an enigmatic look.

‘Why would you think that?’

‘Because I was young once. You heard about what happened yesterday?’

‘Daddy took great pleasure in reading out the newspaper story over breakfast.’

‘There’s one thing that’s not in there. One of the men he robbed yesterday really is one of the most dangerous men in Leeds. He’ll be looking for revenge, and it’ll be a damn sight worse than if I arrest him.’

‘You said that about those other men, too.’

‘I know, but this one trumps them all.’

‘Did you tell Charlie that?’

‘I did, but don’t think he wanted to believe me. I’d like you to tell him.’

‘If we had a way of being in touch, of course.’ There was a brief, faint smile.

‘Of course.’ He didn’t say anything for a long time. ‘I’m serious about this, Miss Bramley. The man will hunt him down and he’ll make sure Charlie pays for it.’

‘If he’s that dangerous, why don’t you arrest him?’ she asked.

‘He’s clever. There’s a difference between knowing something and being able to prove it. And he’ll keep it that way with Charlie. There probably won’t even be a body to find.’

Maybe it was an exaggeration, but probably not by much. For all his grandfatherly exterior, Jones was ruthless when he was crossed. He wouldn’t let this stand. And even in retirement, he could marshal an army of men eager to find favour with him.

Anna Bramley was quiet, staring down at the ground. Finally, she raised her head.

‘What happens if you find him, Sergeant?’

‘He’ll go to jail for a long time. He’s committed crimes, he’s used a gun, he’s taken hostages.’

She nodded.

‘But he’ll be alive?’

‘As long as he gives himself up.’

‘If we’re in touch, I’ll tell him,’ she said. ‘If.’

‘I appreciate that, Miss Bramley.’

 

At the garage on Meanwood Road, he took Arthur Harris aside and told him the same thing. The lad seemed to have settled in well, grease all over his hands and face, and an approving nod from Colin. He seemed more confident and relaxed than the boy he’d chased at the midget car races.

Johnny doubted that Harris still had any contact with Cogden, but he was happy to try every avenue to reach him. Arthur just shook his head.

‘I don’t know,’ was all he’d say. ‘I can tell people, but I don’t think anyone knows him.’

‘Tell everyone,’ Johnny advised. ‘The more people know about it, the better.’

Finally, he made the trip he’d kept putting off. Cogden’s parents. He knew they disapproved of everything their son had done; they’d given Violet a statement about it for the newspaper. But even so, they might be able to offer some help.

They were a disconsolate, quiet couple. Cases of butterflies with their colourful wings lined the walls of their living room, along with dark wooden bookshelves filled with thick volumes. They sat, hunched over, on a small settee, the radio standing in the corner.

‘We’re ashamed of him,’ William Cogden admitted. He was a slight, anonymous man, with none of his son’s charm and confidence. He took off his spectacles and polished them on his shirtsleeve, then placed one veiny hand over his wife’s. She wore an old cardigan and skirt, her feet in slippers, a handkerchief balled between thin fingers. ‘He was such a lovely boy when he was young. We don’t know what happened to him.’

There was a private income; Cogden had never needed to work. The house was quite modest, filled with dead insects and books on nature. The wholesome smell of bread baking in the kitchen. They’d given him weak tea and tried to avoid the topic of Charlie.

‘We don’t understand what he’s become,’ Mrs. Cogden said. ‘It’s been such a strain on us. Last year we had to tell him not to come home again. He apologised, and after a month we let him back in. But he hadn’t changed. Not really.’

‘Used the place like a hotel,’ Mr. Cogden continued. ‘But we just didn’t have the heart to kick him out again.’ He gave Johnny a plaintive look. ‘He’s our only child, you see.’

‘Do you have any idea at all where he might be? He’s in danger.’ He didn’t want to say more than that and add to their worries.

‘No,’ Mr. Cogden told him simply. ‘We don’t.’

‘There’s…’ Mrs. Cogden began, then stopped.

‘Who?’ Johnny asked.

‘Ralph. Bea’s brother.’ He patted his wife’s hand. ‘He and Charlie always had a soft spot for each other.’

‘Do you have his address?’

 

Ralph Warner lived in a comfortable bachelor’s house. He could have been close to sixty – any age between fifty to eighty, really – looked after by a housekeeper who came in twice a day to prepare his meals and clean.

He carried the contented air of a man happy in his life, books lining the walls in every room, a partner’s desk filling the parlour. He sat on one side, smoking his pipe, Johnny on the other with a cigarette.

‘Charlie,’ Warner said thoughtfully. ‘He always had a streak of wildness in him. Have you met my sister?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lovely woman, but no presence about her. Same with that husband of hers. It’s like talking to a pair of damp blankets, unless you get started them started on entomology, and I’ve learned not to do that. I’m not surprised Charlie turned out the way he did.’

‘When did you last see him?’

Warner sat and thought, then took a diary from the pocket of his waistcoat and riffled through it.

‘Must have been a month ago,’ he answered eventually. ‘I was about to leave for a do at the Leeds Club and he showed up out of the blue.’

‘What did he want?’

‘The key to a little place I have. Get away there sometimes. I let him use it. It’s quiet, and I think he has a few friends over. Bit of a party.’

‘Did he return the key?’

‘Oh yes,’ Warner replied with a broad smile. ‘Always does. Brought it back on the Monday morning, although he looked the worse for wear.’ He gave a small chuckle of envy. ‘Not seen any sight of him since, of course. He’s going to jail, isn’t he?’

‘He is,’ Johnny agreed. ‘Worse if someone else finds him first.’

‘What?’

He explained the situation. Warner rubbed his chin, then reached into one of the desk drawers, sorted through some items and brought out a key.

‘He might have gone there, I suppose. You’d better see. I’d rather you found him than this other chap.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Acaster Malbis. Not far from York. My father left it to me in his will. It’s nothing much, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Quiet little place, outside the village.’

With the directions in his pocket, Johnny sat in the Swallow. Should he go back for Forbes and Gorman, or simply head out there? Charlie Cogden probably wasn’t even in the place – after all, he’d found out about it without much trouble.

Back to the station, he’d decided. Better to have too many men around, just in case Cogden was there. They daren’t let him slip through the net again. He was about to start the car when Warner rushed out of the front door, waving his arms.

‘I forgot something, Sergeant. Charlie and a chum of his at school used to bicycle out to some bolthole. Out by Wike, I think. I don’t know if that’s any help.’

‘It might be, sir. Thank you. Do you remember his friend’s name?’

The man shook his head.

‘Not the foggiest. They’re all spots and snot at that age. The only reason I even had time for Charlie is because he was my sister’s boy.’

‘I’ll look into it.’ Anything would be worth following.

 

‘That’s what we have,’ he told the others, pointing to two places on the map of Yorkshire. Two hours had passed; a pair of quick visits from a constable and they had the address in Wike.

Forbes and Gorman both looked serious. Randall sat back in his chair, shirtsleeves rolled up, his hair dishevelled from running his hand through it so often.

‘Which would you put your money on?’ he asked.

Johnny had spent the last few minutes turning that over in his mind. Acaster Malbis would come under the York police, and no one wanted them taking the credit for any arrest. The robberies had all taken place in Leeds, and the Leeds police would finish it.

No, that wasn’t quite true: he wanted to finish it himself. He needed to be the one to march Charlie Cogden out in handcuffs. It wasn’t going to be simple. Even if they found them, Cogden wouldn’t give up easily. He could see it all ending in shots and dead bodies.

When was the last time that had happened in Leeds? There had been criminals with guns, but never bullets exchanged.

‘If we have the information, Jones won’t be too far behind,’ Randall warned. ‘You’d better get moving. If they’re not at Wike, ring me, then get over to the other place. I’ll clear it with York. They can back you up.’

‘I’d like to take a sniper rifle,’ Johnny said. He heard Gorman’s snort, but it was his weapon. Pistols had no accuracy. If he really had to shoot, he wanted to be exact.

Randall nodded.

‘That’s fine. But you all know the rules. This isn’t a showdown.’

But that’s exactly what it will be, Johnny thought.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

He’d signed the chit for the weapon, hefting it in his hand, when the desk sergeant dashed in. Forbes and Gorman had already left; Johnny would have to drive fast to catch them.

‘There are reports of shooting out in Wike!’ His eyes looked frantic, all the calm gone from his voice.

Randall shook his head in exasperation.

‘Jones’ people must be better than we thought. I’ll send more men out there.’

‘The fewer, the better,’ Johnny told him. ‘Less chance of us hitting each other.’

The telephone on his desk began to ring and he scooped up the receiver.

‘I’m just heading out there,’ he said.

‘Make sure you look after yourself.’ Violet’s voice was tender.

‘I will.’

‘I haven’t taken out enough life insurance on you yet.’

‘Just let me know when you have.’ He saw Randall glaring at him. ‘I’ve got to go. I shouldn’t be late getting home.’

 

The Swallow had a good engine. His mechanic kept it well tuned, and Johnny roared through the gears along the ring road, through Shadwell and out to Wike, quick enough to see Forbes’ black Ford pulling in just ahead of him.

There was a constable on the scene, and another in the distance, arm raised to stop traffic.

‘Jones beat us to it,’ Johnny said. The others took out their guns and checked the cylinders. He had the rifle. For a moment he considered bringing the Webley, too. But if he couldn’t do the job with one weapon, more wouldn’t help.

‘What do we have?’ he asked the constable.

‘House down the lane, sir. It’s off by itself. As best as I can make out, there are three men outside somewhere. Not sure how many in the place.’

‘Two,’ Johnny told him.

‘I’ve heard five shots myself. There must have been more earlier on, because someone rang up about them.’

‘Right. You just keep everyone away.’ He turned to the pair of detectives. ‘I suppose we’d better sort this out. I’ll take the back, you two flush them out from the front.’

It was the type of work they could do well. In the crunch, they were good men, reliable. He just had to hope they weren’t too eager.

Johnny crept into the woods that bordered the track. It was shady there, and cooler. He watched every step, trying to avoid twigs and branches, bending over to stay low. For a moment he was back on the Western Front, everything so vivid he could almost smell the mud. Then he was back among the trees, the long grass around his legs, eyes searching ahead and his mind focused again.

He stood behind an oak, eyes moving slowly around the landscape. With all the bushes and undergrowth, it would be easy for someone to remain hidden. At least one of Jones’ men would be back here.

Johnny stopped, picked up a small rock and hefted it into the air so that it landed in the open ground between the woods and a small, old cottage. The building was neglected, several slates missing from the roof, the garden left to grow wild.

He waited, then he heard a rustle twenty feet ahead of him. Someone moving, yet trying to be quiet. Scarcely daring to breathe, Johnny went very carefully, circling around behind the noise until he could see the man.

He wore a cheap suit and a pair of brogues, the hat tilted back on his head, a pistol hanging from his hand. He was peering towards the house, trying to see a target.

Johnny took one silent pace. Then another. He brought up the sniper rifle, extending it until it jabbed the man’s back.

‘You might as well put down the gun,’ he said quietly and bushed the barrel a little deeper into the man’s spine. ‘Now, please.’

The weapon dropped into the grass and the man straightened.

‘Very good,’ Johnny told him. ‘Arms behind you, please.’

It took a minute to march a man to a suitable sapling and cuff his wrists around the trunk.

‘I’ll be back for you later. Make sure you don’t go away.’

He picked up the pistol, a Colt. Suddenly there was a bust of gunfire from the other side of the house, too many shots to count within a few seconds, then a heavy silence. The harsh smell of cordite drifted through the air.

Johnny walked across the open space, rifle in one hand, pistol in the other. He made no attempt to hide; it was safer to be obvious. In the garden he waited, listening. There was a soft sound from inside the house, a low moaning.

The back door was old, warped wood, probably half of it rotten. Softly, he tried the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. Johnny took a breath, stood back and kicked. The door rocked back. For a second, Johnny didn’t move, then strode into the building. It was hot and stuffy, the smells heavy and rotten.

He went from the scullery at the back into what might have been a parlour. Carey was lying on the floor, blood on the wooden boards around him, one hand over a wound in his stomach. Johnny kicked the shotgun away and knelt by him.

‘I’ll get an ambulance here for you. Where’s Charlie?’

‘Gone.’ The man managed a quick smile that turned into a rictus of pain. ‘He knew you’d find us. He didn’t believe you about the others.’

‘Don’t worry about them. Where’s he gone?’

Carey drew a breath.

‘He said to tell you Leeds icon.’

The man needed a hospital if he was going to survive. And that meant getting him out of here quickly. Johnny stood and shouted,

‘It’s Sergeant Williams. Best to drop your guns. We have more men out there.’

He waited for a shot, but none came. Instead, Gorman yelled,

‘We’ve got them.’

He unlocked the door and strode out.

‘We need an ambulance here. Carey’s hurt. I’ve got one of Jones’ men at the back, don’t forget him.’

Gorman came out of the undergrowth.

‘Two of them here. They won’t be giving any trouble.’

‘Cogden’s gone. I’m going after him.’

In the car, he tossed the weapons on the passenger seat, turned the Austin around and speeded back to town. An icon, he thought. Why did the man have to be so bloody cryptic?

He parked at the station, carrying the weapons into the building and returning the sniper rifle and Webley. He kept the Colt he’d taken from Jones’ man.

Randall listened intently as Johnny recounted what had happened.

‘Forbes rang. They found most of the loot at that house. Carey’s on his way to hospital.’

‘He’ll probably survive. It’s Cogden I want. He’s leading me around by the nose.’

‘Town Hall,’ the superintendent said thoughtfully and looked up. When Johnny cocked his head, he explained, ‘Leeds icon. It has to be.’

‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘Well, I’d better get over there and dig him out, I suppose.’

As he turned to leave, the telephone rang on the superintendent’s desk. Randall picked up the receiver, listened, then said, ‘I’ll tell him,’ and put it back on the cradle. Johnny cocked an eyebrow. ‘Chummy called the Evening Post. A reporter’s gone over there.’

‘Don’t tell me…’

‘Afraid so. I’ll order the area blocked off.’

 

Damn the woman, Johnny thought as he hurried up East Parade. Cogden knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted her there, not any reporter. He crossed the Headrow and Victoria Square, then up the steps between the lions and into the Town Hall.

There was a hushed feel to the building, a commissionaire behind his lectern, ready to direct people. Johnny showed his warrant card and climbed the steps. He knew exactly where Cogden would be. Up at the top, outside on the platform by the clock. On display. He’d want people to see whatever he was going to do.

The Colt weighed heavily in his pocket.

It was a steep climb up several flights of dirty stairs. Light leaked around the edges of the door leading out to the ledge. He grasped the handle, turned it, and emerged into the sunlight.

Cogden was in the corner, leaning back casually against the sooty stone balustrade. He had a pistol in his right hand, trained on Violet. She was standing stock still, her back to Johnny.

‘Very happy you could make the party, Sergeant. Fashionably late, I see.’

‘Only because I didn’t have to wait for my wife this time.’ He glanced out at the rooftops of Leeds and the people below. Some had gathered and were pointing upwards. ‘Nice location, but it’s not much of a do yet.’

‘I thought I’d keep it intimate. Just the three of us. If you take a look behind you, there’s a bottle of champagne. Be a good fellow and open it, will you? I’m a little occupied at the moment.’ His wrist moved and the gun flickered.

‘No glasses?’ Violet asked.

‘We’re roughing it.’

‘Not even chilled,’ Johnny said as he picked it up. He removed the wire and let the cork pop. Up so high, it sounded like a gunshot. He heard a woman scream down on the pavement. ‘Bottoms up,’ he said as he took a swig,’ then handed the bottle to Violet. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘Never need an excuse to enjoy champagne, do you?’ Cogden said brightly.

‘Of course not.’ Violet stared at him. ‘But the gun is a little off-putting.’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s a professional necessity. And your husband has one.’

‘Don’t worry about him. He won’t draw it unless he has to.’

‘Oh?’ Cogden looked at Johnny.

‘Comes with the territory.’ He paused. ‘So how many of us will go back down?’

‘We’ll all go down. Not sure which way.’

‘I’d rather use the stairs,’ Violet said. ‘Slower, but not as messy.’

‘And you, Sergeant?’

‘Oh, I agree with my wife for once.’

‘I could always take her down with me.’

‘You could,’ Johnny agreed, ‘but I’ve rather grown used to her.’

Smiling, Cogden turned his head to take in the view. As he did, Violet raised the bottle and brought it down on his head. He staggered and dropped the gun.

Before he could recover, Johnny had drawn his pistol.

‘I should have warned you,’ he said. ‘You can never turn your back on her.’

Violet arched an eyebrow.

‘I’ll remember you said that.’

Johnny took out the handcuffs.

‘No grand exit, I’m afraid. But perhaps it’s better this way.’

 

They were sitting in the cocktail bar at the Metropole Hotel. Violet was sipping her Brandy Alexander and Johnny had a Scotch and soda sitting on the table. A trio of violin, piano and cello was playing at the other end of the room.

‘I feel a little sorry for him,’ she said finally.

‘Don’t,’ Johnny said. ‘He’s a criminal, remember that. He did all this very deliberately.’

‘But he had some style, you have to admit that.’

‘He did,’ Johnny acknowledged.

‘And you did it, you know,’ Violet told him.

‘Did what?’

‘Caught him in a fortnight. Today was the last day.’

He smiled.

‘How much did you make?’

‘Not much.’

‘I see.’

‘I was thinking…’ she began.

Johnny looked at her.

‘What?’

‘Something you said earlier – “You could, but I’ve grown used to her”’

‘”Rather grown used to her,” if you’re going to quote me. Why?’

‘What do they call it when you kill your husband?’ she asked sweetly.

‘Murder.’

‘Not justifiable wotsits?’

Definitely murder,’ he assured her.

‘Oh well,’ Violet said. ‘It doesn’t matter then.’ She drained her glass. ‘Are we going to have another?’

Thank You and Good Wishes

It’s that time, the year drawing to a close. Celebrations and reflections.

And time for me to thank you, all of you, for reading what I write. You make it worthwhile, the bloggers, reviewers, the people who finish one of my books and hopefully enjoy it. Without that, well, there would be nowhere near as much point in doing it.

It’s been quite a year, with high points and turns into the unexpected. My involvement with The Vote Before The Vote exhibition might have been small, but one of the most important things I’ve done. It celebrated the Victorian women from Leeds who laid the foundation for 1918 and 1928, giving the vote to all women. And as a bonus, having Annabelle Harper as part of it wrote her into the fabric of Leeds history.

A play with live jazz. New Briggate Blues, my chance to celebrate Studio 20. Two sold-out performances, and a success because of the director, Ray Brown, the cast and musicians. Remarkable.

I published three books and i’m immensely proud of them all. But The Tin God will always stand head and shoulders above them in my mind. It’s Annabelle’s book, and it feels like the one I was made to write. Something that does her real justice, and I’m so pleased to have been the conduit for that. Even finished the year with a review of it in an academic journal, the first (and probably the last) time that’s happened.

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So thank you, every one of you, and I hope 2019 sees all of us with peace and health.