Chris Nickson's Blog, page 22

The Holy City: An Annabelle Harper Story

Leeds, Summer 1898

 

No rest for the wicked, Annabelle Harper thought as she picked up the post. A card on top with a view of Masham. Jotted on the back: Staying here tonight. There’s a brewery, it smells like when I worked at Brunswick’s! Beautiful weather, we’ll come home brown as berries. Love, Tom. And underneath, in a careful hand: And Mary.

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She smiled and placed it on the mantlepiece with the other two. One a day, exactly as he’d promised. High summer, 1898, and her husband had taken their daughter on holiday to the Dales. He had a week’s leave, school had finished. But no chance for a Poor Law Guardian to take a little time away.

Three people had needed assistance yesterday, two the day before, five on Monday. That was always the worst day. Wages spent, everything worth even a couple of pennies hauled off to the pawnshop. Some she’d been able to help. Others she’d had to turn away, hurting at the hopelessness on their faces. Things were always bad in Sheepscar. Worse in other parts of Leeds, she knew that. But a year of this work had shown her that not everything was possible. She’d learned to steel her heart; sometimes she had no choice.

But she was the won who’d wanted to run for the position. She’d won the vote, and now she had to do the job. A pile of papers sat on the table needing her attention. Reports from the workhouse, minutes from the last Guardians meeting. And barely a minute to read them. She glanced at the clock, then strode over to the mirror, pinning her hat in place before she wrapped a light shawl around her shoulders.

Downstairs, the bar at the Victoria was quiet. A couple of older men ekeing out the boredom of their days by playing game after game of dominoes and cribbage while they sipped at halves of mild. A quick word with Dan the barman, a pull of the door and she came out into the clatter and din of Roundhay Road. Already warm, the sky hazy, the streets heavy with soot and dust and all the stink of industry.

Annabelle had barely started walking when a man called her name. She turned, seeing Reverend Fletcher hurrying to catch up to her. He looked like a figure of fun, a large man with a red, florid face above the dog collar and a belly that wobbled as he tried to move quickly. But he was a good soul, doing what he could to help the poor in his parish. She couldn’t help but have a soft spot for him.

‘Mrs. Harper. I’m glad I caught you.’ Just ten yards and he was already out of breath, she thought. He lifted his straw hat and panted.

‘Pleased to see you, too, Reverend. If there’s something you need, you’d better walk with me, I’m already late.’ She nodded towards the distance. ‘I’m due at the workhouse in a quarter of an hour.’

‘Of course.’

She kept a brisk pace, nodding at shopkeepers and folk she saw on the way to the junction with Enfield Street. He had to move quickly to keep pace.

‘There’s someone I’d like you to see, if you’d be so good,’ Fletcher said.

‘One of your flock? Is the family having money problems? Out of work?’

He hesitated before answering, just long enough to make her turn her head and stare.

‘No, it’s nothing like that. He’s only been in Leeds for a few weeks now, still has a pound to his name.’

She stopped, hands on her hips.

‘I don’t understand, then. What do you need with a Guardian?’

‘He’s staying at the Vicarage. With his wife and children.’ A shy smile crossed Fletcher’s face. ‘If you could call around later. Just for a minute or two. I’d be very grateful.’

Annabelle narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re being very cagey. What’s it all about?’

Fletched tightened his mouth, then shook his head. ‘I’d rather you made up your own mind. Shall we say this afternoon?’ He raised his hat again, turned and strode away.

Always someone, she thought as the made her way through the back streets and up the hill to the workhouse.

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By the time she walked back out into the air, she was fuming. The same thing as ever: the sheer ignorance of the male Guardians. No clue what women needed when they had their monthlies. Half of them probably didn’t even know such a thing existed; if they ever found out, they’d be terrified.

She breathed deeply, standing until she could feel the pounding in her chest slow down, then crossed the street to Beckett Street Cemetery. The only piece of green around here. A moment or two by Tom Maguire’s headstone, thinking of the man, wondering what he’d make of her now. Then to a bench that nestled in a spot of sunlight.

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A few minutes and she was composed again, all the anger tamped down for another few days. Until the next time she visited.

Annabelle stood, dusted off her gown and started to walk home. A quick stop at a bakery for a tongue sandwich and a fancy to go with her tea later. It was only as she strolled down Rosebud Walk, brown paper bags in hand, that she remembered she’d agreed to go and see Reverend Fletcher’s visitor. Pushed into it, more like.

Well, that was the afternoon going through the pub accounts up the spout.

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St. Cuthbert’s sat in the sun. The hall had been rebuilt after last year’s bomb. She only had to look at it to remember the noise that filled her head that evening, all the smoke, the stink of gunpowder, and the broken body of Mr. Harkness, the caretaker.

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Annabelle straightened her shoulders, trying to put the past to the back of her mind, and brought her hand down on the knocker of the vicarage.

‘Hello, Mrs. Harper, luv,’ the housekeeper said with a warm smile. ‘He said you might be dropping in. Always a pleasure to see you.’

‘He asked me to come and meet your guest.’

‘Yes.’ The woman’s face clouded. ‘Well…’

‘A strange one?’ Annabelle asked.

‘You could say that.’ She frowned as stood aside, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Come on through, luv. He’s in the back parlour.’

‘What about his wife and children?’

‘Child,’ the woman corrected her. ‘They’re out,’ she said darkly.

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Annabelle blinked in the bright sunlight and started to walk down the street. She stopped, half-turned, then carried on towards home.

Well, she’d certainly never met anyone like that. Even when she was sitting upstairs at the Victoria with a cup of tea, she still didn’t have a clue what to make of him. Who on earth would walk all the way from London because God had told him to bring the light to the people of Leeds? If he’d come alone it would be bad enough, but to drag a wife and two-year-old boy with him…

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His name was Harry Walton. He was small, shifty, not much to him, probably no taller than five feet three, skin and bone from weeks on the tramp. But there was an intensity to his eyes that worried her. In his voice, too. He spoke with the kind of certainty she’d heard before in con men with something to sell. But he didn’t seem to want anything.

‘Leeds is the holy city. The Lord told me that.’ He stared straight at her as her spoke, unblinking behind his spectacles.

‘The holy city?’ Annabelle asked. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I’ve lived here all my life. Take it from me, there’s nothing holy about it.’

‘The people here will be saved if they rid themselves of evil. God told me. That’s why He sent me here, to reform them.’

Round and round for more than half an hour, until she felt overwhelmed, her head spinning.

‘What about your family?’ she asked finally.

‘They go where I go.’ He spoke the words with absolute finality, as if they’d been ordained. Maybe he believed they had.

Time to see about that, Annabelle thought as she finished the cup of tea and carried it through to the kitchen. See what the woman felt about it all. The pastry sat, barely touched on the plate. Too dry, no flake to the crust. If Mary had been here, she’d have wolfed it down. That girl had an appetite like a gannet.

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This time the reverend answered the door himself. He looked surprised to see her, recovering his manners after a second.

‘Come in, Mrs. Harper. Come in. Forgive me, the housekeeper told me you were here this afternoon.’

‘I was,’ she answered with a soft smile. ‘I’ve come back to see the man’s wife.’

‘Ah,’ Fletcher said. ‘And what did you make of the gentleman?’

‘Honestly?’ she said. ‘Happen he believes everything he says. But holy city and cleansing the place, reforming it? I think he’s got something up his sleeve that we haven’t seen yet. Either that or he’s a bit touched.’

‘Men of God have often been viewed that way.’

‘Is that what you think he is?’ she asked.

Reverent Fletcher spread his hand, palms upwards.

‘I wish there was a way to know. But he’s right that we need to be rid of sin here, isn’t he?’

‘What? Like drinking?’ She had a twinkle in her eye. He knew exactly what she did for money.

He laughed. ‘Wine is there in the Bible, Mrs. Harper. Jesus even changed water into it at a wedding feast.’

‘He’d be welcome at the Victoria to do that any night he wants, although they’d prefer it was beer,’ she said, and suddenly realised she might have gone too far. ‘No offense, Reverend.’

‘None taken. I’ll have the lady attend you here, if that’s fine.’

‘Perfect.’

One minute stretched to two, then five, before the door opened and the woman entered.

Not a woman, Annabelle thought. A girl. She had to be thirty years younger than the man. Probably not a day over seventeen, looking shy and cowed.

‘Come on in and sit yourself down.’

Stick legs under a thin cotton dress. Boots with worn soles and woollen stockings she’d darned too many times. Hands as rough as sandpaper.

‘I’m Mrs. Harper. The Reverend asked me if I’d have a word with you and your husband.’ Not quite the truth, but close enough. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Julia.’

‘That’s a pretty name. I like that. My mother lumbered me with Annabelle. I’ve always thought it sounds like it should be the name for a flower.’

The girl was too timid to respond.

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Two years,’ Julia answered. ‘Just after Samuel was born. He’s my son.’ She had the same rounded London vowels as her husband, so strange and out of place. But there was nothing educated about either of them.

‘The reverend said you had a child. A bonny little lad, I bet.’

‘He is.’ Her face came alive. ‘He takes so much time. And he’s always so hungry.’

Annabelle smiled. ‘It doesn’t get any better. My daughter’s six and she has hollow legs.’ She paused for a second. ‘Do you mind if I ask your age, Julia?’

A small hesitation. ‘I’m nineteen.’

That was a lie, Annabelle thought, but she’d let it pass.

‘How do you like being on the tramp?’

‘I don’t.’ Her mouth turned down at the corners. ‘My feet hurt all the time. This is the best place we’ve been since we left London. But I know we’re going to have to find somewhere else soon.’

‘I came and talked to your husband this afternoon, but you and your lad were out. Taking a look around?’

The girl shook her head. ‘Harry sends us out to beg. He says a woman and child bring in more than a man.’

Well, she though, he might have his eyes set on a holy city, but he kept a thought for bringing in the brass.

‘Do you make much?’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘Most of the time a rozzer will come and move us on. I was arrested once, when we were in Birmingham.’ Her face fell at the memory. ‘Seven days of hard labour and they almost took Samuel away from me.’

‘You must love your husband to do all this.’

‘He says it’s a wife’s duty to obey. A woman has to follow a man’s desires.’ She sounded as if she was repeating words she’d heard far too often.

‘How did you end up marrying him? There’s…’

‘I know. He’s a lot older.’ The deadness came back to her. She looked around, as if someone else might have come in and be hiding in the corner, listening. ‘Harry used to play cards with my pa. They worked together.’ Annabelle felt the first prickle up her spine, the sense that she knew exactly what was coming. ‘My pa had a losing night, so he told Harry he could have a poke of me and they’d all be square.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Fourteen.’

‘What about your mam? Where was she?’

‘She left when I was ten,’ Julia said. Her shoulders slumped. ‘Everything was good when she was still there.’

‘You and Harry…’ Annabelle said.

‘He got me…’ She blushed and lowered her gaze. ‘My pa told him he had to marry me to make it right. And pay a him a…something, I don’t remember what.’

‘A dowry?’

‘Yes. I think that was it.’

Annabelle sat quietly, thinking, then asked: ‘Tell me something, luv. Are you happy with Harry?’

‘Happy?’ Julia said, as if she’d never heard the word before, never considered the idea.

‘Do you love him?’

She shook her head, moving it quickly from side to side like a little girl.

‘Not like I loved my mother.’ She leaned forward and her voice softened to a whisper. ‘He hurts me when we…you know… and he hits me if I do something he doesn’t like.’

So much for any kind of holy man. Had his feet near the devil, like so many of them.

‘What do you want? For you and little Samuel?’

‘Want?’ She frowned, confused. ‘I don’t know. No one’s ever asked me that before.’ A moment passed, then she started to answer, voice like a child wishing for the Christmas presents that would never arrive: ‘A place we didn’t have to leave. Enough to eat. Not to ache from walking all the time. Things to make Sammy smile.’

Hardly reaching for the moon. Things any mother wanted. Yet Annabelle knew half the women she saw every week didn’t have them. They turned up to see her, clutching their sorrows close, hiding the bruises they claimed came from walking into doors and filled with the same of asking for something.

Annabelle knew how she must appear to the girl. A grand lady in an elaborate frock and big hat. A Poor Law Guardian with all sorts of power. But Julia was a stranger here, lost in an unfamiliar place. A stranger in her own life, really. She’d never had a chance to grow up the way a child should.

‘Have you ever worked before? What can do you?’

‘I was in a match factory for two years. But it was making me ill so I had to stop. I kept being sick. My pa belted me for that. He didn’t see the use of me if I couldn’t bring in money.’

‘Anything else?’

She blushed hard and stared down at her feet again.

‘Harry had me on the game for a little while. I had to stop when I started to…’ She curved a hand around her belly.

‘I want to ask you something.’

‘You’ve already been asking me things, missus.’

‘I know, but this is…well,’ Annabelle smiled and softened her voice. ‘It won’t go past these four walls, word of honour. If you had your druthers, would you stay with him?’

The girl looked up, pain showing in her eyes.

‘What else could I do? There isn’t anywhere me and Sammy could go.’

‘If someone could find a place. Somewhere safe. Would you stay with him then?’

Julia didn’t hesitate. ‘No. But I can’t go back to my pa. I won’t do that.’

Of course not; he’d beat her and sell her all over again.

‘I know. Look, I can’t make you any promises, but let me see what I can do.’ She took out her purse and counted out three pennies. ‘You buy your little lad something with that. And don’t let your husband know you have it.’

‘I won’t, missus. I swear.’ She clutched the coins in her fist as if they were the most precious gift she’d ever been given. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow.’

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Reverend Fletcher closed the front door behind them, staring across at the church.

‘All this talk about the holy city,’ Annabelle began. ‘It’s a con. He’s no more got religion that I have.’

‘But…he sounds so sincere.’

‘That’s his game. Do you want to know the truth. He won that lass from her father in a card game, he’s had her out on the streets.’ She saw him wince. ‘He’s happy to have her and their lad out begging to support him. Does that sound like a man of God to you?’

‘No,’ Fletcher admitted. ‘I suppose I’m gullible. He must have seen it. But what do you want me to do? Throw them all out on the streets?’

‘Give me a day,’ she said. ‘I’ll see what I can come up with for her and the boy. But I’ll tell you this – I won’t lift a finger to help him. If I were you, once they’re gone, I’d toss him out on his ear. Let him find a proper job.’ Her face turned grim. ‘If he doesn’t, I’ll have one of Tom’s men run him in for vagrancy.’

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An evening of bustling around, feeling like she was shuttling from pillar to post and back again. The books would have to wait for another day.

She didn’t sleep well, thrashing around and throwing the covers off in the summer heat. The bed felt too big without Tom here, and the morning was empty of all the bustle of her husband and Mary. Cooking breakfast just for herself seemed like a chore. It left her lonely. She rushed through it, washed the pots and was out of the door by seven. Another postcard from Middleham waiting on the mat. Home on Sunday written on the back. Not long now, she though as she put it in her reticule.

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The problem was finding a place for the girl and her son to live, and someone to look after the boy. There were jobs out there, maybe nothing much, but enough to keep body and soul together.

By dinnertime she’d talked herself hoarse, wheedled, pulled in favours from people she’d helped in the past. Finally she secured the offer of a room for Julia Walton and her son. Just for a month, but the woman in the house was willing to look after Samuel. That would give her the breathing space to find a job and come up with somewhere else to live.

Annabelle paid the month’s lodging. It seemed only fair. She was the one encouraging the girl to leave her husband; this might be enough to help her take that step. All too often she’d seen the way women with no money were too scared to go. God knew she couldn’t help them all, but even one…it was a start. Didn’t matter that she wasn’t from round here. Perhaps it was more important because she was a stranger in Leeds, with no family or friends to turn to. Being alone brought desperation.

One final stop. The tram down to Millgarth police station, a few words and a laugh with Sergeant Tollman on the desk, then through to see Inspector Ash. It seemed strange to see someone else behind her husband’s desk, as if he might never return, instead of due back in a couple of days. He rose, looking confused, as she entered the office.

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‘Has something happened to the Superintendent?’

She ginned. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not likely to be stuck there past this week. I’ve come to ask a favour. Can you check the past of someone I met? He’s come from London…’

Home. She treated herself to a cup of tea and settled in the chair, unbuttoning her boots and wiggling her feet. Absolute. Just having the chance to sit, a few minutes to herself, seemed like luxury after all the rushing about.

Then the knock on the door, and a young bobby who’d hardly started to shave was standing there.

‘Inspector Ash asked me to bring you this and wait for a reply.’

‘Come in,’ Annabelle told him. ‘There’s still some left in the pot.’ He waited, shifting nervously from foot to foot, not daring to pour himself a cup of tea. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.’

She unfolded the note. Ash’s copperplate was a joy to read, so much better than her own scrawl.

Harry Walton has a record as long as your arm. Currently wanted in London for passing altered cheques. They asked if we could arrest him. Do you know where he is?

No wonder he’d wanted to vanish. She sat at the table, a piece of paper in front of her, and dipped her nib in the inkwell.

St. Cuthbert’s. Best if it’s first thing tomorrow morning.  He’d find out just how holy this city could be.

‘Give that to him with my thanks, will you?’

‘Yes, missus,’ the lad said, blushing as he corrected himself. ‘Mrs. Harper.’

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The same room, the woman in the same thin, faded dress. The only difference was the boy sitting on the floor, spinning the reverend’s globe again and again, mesmerised by it.

‘That’s it,’ Annabelle said as she finished. ‘It’s yours if you want it.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Julia told her.

‘You don’t have to say a word. Just put your things in a bag and come with me.’

‘Why, though?’ She stared at Annabelle with suspicion. ‘Why me? Us.’

‘Because you need it. I know, there are plenty who do. All I did was talk to a few folk. It wasn’t much.’ She stood and held out her hand. ‘Ready?’

‘What about Harry?’

‘Believe me, you won’t need to worry about him.’

As the vicarage door closed behind them, the light was starting to drift from afternoon into evening.

‘I’m scared,’ Julia said. Samuel marched beside her, clutching tight to her fingers. ‘I’ve never had to look after myself before.’

‘Seems to me you’ve been doing that for most of your life,’ Annabelle told her. She looked down at the boy and stuck out her tongue until he giggled. ‘This time will be better.’

 

I hope you liked it. This story takes place the summer after the vents in The Tin God, and a year before The Leaden Heart (out next March).

Remember, books make great gifts, and I’ve had three out this year – The Tin God, The Dead on Leave, and The Hanging Psalm.

 

 

 

Roaring Thirties Part 2

Yes, the second episode of the novella set in Leeds. If you’re fresh to it, just scroll down for the opening…

CHAPTER FOUR

 

‘The guns aren’t locked up and out of sight?’

‘Well, no.’ The manager shook his head. ‘We’ve never had a problem before.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘There’s one other thing,’ he continued. Williams waited. ‘We also had a pistol in, just repaired. An American Colt automatic from the war.’

‘Can I use your telephone?’ Johnny asked. When Randall came on the line, he explained what had happened. ‘Now they’re dangerous criminals,’ he said.

‘You’d better find them before they have a chance to use those guns. Do you want anyone with you?’

‘Not yet,’ Johnny answered after a little thought. ‘I’ll let you know, sir.’

Before he left, he looked around the shop. The place smelt of gun oil and wood polish, shotguns upright in their racks along the walls behind the counter. Never mind four, they could have made off with a dozen.

‘Just a few last questions.’ He smiled.

‘Of course.’ He could see the relief on the manager’s face.

‘How many guns do you have here?’

‘I don’t know.’ He sounded surprised. ‘Twenty, perhaps.’

Williams waited a moment, pursing his lips.

‘Then why the hell didn’t you shoot the robbers as they were leaving?’ he asked.

 

Violet was already in the upstairs café of the Kardomah when he arrived in a rush. He’d stopped at the station on the way and been caught up writing a report.

‘Am I late?’ he asked.

‘Just fashionable. I ordered for you.’

He glanced at her as the waitress put the plate of liver and onions in front of him. Violet gave him her sweetest smile.

‘I was going to ask if you wanted to visit a couple celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary,’ he said later, drinking his tea and smoking a cigarette.

‘You really know how to show a girl a good time, don’t you?’

‘I try.’

‘Well, I’d love to, but I really need to wash my hair.’

‘You might like this.’

‘Oh?’

‘Do you remember Walter Bosley?’

‘Should I?’

‘You met him at a party once. In his forties, big bruiser of a man.’

‘So far he sounds like half your friends.’

‘He makes sure people stay in line.’

‘With his silver tongue?’

He gave her an enigmatic grin.

‘Something like that. He and his wife are celebrating their silver wedding today.’

‘That sounds lovely, but I’m not sure why you want me there.’

‘I thought it would be good for us to spend more time together.’

 

They stood at the entrance of the Royal in Hunslet. The place was packed, someone against the far wall banging out melodies on the out-of-tune piano. Williams looked around, seeing at least seven men he’d arrested over the years. Bosley, six feet two and eighteen stone, sat in the far corner, looking uncomfortable and cramped in a suit. Next to him, his wife was beaming, a new hat on her head, wearing a floral frock.

‘So why are we here?’ Violet asked quietly.

‘To talk to a few people. There are some who won’t speak to me.’

‘Did you offend them?’

‘They seem to resent going to jail.’

‘What do you want me to ask them? About that gun robbery?’

‘Whether they’ve heard anything about the people doing these bank jobs.’

She opened her mouth, closed it again and stared at him.

‘They’re connected, aren’t they? It was the same people at the gunsmith.’

He nodded.

‘Looks like it,’ Johnny admitted. ‘Come on, we’ll congratulate the happy couple, then we can circulate.’ He shuffled through the crowd to stand in front of Bosley and his wife.

‘Big day, Walter.’ He tipped his hat. ‘Mrs. Bosley, you look a picture.’

The woman blushed.

‘Thank you, love. You brought your wife, too. How are you, dear?’

‘Glad to be here.’ Violet smiled. ‘It’s a big turnout.’

‘A fuss about nowt,’ Walter muttered. ‘She’s making me pay for it all, an’ all.’

‘I’ll leave a drink behind the bar for you both,’ Johnny told him. He winked at Bosley. ‘Just make sure you behave yourselves.’

 

Outside, Violet fanned herself.

‘How did they cram so many people in there? I was starting to feel like a sardine.’

‘But a beautiful one.’

‘A sweaty sardine,’ she corrected him. ‘And flattery will get you absolutely nowhere.’

He glanced back at the pub, the noise of the people spilling out to the dusty street through the open windows.

‘Still, they’re enjoying themselves. With all that lot together, there’ll be a lull in crime this afternoon.’

‘Did you find anything?’ Violet asked.

‘Not unless you count the fact that Simon Bradley’s now wearing a truss for his hernia. You could almost see them shutting up as I approached. How about you? Any luck?’

‘Turns out Albert Riley couldn’t resist me. And he has that delicious Irish brogue.’

‘As well as two convictions for GBH.’

‘Lovely suit, though. I thought he was going to ask me out until I made sure he saw my wedding ring. Anyway, he think they’re from somewhere outside Leeds. Says no one local would dare muscle in on things that way.’ She took a breath. ‘But two of the others reckon they’re just amateurs. Either way, they’re already making a book on how soon you’ll catch them.’

‘Really?’ He turned to her with interest.

‘A fortnight, they think.’

‘A fortnight? That’s just insulting.’

‘You wanted to know.’ She shrugged as she leaned against the Austin and lit a cigarette, waiting for him to unlock the car. ‘And since I’m doing your work, you can pay me by taking me out to eat tonight.’

‘Where?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Polwony’s.’

‘You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. Williams.’

‘If you’re going to hire the best, you’d better be prepared to pay, Mr. Williams.’

 

‘What do you make of this robbery at the gunsmith?’ Violet had finished the Beef Wellington and chosen a lemon tart from the sweet trolley. A wineglass stood half-empty on the table in front of her. She’d painted her nails bright vermilion to match her dress and curled her hair. ‘It’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’

‘Very,’ Johnny agreed slowly. He’d been gnawing at the problem most of the day. ‘They’re onto a good little earner with the banks. Now they’ve stolen enough guns to start a small war. They’re complicating things.’

‘Worried?’

‘A little.’ The steak had been perfect, still bloody in the middle, the potatoes crisp and tasty. But this business was too much on his mind to enjoy the food; he’d barely tasted the meal. Johnny stirred his coffee and shook a cigarette from the packet of Gold Flake. ‘I don’t understand what it gets them. They haven’t even fired the gun they have.’

‘Maybe they’re planning something big.’

He frowned, pushing the burning tip of the cigarette around in the ashtray. ‘They don’t seem to have done much planning so far.’

‘What now?’

Johnny raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t know. But I suspect they have big ideas.’

‘Just be careful.’

‘Don’t you worry.’ He smiled, showing the chipped tooth. ‘I survived the war.’

‘You said that was because of your boyish charm.’

‘That only worked on our own side. The Germans weren’t too taken with it.’

‘I mean it, Johnny. Be careful.’

‘I will.’

‘What could be big enough for them?’

‘I’ve been trying to work that out. With just three men and a driver, there’s not much they can do.’

‘Another bank?’ Violet asked.

He shook his head.

‘They’re already doing well with those. They don’t need the extra weapons.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ll carry on and see what happens.’ He finished the coffee and looked at her. ‘A fortnight? Is that really what they think?’

‘Look on the bright side. At least they’re sure you’ll catch the robbers.’

 

‘What you mean is that you have no idea what they’ll do next,’ Superintendent Randall said in exasperation.

‘More or less,’ Williams agreed.

‘There are coppers running all over Leeds looking for them. If this lot come out with shooters, someone’s going to get hurt.’

‘I know that,’ he said. Seeing the hard look on Randall’s face, he added, ‘Sir.’

‘You told me you like the tough jobs.’

‘I do.’

‘Then show me how well you can do with this one.’

He sat at his desk, eyes closed, thinking. Whether the gang was from Leeds or outside, they were young and unknown. And impetuous. They’d didn’t seem to make plans – going after the bank in the city centre showed that.

With professional career criminals he could predict their moves. They had a pattern, they thought in definite ways, and had pride in their work. This lot…he’d do as well sticking a pin in the map of Leeds.

Finally he picked up his hat and strolled out to the Austin and drove around town. He tried to think like the gang, to pick out places that might appeal to them. It was all guesswork, but he felt he was doing something. Starting to understand them.

Perhaps he’d been wrong on the planning, he thought. The banks in Morley and Horsforth had been an easy way to test themselves. The Midland Bank on Boar Lane had been harder, but they’d still been successful. What had looked so scattered might have been intended, after all.

Now they were ready to raise the stakes even higher. They were going for the big one, he decided as he waited for the car in front to turn. That could be the only reason for the guns. They’d proved they could hold up a place and now they were going to be ambitious.

When they went in they’d be nervous. That meant quick fingers on the trigger. Someone was definitely going to get hurt.

They wanted money. The central branches of the bank would have that, especially on Friday, wages day. But there were too many possible targets. Williams parked on Park Row and began to walk, looking at the streets, assessing how easy it would be to make a getaway. After an hour he decided that it was impossible to narrow it down to just one or two.

What would he do in their shoes?

He sat in a café at the railway station, trying to work it out. The tea was stewed and tasted bitter, the meat in the sandwich on the edge of turning. Through the window he could see a constant flow of people streaming to and from the platforms. A fine layer of dirt covered everything. Whistles blew and smoke rose to the grimy glass ceilings over the tracks.

He didn’t understand the robbers well enough yet. They were young, they were eager. And now they had the guns they’d want to flash them around. Ready for the next job. They wouldn’t wait too long; it was going to happen soon.

The afternoon didn’t bring any revelations. By five, as people poured out of the shops and offices, he gave up and went home.

The day was still full of May warmth, and the garden of their house in Chapeltown always caught the early evening sun. Johnny took off his jacket and tie and sat back in a deckchair with a bottle of beer. Time to take stock of what he knew.

Soon after he became a detective he’d understood that the best way to solve crimes was to stay one step ahead of the criminals. A little thought could save plenty of shoe leather.

He was still thinking, eyes closed, enjoying the weather and the lazy hum of a bee, when a shadow passed over him. Violet sighed and slumped into the other chair.

‘Penny for them?’ she said wearily.

‘Worth much more than that,’ he answered. ‘Definitely gold material.’

‘Better you than me, then. Does that mean you’ve found them?’

‘Not quite. Not yet.’

‘Still no idea?’

‘A few,’ he answered after a moment. ‘What was your day like?’

‘Full of action. The Middleton flower show’s going to be lovely,’ she said. ‘And if the weather holds, all the produce should be excellent this year.’

‘You were swept away, I take it.’

‘Rapt. Bill was still going on about the robbery at the gunsmith. No one’s admitting it’s the same lot who’ve been doing the banks.’

‘He hasn’t worked it out for himself yet?’

She sighed again. ‘I’m not even certain he knows how to tie his own shoelaces. But your lot are keeping schtum about it.’

‘I suppose we need our little secrets. Probably don’t want to scare people. If it came out, everyone would be expecting the Valentine’s Day massacre here.’

‘Are we going to have it?’

‘I hope not,’ Johnny said cautiously.

‘Will you stop them in time?’

‘I don’t know.’ He opened his eyes and glanced down at the lawn. ‘It might be worth looking for a four-leaf clover, just in case.’

 

‘Do you have any bright ideas?’ Randall asked. They were sitting in his office, the air stuffy and overheated, the window open wide to try and capture a breeze.

‘Friday,’ Williams told him.

‘Wages money?’

‘Exactly.’ All the firms would send vehicles to the banks to pick up the cash to pay their workers. Anyone robbing a bank just after it opened could get away with a fortune. ‘We need uniforms at each of the big branches. That’s where I think they’ll go. If I were them, that’s what I’d do.’ He paused and gave a small grimace. ‘I think I might have underestimated them.’

The superintendent looked thoughtful.

‘Why?’ he asked.

Williams listed the reasons on his fingers.

‘I thought they were selecting banks at random. They weren’t. They were putting in some practice, even down to getting away in town. Now they’re ready to make a big splash. And they have the guns to scare people.’

‘That makes sense,’ Randall admitted with a nod. ‘A splash?’

‘They’re young,’ Williams explained. ‘People like bank robbers. It’s like they’re striking a blow against the rich. That’s always popular, especially when there are so many unemployed around. Look at America; they’ve made heroes out of them.’

‘But we don’t even know who this lot are.’

‘Yet,’ Johnny pointed out. ‘If they pull this off, we will. They’ll be all over the newspapers. They’ll make sure everyone knows who they are, and they’ll be taunting us to catch them. As long as no one’s hurt, the public will be on their side. They’ll be making songs about them in the music halls.’

‘Then we’d better arrest them first,’ Randall told him. ‘I hope you have a good plan.’

‘Apart from what I suggested? I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that…’

 

‘There was a message for you, sir,’ the desk sergeant told him, a puzzled look on his face. ‘A bloke on the telephone.’

‘What did he say?’ Williams asked.

‘To tell you he knows what’s wrong with your car. I didn’t know you were having a problem with it. You should have said – my lad’s a mechanic.’

‘It’s nothing important. Did he say anything else?’

‘No, sir. I asked for his name, but he said you’d know.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

The traffic heading out to Meanwood was stop and start. He drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel with impatience, waiting for the trams, buses and lorries to go faster than a crawl. It seemed that Colin Jordan’s pride had been pricked. He didn’t want to lose his title as the best getaway driver in Leeds.

The doors of the garage were open, an old Singer Ten jacked up. Inside, a voice was singing loudly and off-key, torturing Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.

‘’I’m surprised the neighbours haven’t complained, Colin. A voice like that is cruel and unusual punishment.’

Jordan dragged himself out from under the car and stood, a wide grin on his face.

‘You don’t think I’m the new Bing, then?’

‘More like the dying Bing. You’ve found something?’

‘A name. I asked around a little.’

Williams waited. Jordan was relishing his moment of anticipation. ‘And?’

‘Have you ever heard of Asa Bradley?’

‘No.’

‘What do you know about midget cars?’

‘You’d better not have got me out here for a joke, Colin. I’m not in the mood.’

‘No, honest, Mr. Williams. It’s real.’

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Midgets in cars? It’s not bloody funny.’

Jordan quickly shook his head. ‘It’s nothing like that. It started out as an American thing,’ he explained. ‘Normal people. It’s the cars that are little. Specially made small racing cars on a track. They’re very quick. Asa Bradley raced them. He won a few races when there was no real competition and he reckons he’s the bees’ knees. Someone mentioned he was driving for a gang now.’

Suddenly Johnny was attentive. ‘What gang? Did they say?’

‘No idea. The whole thing’s only a rumour. But I’ve seen him race.’ He sniffed. ‘He’s not that good.’

‘Is he local?’

‘Must be. He used to race out at Harewood. I don’t know anything else about him. Never paid much attention.’

Williams nodded. A name meant a place to start.

‘Thanks,’ he said. Before he turned away, he asked, ‘They really call them midget cars?’

‘That’s right. I tried one out. They’re small but I tell you what, Mr. Williams, they’re bloody nippy. 300 horsepower under the bonnet. Those things zip round the track. Put Bradley in a real car, though, and he wouldn’t stand a chance,’ Jordan said with pride.

 

The Yorkshire Post building stood on Albion Street, just on the corner with Bond Street. He pushed open the door under the clock and took the stairs three at a time to the second floor. Violet shared an office with two other female reporters, behind a polished wooden door with a frosted glass panel. Bright geraniums grew in a box outside the window.

She was staring at a blank piece of paper in her typewriter, the shorthand notebook with its curious squiggles propped beside the machine.

‘Please say you’ve come to save me from this.’

‘Hello to you, too.’ He bent and kissed her, smelling the powder on her skin. ‘And I have. I need a favour.’

‘Oh?’ She looked at him with interest. ‘It had better be something good.’

‘Midget car racing.’

She stared at him, trying to keep a straight face. But a giggle bubbled over into a laugh, until she had to cover her mouth.

‘Oh God, you can’t imagine the pictures in my mind now,’ she said finally.

‘I bet I can.’

‘What on earth is it?’

‘Normal people in small cars, apparently.’ He saw disappointment flicker across her face. ‘They do it at a track in Harewood. I need to see if you have any clippings.’ She stared at him, waiting for more, but he simply smiled. ‘I’ll buy you luncheon.’

‘Must be something important, then. I’ll have a look.’

She was back in five minutes, carrying a thin buff folder. He glanced through, copying information into his notebook.

‘Are you going to tell me what it’s about?’ she asked. ‘You’d better not be looking for a new hobby.’

‘All very hush-hush.’ He smiled. ‘But it might just be a lead.’

‘You can tell me all about it while we eat.’ Before he could protest, her eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘You might as well. You know full well I’ll just worm it out of you, anyway.’

 

By the time Johnny had eaten half the sandwich Violet knew it all.

‘He lives on Primley Park Drive?’ she asked.

‘That’s what it said in the newspaper report.’

‘It’s quite posh around there.’ She knew; Violet had grown up less than a quarter of a mile away, in a family with a maid and a chauffeur. Her father was the area manager for Dunlop, a rigid man who hadn’t approved of his daughter becoming a reporter, and even less when she married a policeman. ‘I thought the gang were supposed to be working men.’

‘They dress that way,’ he said. ‘People noticed that. Like people who didn’t belong in a bank.’

‘A disguise?’

‘I’m beginning to wonder about that,’ Johnny said.

‘When are we going out there?’

‘We?’ He lit a cigarette, blew out a plume of smoke, and cocked his head.

‘We,’ she insisted, her voice firm. ‘Someone has to make sure you don’t commit a faux pas among the middle classes.’

They found the address easily enough. Violet knocked on a door and asked a question. The maid pointed down the street, then Johnny joined her at number seven. A mousy women in her late forties answered when he rang the bell, staring at them with curiosity.

‘Mrs. Bradley?’ Williams asked.

‘That’s right.’ She had a voice like velvet and short, dark hair set in waves. Only the lines around her eyes and mouth gave away her age.

He produced his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Williams. Asa Bradley is your son?’

‘He is. What’s this about, Sergeant?’ She didn’t seem worried; most people would.

‘Is he at home?’

She folded her arms. ‘Might I ask why?’

‘I’m hoping he might be able to help us with some enquiries, that’s all, Mrs. Bradley.’ He smiled, showing the chipped tooth. Her expression didn’t change.

‘It’s nothing terribly big,’ Violet said. ‘Just a quick word, that’s all.’

‘Well, he’s not here.’

‘Is he at work?’ Johnny asked.

‘He’s gone away with some friends. He doesn’t have a job. He’d only be interested if it involves engines. He’s been potty about them since he was a boy.’

‘Did he say where he was going?’

‘Just that they’d be away for a week or two.’ A sad look filled her eyes. ‘He doesn’t really tell us his plans.’

‘He likes to drive, I believe,’ Williams continued. ‘Midget cars?’

‘That’s right. But it was a passing fad. He hasn’t done that in months. He spends all his time with his friends now.’

‘Do you know who they are?’ Violet asked her.

‘Not really.’ Mrs. Bradley looked uncomfortable, shifting lightly from foot to foot. ‘He’s never brought them here. There’s a Charlie and a Tim, but that’s all I know. But he’s changed since he met them.’

‘Changed how?’ Violet asked sympathetically.

‘He’s become coarser,’ the woman answered after a moment. She gave a sad shake of her head. ‘He was so well-behaved at school. I keep imagining it’ll pass. What’s he done, Sergeant?’

‘I don’t know that he’s done anything,’ Williams told her. ‘That’s why I’d like to talk to him. How old is he, Mrs. Bradley?’

‘Twenty. His birthday was last month.’ She hesitated, then set her mouth. ‘My husband died three years ago. I hoped Asa might become the man of the house, but he didn’t want that. He began that motor racing and didn’t want to do anything else.’

He didn’t ask if the family had money; a house out here was already an answer.

‘Do you have a photograph of him?’

‘Of course,’ she replied.

The Yale lock clicked softly behind her. He looked at Violet, saying nothing. Mrs. Bradley returned, holding out a small snapshot. Asa Bradley had dark hair swept back from his forehead, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

‘I took it last summer,’ she explained.

‘Might I borrow it?’ She hesitated, and he added, ‘I’ll make sure you get it back.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘What do you think he’s done, Sergeant? He’s my son, I need to know.’

‘Honestly,’ he told her, ‘I don’t know that he’s done anything. That’s what I want to find out.’

She bit her lip, then nodded, accepting what he said.

‘All right.’

‘If he comes home, can you let me know?’

‘Yes.’ He could see the reluctance in her expression.

‘It’s for the best, honestly.’

 

‘Well,’ Violet asked as he took the Harrogate Road back into town. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s a start. Now I just need to find him. It might all be a coincidence.’

‘I know that look on your face.’

‘What look?’

‘You don’t believe in coincidences.’

‘Well…no.’ Johnny glanced across at her. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a run out to Harewood this evening?’

‘Why?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘There’s a midget car race.’ He gestured over his shoulder at a copy of the Evening Post on the backseat of the Swallow. ‘Don’t you read your own paper?’

‘I avoid the boring bits.’ Violet sighed. ‘I suppose it’ll be all men talking about camshafts and pistons and things, won’t it?’

‘Probably.’

‘I’ll let you deal with that one, then.’ A moment later she said, ‘Do you think Asa Bradley might be there? His mother said he’d lost interest in the sport.’

He shrugged. ‘You never know. I should be able to get the names of his friends, anyway.’

‘Just watch yourself if he shows up,’ Violet warned. ‘If Bradley’s with this gang, they’re armed now.’

He grinned. ‘I’m sure I can persuade him to come down to the station.’

Violet shook her head. ‘You know, you need do something about this shocking lack of self-confidence you have, Johnny. It’s quite alarming.’

CHAPTER FIVE

 

The air was filled with the smoke and noise of engines. Johnny arrived a little after six, parking in a field with the other vehicles, the early evening sun still pleasant. He’d dressed in a houndstooth sports jacket and tweed trousers, his shirt collar open and tieless to enjoy the weather.

Now he watched men in shirtsleeves grimly tinker with the engines of the small cars as they listened to the crescendo of motors. There were perhaps fifty people around, from those who weren’t even old enough to shave to men with thick cavalry moustaches, resting on shooting sticks. But no Asa Bradley.

He showed the photograph to yet another figure, who pointed him across the paddock towards a group of men standing around a small blue racing car. The bonnet was open and someone had his head and shoulders inside.

Williams picked his way across the mud of the enclosure. The din was starting to recede. He found a sleek young man wearing thick brogues, standing impatiently by the car.

‘He used to drive for me,’ the man said irritably when Johnny showed him the photograph. ‘Let him go when he stopped winning.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Two months, I suppose.’ He turned to the mechanic. ‘Haven’t you bloody finished yet?’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘If you want to know about Bradley, go and talk to him.’ He pointed at a youth holding a set of spanners. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

‘Police.’ Johnny waved as he walked away.

The lad with the tools watched nervously as he approached. Probably no more than eighteen, he guessed, the faint bum fluff of a moustache on his upper lip to make him look older.

As he opened his mouth to speak, the youth threw the spanners at him and started to run. He raised his arm, feeling metal bang against bone, and started to sprint. He sensed people turning to watch. Someone cheered.

The treeline was a quarter of a mile distant, the hill climbing slowly towards it. The youth kept glancing back, already wheezing, as Williams steadily gained ground.

Just before the lip of the hill, he was close enough to tackle the boy. The lad fell like a sack of cement, the wind knocked out of him.

Johnny sat and lit a cigarette, gazing down at the track and sighing.

‘I suppose you’ve done something bad,’ he said.

 

It was nothing more than shoplifting. Arthur Harris has taken some sweets and a shirt from Woolworth’s. Williams passed him a cigarette.

‘That’s not exactly a major crime,’ he said.

Harris’ face reddened.

‘I thought you’d come to arrest me.’

Johnny rubbed his arm.

‘If I’d known you were so dangerous, I’d have asked for the Flying Squad.’

‘So what is it?’

Johnny brought out the photograph.

‘Him.’

‘Asa?’ Harris asked in surprise. ‘What’s he done?’

‘You’re friends?’

‘We used to be. He stopped coming here after Mac dropped him. I haven’t seen him since.’

‘What about other friends of his?’

‘There was a crowd,’ Harris said after a little thought. ‘They left when he did.’

‘Any names?’

‘Charlie Cogden and Tim Carey,’ he answered after a moment’s thought. ‘They were quite close.’

‘Did you know them?’

Harris shook his head. ‘Not really. They’re rich boys.’

‘Kept to themselves?’

‘More or less.’

‘What about you? A mechanic?’

‘I want to be,’ Harris said hopelessly. ‘No jobs out there.’

‘Where do you live, Arthur?’

‘Beeston. I get a lift up here.’ Harris sighed. ‘I don’t suppose Mac will keep me on now.’

‘Bit of a bastard, is he?’

‘A lot.’ The lad grinned.

‘Do you know Meanwood Road?’

‘I can find it. Why?’

‘There’s a garage out there, a chap called Colin Jordan. Tell him Detective Sergeant Williams sent you. No guarantees, but it’s worth a shot.’

‘Really?’ His voice was wary. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘Just trying to rehabilitate persistent offenders.’ Johnny stood, trying to brush grass stains off the knees of his trousers.

Charlie Cogden and Tim Carey, he thought. Now all he had to do was track them down.

 

But they were nowhere to be found. A quick search gave him addresses, big, detached houses in Thorner and Adel, but when he knocked on the doors, all their parents could tell him was that they’d gone away for a fortnight. The only titbit was that Carey’s cousin, Ken Boyd, had also gone with them.

And that made four. Hail, hail, the gang’s all here, he sang under his breath. They’d even come up with a disguise, dressing like working men. The type that people hardly ever noticed.

Williams sat in Lyon’s café on Briggate with a cup of tea, going over what he knew. It looked as if he’d definitely underestimated them.

Why they’d decided to become bank robbers didn’t matter. Maybe it was just for the thrill, maybe they wanted to become notorious. What bothered him was where they’d strike next. They’d told their families they’d be gone for two weeks. That ended on Sunday. Time was running out; Friday was just a day away.

‘I thought I’d find you here.’ Violet placed bags of shopping on the floor and eyed the chocolate éclair he hadn’t started yet. ‘Are you going to eat that?’

Before he could answer, she’d pulled the plate across and taken a bite.

‘Tasty?’ he asked.

‘Delicious,’ she told him, wiping crumbs from her mouth. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘Worth ordering another?’

‘Oh no, one will be ample for me. Hips and thighs and all that. I could murder some tea, though. I’m parched.’

‘You look as if you’ve bought half of Leeds.’

‘Just bits and bobs. I’m covering the Lord Mayor’s dinner later, so I had to get a new dress. And shoes. I’m getting my hair done in-’ she checked her wristwatch ‘-half an hour. I’ve been thinking of doing something different with it.’

‘Like what?’

‘I’m not sure yet. You look rather gloomy, you know.’

‘Well, someone stole my pastry. And I spent half the morning with Randall trying to put together a plan for tomorrow.’

‘Any luck?’

Johnny shrugged. ‘It’s all guesswork. We’ll hope they’re going for a bank and be as ready as we can.’

‘Where will you be?’

‘Standing by a telephone box in the city centre. As soon as there’s any trouble, they’ll ring me.’

‘They’re going to have guns.’

His mouth tightened. ‘So will we,’ he said quietly.

Violet’s mouth opened in shock. ‘What?’

‘The chief constable’s authorised it. Three of us will be armed.’

‘Johnny…’

He grinned.

‘Don’t worry. It’s an Enfield sniper rifle, I’ll be well out of the way. And the orders are to shoot only if there’s no other choice.’

‘It doesn’t bloody matter,’ she fumed.

‘It won’t come to that.’ He stared at her. ‘Are you going to finish that éclair?’

‘For God’s sake, Johnny, be serious for once.’ She pushed it across to him and stood. ‘Do you know how frustrating you can be at times?’

He watched her stride angrily away. A man at the next table leaned over.

‘She doesn’t look too happy.’

‘No,’ Johnny agreed. ‘I think it must have been something I said.’

 

He spent the afternoon back in Randall’s office, a map of Leeds laid out on the desk. Forbes and Gorman, detectives from C Division were there, listening closely. Williams had worked with them before, burly, reliable men, both of them war veterans.

They’d be stationed in different parts of the city centre, waiting in telephone boxes, cars parked close by.

‘Remember,’ Randall finished, ‘You shoot only if it’s absolutely vital and no civilians are in danger.’ He’d taken off his jacket and half-moons of sweat dampened the armpits of his shirt. ‘Understood?’ Each of them nodded. ‘Weapons issued first thing in the morning. I want you all here at half-past seven.’

 

At four o’clock Johnny was heading up Harrogate Road. He had the car window down, the afternoon sun warm. Driving gave him time to think, to let ideas percolate to the surface and take shape. He’d been going over the plan for tomorrow. They were as ready as they could be, but a niggling feeling was growing in his stomach.

He’d forgotten something. But he couldn’t imagine quite what.

He steered and shifted through the gears, going over everything once again. The plan was jerry-built and slapped-together, but that was the best they could do with what they knew.

Still, the feeling wouldn’t vanish.

By the time he reached Chapel Allerton he’d given up worrying. It didn’t do any good. Things would happen and they’d need to think on their feet.

Out of the corner of his eye, Johnny saw a familiar figure disappear into the post office. With a sigh, he parked the Austin, lit a cigarette and strolled across the road.

He hadn’t even realised that Danny McGregor was out of jail. It couldn’t have been long. A fortnight and he was usually back inside. Danny’s old bicycle was leaning against the front of a butcher’s shop. The only robber in Leeds who made his getaway on a bike; he was famous throughout the force for it. Johnny squatted, slipped the chain off the sprocket, walked a few steps to the corner and waited.

It only took thirty seconds. McGregor dashed out of the building and grabbed the handlebars, bank notes still clutched in his fist.

Williams shook his head as he stepped into the middle of the pavement.

‘Danny,’ he said slowly, ‘you’re never going to learn, are you?’

It took more than an hour to process the arrest. He escorted the man a block to the local station at the corner of Town Street and waited while McGregor was fingerprinted and measured. Johnny wrote out his statement and stuck around as a constable typed it with two fingers that had trouble mastering the alphabet. It would have been quicker to do it all himself.

He loved police work, it was the greatest fun he could imagine. But not the paperwork that went with it; that was pure tedium. Finally everything was complete, and McGregor escorted down to the cells, his bike on its side in the yard.

Johnny was home by six, parking on the road. Violet would be out, covering her do. He’d have a quiet evening, eat something cold. With luck there’d be someone entertaining on the wireless.

But she was in the lounge, hunched forward in the chair, a glass in her hand.

‘Did they cancel?’ he asked.

‘I pleaded a headache,’ Violet told him, looking up into his face. ‘I thought you’d be home earlier.’

‘Just solving crime.’ He smiled.

‘Have you found them?’

‘Not yet. Tomorrow.’

‘Johnny…’ she began. He sat on the chair arm and stroked her neck.

‘Your hair looks good.’

‘Thank you.’ She glared. ‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘We’ll catch them.’

‘And no one hurt?’

‘Hopefully,’ he answered after a small hesitation.

Violet shook her head. ‘That’s not exactly comforting.’

His fingertips traced her collarbone and he felt her body begin to stir.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he promised.

‘You’re trying to distract me.’ There was a small purr in her voice. She put her hand on top of his.

‘How bad is that headache?’

‘It could be starting to fade a little.’

He continued to stroke her skin, moving in slow circles.

‘And now?’ he asked.

She was breathing slowly, eyes closed, a smile on her lips. ‘You can be a bit of a bastard at times, can’t you, Johnny Williams?’

‘All part of my charm,’ he said softly into her ear and feeling her shiver.

‘Don’t think you’re getting off lightly.’

He leaned forward and kissed her lightly.

 

Roaring Thirties, Part 1

A few years ago, I wrote a novella, something a little different for me. Light-hearted crime. In Leeds, of course, but not something anyone was likely to publish. It’s been sitting around my various hard drives ever since,  mostly forgotten.

However, I thought that, to fill the weeks between now and Christmas, I’d serialise it for you. But you have to promise to remember that both The Hanging Psalm and The Tin God made great gifts for people.

And so, ladies and gentleman, I give you the first episode. Johnny Williams, take a bow…

CHAPTER ONE

He parked the Austin Seven Swallow outside the Eagle on North Street. There’d been hardly any traffic on the drive up from London, just a few lorries, the cars bucketing along as fast as they could, the drivers’ faces fierce with concentration.

He buttoned his suit jacket and put on the hat, checking the brim in the wing mirror to see it was just so. A late May evening, some warmth still left in the air, and that feeling of dusk, with daylight starting to seep away and casting long shadows. 1934. The world might be poor, but there was still some beauty in it.

Only a few customers sat in the pub. An old husband and wife, holding hands and chattering away easily, halves of stout on the table in front of them, a dotting of ancient fellows, leftovers from Victorian times, gathered to play dominoes, a young couple out to do their courting, and a group of four middle-aged men, eyes like flints, standing in earnest discussion.

The landlord was cleaning the polished wood shelves, his back turned.

He saw her at the end of the bar, a glass of gin and tonic in front of her, a cigarette between her fingers. She was wearing a nubby tweed skirt and an ochre sweater, the sleeves rolled up on her red cardigan. There was a wedding ring on her finger, but she was on her own.

She’d glanced up when he walked in, then turned away again.

‘Can I buy you another?’ he asked as he stood beside her. She looked at him, eyes carefully appraising. Her hair was neatly set in waves, her lipstick bold red. In her early thirties and definitely pretty.

‘My mother always said I shouldn’t take drinks from strange men.’

‘We’re safe then. I’m not strange.’

She tightened her mouth as she arched her brows.

‘Who told you that? Your wife?’

He grinned. One of his front teeth was slightly chipped. Someone had told him once that it made him look irresistible. Dashing. Wolfish. A little like Ronald Colman.

‘Someone much more reliable.’ He cocked his head. ‘I have to ask, are those eyes of yours eyes blue or grey?’

She was staring at him now, and smiling.

‘Take a guess. If you’re right, you can take me home.’

‘Violet?’

She waited a moment, then started to gather her handbag off the bar.

‘Eyes and name,’ she told him, then asked, ‘Where should we go? Your house or mine?’

‘Oh, yours, I think,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘My wife’s a terrible housekeeper.’

Her elbow dug sharply into his ribs.

‘You’d best be careful, Johnny Williams, or you’ll be sleeping on the settee tonight. What kept you? I thought you’d be home this afternoon.’

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

He reported to the police station in his best double-breasted suit, navy blue with a pale pinstripe, his black brogues shining, the hat brim tipped just enough to put his eyes in shadow.

After a fortnight working with the Met in London it felt good to be home again. The capital had its charms, but Johnny Williams knew Leeds. He understood how the city worked without even having to consider it.

He wasn’t even sure why they’d wanted him down there. All he’d done was read the case file, go and talk to four people, then sit back and wait, time enough to tie up a couple of loose ends. Eight days later, they’d started making arrests and he was on his way back up the Great North Road.

Williams slapped the desk. There were files waiting for him. One thing about being a copper, he’d never be short of a job. Count your blessings, he thought, as he took a folder from the pile.

But he hadn’t even finished the first page before Superintendent Randall called his name. Detective Sergeant Williams straightened his tie, buttoned his jacket and walked through to the office.

‘Everything fine down South?’ Randall asked as he sat.

‘Went well, sir.’ He shrugged. They’d made the arrests easily.

‘Head not turned by the glamour?’

‘Well, the King invited me over, but I told him I needed to be back here by teatime…’ Williams grinned.

Randall picked up a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. ‘Something to get your teeth into.’

He read it through quickly. While he was been gone there’d been two bank jobs, one in Horsforth, the other in Morley. Three men, one of them armed with a sawn-off shotgun. Quick, efficient, no violence, just threats and menace. In both cases, the getaway vehicles had been stolen and recovered about a mile away. There were descriptions, for whatever they were worth; none of the witnesses could agree on much. Violet had told him all about it last night. Lying on the bed after his welcome home, smoking cigarettes with the windows open, she’d brought him up to date on the happenings in Leeds. Working as a reporter on the Yorkshire Evening Post, she heard them all.

‘No clues?’ he asked, his arm around her bare shoulders. The slip and brassiere were long gone, tossed somewhere on the floor, and sweat was drying on her skin.

‘If they have, they’re not saying. The rumour is that they’ve nabbed over a thousand pounds.’

That was impressive. Carry on with that and they’d have a good little earner. He moved his hand a little. He needed to feel more welcome.

 

*******

‘Nasty,’ Williams said.

‘They’ve taken over twelve hundred so far. But keep that to yourself.’ Randall pulled a packet of Black Cats from his pocket and lit one.

‘What’s CID turned up?’

‘Not enough. None of the narks seem to know anything.’

‘I was hoping for a few days’ leave,’ Johnny said.

‘You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself.’

But he would. He’d seen the sun shining through the curtains that morning, smelt spring warmth in the air and thought about Sandsend. He and Violet, a some time away, a decent hotel, Whitby just a stroll along the beach at low tide. Some walking, some fishing, plenty of fresh air.

‘Well…’ he began, but Randall shook his head.

‘I want you on this. If they get away with it, other people are going to get the same idea. Times are bad, Johnny, you know that. We don’t need folk thinking they can be Dillinger or Bonnie and Clyde. Not round here.’

Williams picked up the report as he stood. Before he could even take a pace the door flew open and the desk sergeant, old red-faced Murphy, announced,

‘There’s been another one, sir. The Midland Bank on City Square.’

Randall raised an eyebrow.

‘Looks like you know where to start, Johnny.’

 

He found a parking place on Boar Lane and walked to the building on the corner, solid stone staring out towards the statue of the Black Prince in the middle of the square. Wisps of smoke and the stink of the trains drifted out from the railway station across the street.

Williams nodded at the uniformed constables guarding the door of the bank and sauntered inside. Another bobby was questioning a distraught woman, while a pair of detectives looked around the building.

It was much like any other bank – high ceilings, a grandiose interior of marble and tile, varnished wood and glistening brass. And like the rest, easy enough to rob with plenty of determination and a little planning. The only problem would be getting away in the city traffic.

One of the CID men spotted him and walked slowly across with a rolling gait. He was tall, close to six-and-a-half feet, well into middle age, spectacles crowding a pinched face, most of his hair gone, just leaving a tonsure that was turning grey.

‘Might have known you’d find your way down here.’

‘Good morning, sir.’

Inspector Gibson had started his career with Leeds City Police well before the war. He’d served in the trenches and returned to the job, trudging up from rank to rank. ‘Going to have it solved by dinnertime?’

Johnny Williams gave a small sigh and turned his hat around in his hand.

‘I don’t know sir,’ he answered, voice serious. ‘Depends what time you want to eat.’

Gibson’s face reddened. He snorted and stalked away.

 

The girl sitting at the desk and cradling a cup of tea in her lap was smiling at him. It was a pert, inviting smile, full lips with bright red lipstick, under dark eyebrows and Carol Lombard blonde hair.

‘Will you?’ she asked.

‘Will I what?’

‘Catch them by dinnertime.’

‘Probably not.’ He grinned and shrugged. ‘Still, stranger things have happened. Do you work here?’

‘I do. I’m Mr. Osborne’s secretary.’ When he looked at her quizzically, she explained, ‘He’s the manager.’

‘Did you see the robbery, Miss…?’

‘Simpson,’ she answered. ‘Jane Simpson.’ He heard the light emphasis she put on her Christian name. ‘And yes. I was in the office. Over there.’ She pointed towards the corner and he saw two small offices of wood and glass. ‘It was like watching one of those films.’

She didn’t seem too upset or shocked, he thought. More like entertained.

‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’ he suggested. ‘Weren’t you scared?’

‘Oh, no. They couldn’t really see me.’ She lowered her head a little, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

‘Detective Sergeant Williams.’ He took out a packet of Gold Flake cigarettes and offered her one. ‘How many of them were there?’

‘Three.’ She closed her eyes to focus. ‘They were wearing jackets and trousers, and all of them had caps. They didn’t look like the kind of customers we usually have here.’

He smiled. They looked like ordinary working men, she meant, the kind who didn’t have bank accounts.

‘Did one of them have a gun?’

‘Yes. It was like a shotgun, but not as long.’ She cocked her head towards him. ‘Is that right?’

‘He’d sawed down the barrels,’ William explained. ‘Where was Mr. Osborne while all this was going on?’

He could see she didn’t want to answer, but after a few more words she admitted he’d been in the toilet when it happened.

The men had burst in just after the bank opened at half-past nine. There were only two customers in the place, and three staff behind the counter. The robbery was over in less than thirty seconds.

She gave him descriptions, but they could have fitted half the young men in Leeds. None of them more than twenty-five, dark hair, two tall, the one with the gun short and fatter.

‘How much did they take?’ he asked.

‘Oh.’ She paused, calculating. ‘It can’t have been more than three hundred pounds. Probably not even that. The cashiers only had their morning floats. None of the businesses had brought in their deposits yet. There’s more money here just before we close at three. Or on a Friday – we handle the wages for a number of factories.’

Today was Monday. Interesting, he thought. Whoever was behind the robbery wasn’t thinking ahead.

‘Had you seen any of them in here before?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t see everyone who comes in. But dressed like that, they’d have stood out, if you know what I mean.’

He understood exactly. ‘How did they sound?’

‘Sound?’ she asked.

‘They must have shouted when they came in. Did they seem local?’

‘Oh.’ She pursed her lips for a moment. ‘I suppose so. I never really thought about it, so they must have.’

He thanked her and stood up to walk away.

‘Tell me something, Sergeant,’ Miss Simpson said, and he heard the rustle of silk stockings as she crossed her legs. ‘That other policeman didn’t seem to like you.’

‘I’m not sure he really likes anyone.’

‘But especially you?’ She was grinning now.

He gave her his best smile, showing the chipped tooth. ‘He thinks I’m cocky.’

‘And are you?’

‘You’d probably get the best answer from my wife.’ He hoped that was a small flutter of disappointment on her face. ‘Thank you, Miss Simpson. Jane.’

 

Outside, he looked at the streets. Boar Lane was as clogged with traffic as ever. People were coming and going in droves from the station.

‘Which way did the robbers’ car go?’ he asked one of the constables. ‘Someone must have seen.’

The copper pointed down the road.

‘Along there, sir. Past the Scarborough Taps and around the corner.’

‘Do we have a number plate?’

‘Yes, sir. Evidently it was a Crosley Aero. We have people out looking.’

‘Good. Thank you.’

He strolled along the street, following the route of the car. A short drive, turn over the bridge and they’d be lost in Hunslet or Holbeck. It wasn’t going to help much.

Three of them had held up the bank. But there were four in the gang; they must have had a driver waiting in the car, ready for a quick getaway. Local accents and very little planning. Well, he had somewhere to start now.

 

The garage on Meanwood Road looked like an old wooden shed, only a small, hand-painted sign over the door and a line of vehicles parked on the dirt outside to show what it might be.

Williams parked the Austin and waited until a heavily-built man wandered out, wiping grease off his hands with an old rag. He was in his early twenties, fair hair cut short. He walked with the kind of confidence that came from winning too many fights, his mouth curled in a sneer.

‘Johnny bloody Williams. They told me you’d gone to London.’

‘You know me, Colin,’ he replied airily. ‘I’m like the bad penny, I always come rolling home.’

Colin Jordan was the best light-heavyweight boxer in the West Riding. He’d never lost a bout, and won most of them by knockouts. The purses from the fights were useful, but he made his living with the garage. He was also the best driver in Leeds. He’d already been behind the wheel for half the gangs in town. Everyone knew it, but there’d never been any proof; people were too afraid to grass him up. And he loved being just beyond the reach of the police.

Williams got out of the car. He was an inch taller than Jordan, but the boxer was a good two stone heavier, all of it muscle.

‘So what brings you round?’ Jordan stuck the dirty rag in his pocket and lit a cigarette.

‘It could be a social call.’

The boxer snorted.

‘And the moon’s made of green cheese.’

‘I’m just wondering why this gang robbing banks isn’t using the best driver in town.’ He stared at Jordan. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Maybe they are,’ the man answered with a smirk.

Johnny shook his head sadly. ‘Not this morning, unless you’ve discovered a way to get yourself that mucky in a quarter of an hour. Looks like you have competition.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘Three robberies, plenty of cash and no one hurt. They’re making a splash. It’ll be the front page in the Evening Post. A few more and they’ll be folk heroes, Colin.’

‘And you coppers will look like idiots.’

‘Maybe. I just thought I’d come looking for you first. After all, you had the reputation.’ Williams nodded at the garage. ‘Never mind, the business will keep you ticking over.’ He opened the car door. ‘I’d best be on my way.’

 

He’d been back in the office for ten minutes, sitting and thinking, when the telephone rang.

‘Detective Sergeant Williams.’

A woman’s voice said, ‘Hello, handsome.’

He smiled. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s your wife. How many women ring up and call you handsome?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ve got a list somewhere…’

‘How’s the investigation into the bank robbery?’

‘That’s impressive,’ he told her. ‘How did you know?’

‘Bill came back into the office and announced “that bloody Williams bloke is on it” while he looked straight at me.’

‘What did you say to him?’

‘That you’re a chap, not a bloke. Have you found anything yet?’

‘Possibly.’ He knew she was eager for any scrap she could hold over her colleagues. As a woman, the paper would only give her fluff to cover, golden weddings and church fetes. Stupid, when she could write rings around the men and had a better nose for a story. ‘Tell Bill he ought to include the fact that the gang has the best driver in Leeds.’

‘Do they?’ Violet asked in surprise. ‘I thought that was Colin Jordan.’

‘So does Colin. I dropped by for a word with him.’

‘And it’s not?’

‘No,’ Johnny told her. ‘But he’s not going to be happy at someone else getting his glory.’

‘Not bad,’ she said approvingly. ‘I’ll pass it on. What else?’

‘Nothing, really. Do you fancy a drink after work?’

‘Are you paying?’

‘Unless you’re feeling generous.’

‘You’re paying,’ Violet told him. ‘The Metropole at six. I want a cocktail. A Brandy Alexander.’

‘Your wish is my command.’

‘Just make sure you remember that,’ she said archly.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

The trip to Morley took him past Elland Road football ground. He’d never had much interest in the game, though; the closest he’d ever come was arresting one of the reserves for burglary two years before. The only reason the papers had made a fuss was because the young man had been tipped for great things in the team. Now he was in prison on a three-year stretch and the United were doing badly.

Morley had once been a big mill town. Since the depression began five years before, it wasn’t much of anything. The mills had closed, and there was nothing to replace them. Men gathered along Queen Street, unsure what to do with each day, waiting for a future that seem further away than ever.

He parked the Austin beside the Town Hall and walked along the block to the bank.

 

The manager eyed him nervously. They were alone in the office. A secretary had served tea and biscuits, then left as silently as she’d arrived.

‘It must have scared the staff,’ William suggested.

‘Of course.’ Mr. Micklethwaite bobbed his head in agreement. Thin-faced, the suit seemed to hang off his body. His hair was Brylcreemed, with a sharp, neat parting off to the side, carefully combed to hide the bald spot.

‘Were you out there?’

‘Oh, yes.’ His eyes widened. ‘I’d been sorting out a problem in Miss Monkton’s cash drawer when they came in.’

‘What time was it?’

‘About quarter to ten, we hadn’t been open long. I already told the police.’

Williams smiled. ‘Please, indulge me. When they talked, did you hear any names?’

‘No, I’m quite sure of that,’ Micklethwaite replied after a little thought.

‘They were dressed like working men?’

‘Yes.’ Another quick nod. ‘That’s what made me look in the first place. You know how it is, most of them don’t use banks.’

‘What about their accents?’ Johnny asked.

‘Accents?’

‘Did they sound local?

‘I…’ the manager began. ‘I don’t know. I never thought about it. They didn’t say much. Just “Give us the money” as they brought out the bag, and “We don’t want to hurt anyone.”’ He frowned. ‘It was hard to believe that when they were pointing the gun at us.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘I suppose if their voices didn’t sound odd, then they must have been local, mustn’t they? But I hadn’t seen any of them before, I’m sure of it. I didn’t know their faces.’

‘Two tall men in caps, and the one with the shotgun small and rounder?’

‘Yes, yes, that’s it.’

 

It was the same story in Horsforth. A small, local branch at the top of the hill. None of the people there had noticed anything remarkable about the men. There had been two customers inside, forced to stand against the wall. Old Mrs. Crane had been taken to the hospital afterwards, suffering from shock, but she was home again now, her daughter staying with her. Before he drove back into Leeds, Williams walked over to see her.

It was a well-appointed old house, set well back from Town Street, the garden carefully tended, borders in colourful bloom. Mrs. Crane hardly looked in shock as she sat in the easy chair, a compact woman with a walking stick at her side. If anything, it was her daughter, summoned down from Harrogate and ordered around by her mother, who seemed dazed.

Mrs. Crane eyed him carefully.

‘I suppose you’re one of those young men who thinks he’s good looking,’ she said.

He gave her a smile. ‘I don’t know. I never think about it.’

She snorted. ‘Were you in the war?’

He’d seen the photograph on the mantelpiece. A youth in an ill-fitting uniform.

‘I was.’ Williams wasn’t going to say more. He’d joined up at sixteen, at the start of the last year of the war, going into the Leeds Pals. He’d trained as a sniper and been good at his job. Seen men die and killed more than a few himself. With the Armistice, he’d been happy enough to put down the rifle, take off the khaki and wash away the mud of the trenches.

She stared at him again before nodding her approval.

‘What do you remember about the bank robbery?’ Johnny asked.

‘They looked scared,’ she said.

‘Who was in charge?’

‘The one doing the shouting.’ She sounded certain. ‘He was pointing, showing the others where to go.’

‘What about the one with the gun?’ Williams asked.

‘He didn’t even have a clue how to hold it properly.’ She made a sound that could have been a snort. ‘My husband used to shoot when he was alive. Taught me how to use a shotgun. The man in the bank held it like he was terrified it would go off.’

‘Too young to have fought, then?’

‘The lot of them barely looked out of nappies. If I see any of them again I’ll take my stick to them.’

‘Is there anything else you remember about them?’

‘The third one – not the leader or the one with the gun – had a scar across the back of his left hand. He was dark, like the one in charge. They might have been brothers. They had the same look around the mouth.’

‘Very observant.’

‘I’m old, I’m not blind, young man. And don’t go thinking you can soft-soap me.’

He grinned at her. ‘Never.’

‘Are you going to catch them?’

‘Yes. I have to say, you don’t look like you had a shock.’

‘Just a faint.’ She waved it away. ‘My daughter insisted I go to the hospital. Silly girl.”

 

He arrived at the Metropole a little before six, finding a table in the bar and ordering the drinks. When Violet finally arrived, weighed down by her heavy handbag, the Brandy Alexander was waiting for her, drops of condensation on the outside of the glass.

She was wearing a pale blue, knee-length silk dress that flattered her. He watched men’s eyes track her across the floor.

‘God, that was a day and a half. I’m sick of golden weddings. Do you think we’ll be married for fifty years?’

‘Depends if you kill me first.’

‘True.’ She gave a serious nod. ‘There’s always that.’ She look a long drink and sighed with pleasure.

‘I don’t know how you can drink that.’

‘Because I’m suave and sophisticated, why else?’ Violet paused. ‘Have you discovered anything yet?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Something we can publish? Bill’s going to use what you said. He was terribly grateful and grovelling. I loved it.’

‘Not yet. I’ll see how it all pans out. Do you want to eat somewhere?’

 

They ended up settling on fish and chips from Cantor’s. He parked at home and strolled over, chatting with Sid as the man worked the fryer. Violet had the plates warming in the oven, the salt and vinegar sitting on the table.

‘When I was down in London they took me out for jellied eels,’ Johnny told her.

She made a face. ‘That sounds disgusting.’

‘It explains a lot about Londoners, though. If I knew that was coming for supper, I’d be miserable, too.’

‘So what are you going to do about the bank job?’

‘Oh, that’ll sort itself out, give it a few days. Do you want me to make tea?’

 

‘I should go and talk to a few people,’ Williams said after they’d heard the news on the wireless.

Violet cocked her head. ‘Anywhere interesting?’

‘Just round and about. A pub or two.’

‘I’ll come along. There are some nasty types out there. You need someone to look after you.’

‘If you like.’

‘It’s better than sitting at home and listening to Ambrose and his band on the radio.’ She thought for a moment. ‘We could always go on to a club later. We haven’t been dancing in ages. I’ll go and change.’

 

The Market Tavern was crowded with people in the warm evening, the loud mutter of talk filling the air. Williams took a sip of the Scotch and grimaced.

‘I hope your gin’s better than this,’ he told Violet. ‘It tastes like they distilled it in the cellar.’

She took a cautious taste.

‘I think it’s more tonic than anything. Maybe they don’t like coppers or their wives.’

‘It’s a thieves’ den here. Only the best for you.’ He winked, then glanced around the room. ‘Do you see the man over in the corner? Fair hair and moustache? That’s George Marsden. We put him away five years ago for robbing a bank.’

Marsden was well-dressed in an expensive suit and colourful tie, two-tone brogues on his feet. There was space around him, a sign of respect. Only the girl at the table sat close, dressed in bright red silk, looking bored, her bright red lips pouting.

‘Good God, who is she?’ Violet asked.

‘Girlfriend, a tart. I don’t know.’

‘A tart?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Can we go over and talk to them?’

‘I was hoping you’d say that. Just watch your bag, they’re a light-fingered bunch in here.’

Marsden looked up as they approached, half a glance at first, then stopping as he recognised the face. He put the pint glass down on the table and lit a cigarette.

‘Detective Sergeant Williams.’

‘I heard you were out, George. Back to your old tricks already?’

Marsden chuckled. ‘These bank jobs?’ He tapped the evening paper in front of him. ‘Is this right? Early morning in the city centre on a day when there are no wages? They should be arrested for bloody stupidity.’ He looked at Violet and muttered, ‘Sorry, missus.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to have an attack of the vapours,’ she told him with a smile as she sat next to the girl.

‘Any idea who they are?’ Williams asked.

‘Bunch of amateurs,’ Marsden replied with a sneer. ‘Anyone can see that. Did they take a look at the place first, size it up?’

‘No one noticed them.’

‘See?’ Marsden said emphatically. ‘That’s my point. Not a clue what they’re doing. They’re going to panic and someone will get hurt.’

‘Not like you.’ Marsden had knocked out a man who didn’t want to hand over his money.

‘That was different. It was business. And I didn’t hurt him.’

‘He was in hospital overnight.’

‘And I was gone for five years. You’re the one who put me away.’

‘Just business, George.’ He lifted his glass in a small toast. ‘If you hear anything about this lot, let me know, will you?’

‘Course,’ Marsden agreed readily. ‘They’ll give us all a bad name.’

‘And keep your nose clean for a while. Next time it’ll be six years or more.’

‘You know what prison taught me? To be very careful.’ He gave a slow smile and tapped the side of his nose.

 

Away from the smoke and stink of stale beer, the night smelt sweet. Violet linked her arm through his as they strolled through County Arcade.

‘Did you learn anything?’

‘They’re either beginners or not from around here. One thing about George, he doesn’t like competition. If he knew, he’d tell me. What about you? Good chat?’

‘Not bad,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘Is she a tart?’

‘She works in a shop in Armley. Her name’s Honour.’

‘Really?’ He grinned. ‘Honour?’

‘That’s what she told me. She couldn’t afford those clothes on her wages, though. That dress was real silk and her shoes weren’t cheap.’

‘We never recovered the proceeds of George’s last robbery. With that suit of his, too, I think we can see where it’s going.’

‘She called herself his moll.’

He shook his head.

‘Too many American gangster films. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’

 

They went on to two other places, both of them quiet, no one to pass on any information, and ended up at the Pink Ribbon Club on Lower Briggate. It was a sluggish night, hardly any customers and no energy to the small band that ran through their numbers, eager for the next break. At eleven Johnny looked at her.

‘Home?’ he asked.

‘God, yes,’ she said with relief. ‘Even Ambrose would have been better than this lot.’

 

He was up before her, shaved and dressed, dapper in a suit with a faint Prince of Wales check, long before she untangled herself from the sheets. By the time she’d struggled into a slip and started applying her makeup he’d left for the day, reporting to the station.

Superintendent Randall perched on the edge of his desk.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘They’re probably amateurs. Or from somewhere in the West Riding.’

‘Then what was all that guff in the paper about having the best driver in Leeds?’

Williams smiled. ‘Just shaking the tree and seeing what falls down.’

‘You’d better not take too long about it. Everyone’s getting nervous as it is.’

‘They were trying to get themselves noticed yesterday.’

‘Seems like they succeeded.’

‘But they didn’t think it through. There wasn’t going to be much cash there so early on a Monday. Did we find the car?’

‘Abandoned by a factory on the road to Middleton. No one saw them. According to Inspector Gibson, they’re very dangerous criminals.’

Johnny considered that for a few moments.

‘I think they’re probably petrified.’

 

Johnny Williams enjoyed police work. Most of it was simple enough, not even any real detection. But the tougher cases were his meat and drink. He’d joined the force when he was twenty-three, then come up quickly through the ranks, a year on the beat, then a couple more as a detective constable before they’d made him a sergeant. He was in no rush to go higher; rank brought too much responsibility for his liking.

Randall gave him plenty of freedom. Johnny had his own way of working and it brought results. He was good at putting criminals behind bars.

 

Williams spent part of the morning wondering where the robbers would strike next. He stared at the big map of Leeds on the wall. There was no pattern in what they’d done. But they were becoming more ambitious. There’d be a next time, he was certain of that.

Finally, he gave up. He didn’t know enough to predict. Most likely there’d be a few days before anything else. Time to learn a little more.

In the Austin he started the engine and let it idle, smoking a cigarette and watching people pass on the street. Finally, he put the car into gear, heading out beyond Harehills.

The Gipton estate was brand new, not even half-built yet. Some roads seemed to lead nowhere, others had builders’ vans parked, the men busy laying bricks and putting the roofs on houses. In time it would be huge, but for now most of it was mud with tufts of grass. There were no signs on the streets and he had to ask workmen for directions, waiting as they examined a map.

The brick was rosy red, fresh sod covering the small front garden. Williams stood and gazed at the place. Much better than Gabriel Pitt’s old house, an old ruin by the city centre that was now a pile of rubble.

He knocked on the door and waited, hearing a woman waddle along the hall and then Millie Pitt was standing there, a scarf covering her hair and a pinafore around her short, dumpy body. She sighed.

‘You’ve not come to arrest him, have you, Mr. Williams? I’ve not even got him started on the decorating yet and I’d like the bedroom distempered first.’

‘Why? Has he been up to something?’

‘Oh,’ she said in surprise. ‘I thought he must have been for you to come calling.’

‘I just want a word with him, actually.’

‘Right.’ For a moment she seemed nonplussed, then smiled. ‘Come in. I’ll put the kettle on. He’s upstairs with the paintbrush. Just watch yourself in that good suit.’

No one could call Gabe Pitt handsome. His looks had been his downfall as a robber. With his bulbous nose and bulging eyes, witnesses had always been able to describe him. A day after any job and he’d be in jail.

Now, though, he was in the bedroom, standing on the stepladder, the bottom half of his face covered with a handkerchief as he worked, paint splattered in his thinning hair.

‘You look like one of those cowboys in the westerns,’ Williams told him. ‘All you need is a Stetson.’

‘Whatever it is, I didn’t do it,’ Pitt said. ‘Been too busy moving.’

He climbed down, setting the tools aside, and lowered the kerchief. Barely five and a half feet tall, and almost as round as his wife, he wasn’t quick on his feet. The only time Williams had been forced to chase him, the man had been panting hard after a hundred yards.

‘They’ve given you a nice place.’

‘Not bad,’ Pitt agreed with a nod. ‘I’ll tell you though, Mr. Williams, before they’d let us move in, we had to put all our stuff through the bug van. I said to the man, he’d have to be the one to tell my missus all our stuff had bugs. I’d pick him up off the floor afterwards.’ He looked around the room with satisfaction. One wall was painted, and part of the ceiling.

‘Have you heard about these bank robberies in town?’

‘From the newspapers. Why?’ He started to laugh. ‘You don’t think it was me, do you?’

‘We’d already have you in the cells if it was, Gabe. I just wondered if you’d any ideas who was behind it.’

Pitt shook his head. ‘I’m out of touch up here. There’s not even a decent boozer close by. Can you credit that? They’re building all these houses and not one good pub.’

‘It’s a crime,’ Johnny agreed. ‘So you don’t know who’s responsible?’

‘Amateurs, like as not. Sawn-off shotgun, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Probably some lads with no jobs looking for easy money. They don’t see it as a craft.’

‘They’re taking honest crime away from the likes of you,’ Williams said.

‘They are,’ Pitt agreed seriously. He pulled the kerchief up over his face again. ‘What do you think? One of these and a hat next time?’

‘You do that, Gabe. Then come back here and wait for me. I’ll be over in an hour.’

 

Driving back into the city centre, he was pleased. A few conversations and some wounded pride. Everyone seemed to agree the robbers weren’t professionals. That would make them harder to find. But the real artists wouldn’t be happy at anyone coming on their turf. A day or two and the leads would start.

The police station was bustling as he walked in, uniforms muttering and frowning, the CID room empty except for Superintendent Randall pacing between the desks.

‘You go wandering off without a word…’ he began.

‘Just putting fleas in a few ears. Why, what’s all the fuss?’

‘Broughton’s.’

The name was familiar, but Williams has to think for a moment before he could place it.

‘The gunsmith on Woodhouse Lane?’

Randall nodded. ‘They’ve been robbed. Get over there and find out what’s happening. The last thing we want is a bunch of weapons floating around.’

 

‘What did they take?’ Johnny asked the manager again. The man, still living in the fashion of the 19th century with a wing collar and a frock coat, had evaded the answer the first time, taking a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing sweat from his forehead.

‘Four shotguns and ammunition,’ he admitted reluctantly.

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘They just burst in through the door.’

‘Don’t you keep it locked?’ Williams asked in surprise.

‘Of course,’ the man replied, affronted. ‘But a customer had just gone out, and they were inside before it closed.’

‘How many?’

‘Three of them.’

He could feel a sudden chill climbing up his spine.

‘Tell me,’ Johnny asked with interest, ‘how were they dressed?’

 

104 And Counting

Last week – November 2, to be exact – my father would have been 104. He died in 2001, but as the years pass, I understand how much I owe him and how much, for better or worse, I’m like him.

He was born and raised in Leeds, lived here most of his life. Back in the 1930s he was a musician with his own jazz band, playing dances around town. After World War II, the family story goes, the BBC offered him a job with one of their bands. He turned it down, scared he wasn’t good enough.

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He wrote. He had a short story published in the late ‘40s, based in part of an incident from the war, and he liked spending time with writers and reporters – in the early 1950s he’d occasionally drink with Keith Waterhouse and Barbara Taylor Bradford, then both young reporters in Leeds.

Sunday mornings were his time to write. A fire would be lit in the front room, and after we’d taken the dog to Roundhay Park so it could run for a while, he’d settle down and work in longhand on his novel in that front room, the air warm and inviting by the time he settled there.

I don’t remember what he wrote back then, but I saw some of his later work which drew from his childhood, from family, people he’d known growing up in Cross Green, a grandfather who was the landlord of the Victoria public house at the bottom of Roundhay Road. A woman who started out as a pub servant and later own the place as well as a few bakeries. Anyone who’s read my Tom Harper Victorian series will probably recognise some elements in there. While Annabelle Harper is very much her own self, part of her will always be an homage to my father.

No-one wanted to publish his books. After his business as a manufacturer’s rep for knitwear went broke in the late 1960s, he began selling laundrettes for Frigidaire. After that ended, he took another job to keep food on the table, and a correspondence course in writing for television.

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The first couple of plays he pitched didn’t go anywhere. But he did have two aired in the early 1970s: Audrey Had A Little Lamb and A Wish For Wally’s Mother. Back then there was a market for one-off TV dramas (and if anyone has video of either play, I’d love to see it).

He could have done more. He should have done more. I have a faint recollection that he was offered a job on Coronation Street, but he turned it down?

Why?

I have no idea, but in retrospect it fits the pattern of him turning down the BBC music job. But I’m not the right person to analyse my father.

He always encouraged my writing. He was proud of it, happy once I began making my living as a writer – which was music journalism and quickie unauthorised celebrity biographies. Both my parents were proud of what I did, but as my two focuses had always been music (as a very ordinary musician) and writing, I tended to see my father in myself.

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Maybe I still do. There are things that happen when my first thought is ‘I wish my parents could see this,’ but I suppose I mostly mean my father. Not because I didn’t love my mother; I certainly did. But perhaps because there was an unspoken affinity between us, a similarity.

Bits of him come into my books. Dan Markham’s office on Albion Place in Dark Briggate Blues is the building where my father had his office. The after-hours drinking clubs, the shebeens, were places he’d go occasionally. It was written quite a few years after his death. But perhaps that’s the beauty of writing. Words can be like candles, lit to keep the spirit of someone there. Sometimes those are people who died with memorials, lost in time. Sometimes they can be someone close.

And once in a long while I wonder if I’d be doing this if I hadn’t had his example and his encouragement. I’ll never know the answer to that. It probably doesn’t even matter.

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I am and I did. That’s all that counts.

My City of Immigrants

In the light of all the intolerance and hatred in the world at the moment, it feels important to me to say this.

 

When I was in my early teens, at the tail end of the 1960s, I used to take the bus into town every Saturday morning for a look around the record and book shops in Leeds. Even clothes, because in those distant days I had an interest in fashion.

It was a trip down Chapeltown Road, through what was a vital, flourishing Afro-Caribbean community, where people from SE Asia were also making their home. Out of the window I’d be intrigued by signs for the Polish Club, the Serbian Club, Ukrainian Club. We’d pass a Sikh Gurdwara that had once been a Congregation Baptist Church, and further down, a synagogue. Going through Sheepscar, I could see all the Irish pubs – the Roscoe, the Victoria, the Pointer, the Regent, and more, all before I reached the city centre and hopped off outside the ABC cinema.

That was one bus ride, in one part of town. It told a story of immigration that wasn’t all recent. It never occurred to me that these people were any less Leeds than me. They were here, they were making their lives, working, raising their children, the same as everyone else.

The first reference to a Jew in Leeds that I’ve seen is from middle of the 18th century. The same for a black, an army drummer boy. By the 1830s there was a small Jewish community here, and by 1840 there was a Jewish cemetery and services were held in a loft on Bridge Street, with a total of 56 Jews identified in the 1841 census.

Certainly by the 1830s there was an Irish community in Leeds, centred on the Bank, the poorest area of town. As was common in England at the time, they were sometimes regarded as less than human, relegated to the very worst part of town. The famines of the 1840s brought more Irish immigrants, many of whom worked at the mills in the area.

                               St Patrick’s Church                                           Victorian court on the Bank

The big Jewish influx came towards the end of the 19th century, fleeing the pogroms in Russia and Eastern Europe. Understandably, the several thousand who arrived in Leeds settled where there was the safety of other Jews and the common language of Yiddish – in the Leylands, just north of the centre.

                                                 The Leylands around 1900

The early 1900s saw a very tiny group of Chinese in Leeds as well as a few Poles settling here. A few Italians had lived here since the 1880s.

Of course, it didn’t all go smoothly; there were tensions between Irish and English, between English and Jews, which culminated in a riot in 1917, when youths charged into the Leylands, believing none of the Jewish community had volunteered to fight in World War 1, which was very much wrong.

An Indian soldier served with the Leeds Pals during that war, and quite possibly the first Indian Sikh settled here in 1930, with the first Muslim in 1943, with more arriving from the Indian subcontinent in the early 1950s.

By then, of course, the Windrush had docked, and West Indian immigrants had begun to arrive, with some making their homes here, followed by others.

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West Indian Carnival, Chapeltown Road, 1980

But all of those followed those Poles, Ukrainians and Serbs who come during World War II to fight, then married and settled here.

Since then, people have arrived from many other countries – quite possibly most of the nations on Earth.

The point is that immigration is nothing new in Leeds. It’s been happening for centuries. Go back several generations and most of us have our family origins somewhere else. An ancestor of mine arrived here from East Yorkshire in the 1820s. In those days, that made him an outsider, but he was one of thousands drawn here by industry and the promise of money.

All through my books, I’ve had immigrants. There’s Henry, Joe Buck’s black servant in the 1730s, a recurring character in the Richard Nottingham series. Romany travellers in Cold Cruel Winter. The Irish are all through the Tom Harper books, and a focus on the Jews in the Leylands in Two Bronze Pennies. West Indian musicians – working as street cleaners – pop up in Dark Briggate Blues. Perhaps they’re there to make a point, but really, it’s simply a reflection of life as it was.

The fact is that people want a better life for themselves and their children. They want to feel safe. It doesn’t matter where you’re born, it’s a common human impulse. And once they settle here, these people are as much Leeds as the rest of us. They’ve added and contributed to my hometown and made it a better place.

I’m proud that my city is a city of immigrants.

Thank You

It’s almost four weeks since The Hanging Psalm was published, three since the launch event. The conventional wisdom is that there’s a two-week window after publication in which to make a splash about a book, something that can be especially important with a new series.

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I’m perhaps luckier than most; with a gap between UK and US publications, I have two of those windows. That said, one isn’t any easier than the other. So many books appear these days, from traditional publishers and independents, that it’s hard to be heard above the noise.

Reviews help. They help beyond compare, especially in these days when we’re all online. But still, the most important is word of mouth. I don’t expect everyone to like my books. Historical crime is niche enough. Leeds historical crime is an even smaller niche. and I certainly don’t expect everyone to like all my books (although I can live in hope).

But, if you do like one, please tell your friends. Ask your local library to stock a copy – most library services will order the book if they don’t already have it. Like every other author, I love people taking my books out of the library. They’re such a vital community resource and they need to be used as much as possible. Read all you want and it costs you nothing. What could be better than that?

There’s also a bonus for writers. Not only do we receive the royalty when the service buys a copy, we receive a small amount whenever someone borrows one of our books, whether a physical or ebook copy. Win-win, truly.

Yes, I want to sell books. I want people to read what I write. That’s why it’s out there. But I depend on people like you. Without you, it all falls apart very quickly.

So I thank you for all you’ve done, and hope I can keep you entertained and make you think for quite a few years yet.

One final thing. If you’re in the UK and haven’t read The Tin God yet (I’m immensely proud of that book, and of Annabelle Harper in it), the hardback is currently £10.07 on Amazon (sorry, US readers). Not my favourite retailer, but if you’re looking to give the feminist in your life a Christmas gift, well…this would definitely fit the ball. Maybe you can see the printing sell out – that would be a great present for me.

But whatever happens, thank you all.

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The Ghosts Of Memory

Yes, I have a book just out (The Hanging Psalm, set in Leeds in 1820 if you haven’t been paying attention) and the launch is Thursday, October 4, 6.30 pm at Waterstones in Leeds. I truly hope you’ll come.

But that’s not what I want to write about this time.

I’ve been re-reading a fascinating book (Haunted Weather by David Toop), one section of which deals with soundmarkers that can conjure up memories. This set me thinking about similar markers that bring the past crashing into the present for me.

The most obvious is smell. For me, that has to be a coal fire. Very occasionally, I come across them – early in Spring there was one as we walked by the canal in Hebden Bridge, certainly smokeless now. It tumbled me back through time.

We lived in a 1930s semi. A fireplace in the living room that my mother would clean and where she’d set a fire every morning. It fed the back burner in the kitchen (we also had a gas stove). Another fireplace in the front room, only used on Sundays, where my father would go to write. A third in my parents’ bedroom, which I only recall being lit once. The coalman hauling those hundredweight sacks of slack on his shoulder and tipping them into the coal hole. The coalman was a recognisable local figure, the same as the man who deliver pop (Corona) or the rag and bone man with his horse and cart.

Even after all these years, I could still make a fire, I can remember how to twist those sheets of newspaper and bend them round.

The smell of coal was ubiquitous then. Every house used it for heat, and the air was dirty. Every man and boy had grimy rings around their shirt collars. Ring around the collar was even a phrase used in ads for detergent.

Now, that smell seems as rare as diamonds. Not a bad thing in itself at all. But what it can evoke is more than a single thing, it’s an entire life. My mother would only make Yorkshire pudding in the back burner; probably the way she was taught. And so coal brings the memory of the fat sizzling in the pan before the batter was added. It makes me think of winter mornings with frost inside my bedroom window.

So many things, really.

But what about sound? Perhaps curiously, what springs to mind isn’t any natural sound at all. We lived in the Leeds suburbs, we weren’t surrounded by nature. It’s the radio. My mother loved the serial Mrs. Dale’s Diary – if I remember right, it was on at 4.15 in the afternoon. She play it on the transistor in the kitchen as she cooked. I’d be on the lino floor, taking things from my toy box which sat in a cupboard there. I’d play while she worked. I didn’t listen to the show, but somehow I took in a little of it by osmosis ‘I’m rather worried about Jim…’

And the other formative sound? It has to be this.

Like virtually every child of my generation, Listen With Mother was a ritual. I was lucky, we had a television, so I also had the chance to see Watch With Mother, a double helping. Until I started school, it was one of the markers of the day. We’d be back from shopping, my mother would have a cup of tea, and I really would listen with mother.

The book is right. Sound and smell are portals to the past, the doors that hold the ghosts of memory we believe we’ve forgotten, and on the surface we probably have.

It’s one reason I try to use them in my books, I suppose, knowing the power they have, and can bring, even to people who’ve never experienced a city where you can taste soot in the air, or where bronchitis isn’t a common winter ailment any more. And the sounds of industry, of the wheels of a tram, the calls of traders in the market…all of these things are part of a common memory that can bring the past to life.

How Do I Rate My Books?

As you hopefully know, I have a new book coming out next week (it called The Hanging Psalm, in case you weren’t aware). Take a big breath time, it’s the start of a new series, and my publisher has just accepted the follow-up, which will be appearing in a year’s time (I know, it’s hard to think that far in advance).

When something like that happens, though, I tend to look at those titles on my bookshelf with my name on them and have a think about them. It’s very rare for me to go back and re-read any. Certainly not for pleasure; I might have forgotten the details of the plots, but not the months of work that went into each one. If you’re a writer, by the time you’ve written something, revised it, gone through the publisher’s edits and then the proofs, you’re pretty much sick of seeing it.

But I have a surprising number of books out there. Quite often it astonishes me, makes me wonder just how that happened. And it makes me wonder what I think of them in retrospect. So, it’s time for an honest assessment.

 

I started out with the Richard Nottingham books. The Broken Token took several years to see the light of day. It was finished in 2006 and finally appeared four years later. In my memory, it’s curiously poetic, as is most of the series, a style that seemed to fit the character and the times – Leeds in the 1730s, for those who don’t know. Cold Cruel Winter was named one of the Mysteries of the Year by Library Journal, something that floored me. It’s a book that came from a single fact – the trial transcripts of executed men were sometimes bound in their skin. What crime writer wouldn’t relish doing something with that? And it was where I began to explore the grey area between right and wrong. The third book, The Constant Lovers, has its points, but taking Richard out of Leeds, even if it’s just into the surrounding villages, was probably a misstep. It diffused the focus. Leeds, tight and dense, is his milieu, and he’s been back in there ever since. The standout in the series for me, though, will always be At the Dying of the Year. It was the hardest to write, the one that cut deepest into me and left me depressed for a while afterwards. But the emotions are very raw and real on every page. Even thinking about it now, I can still feel them. Returning to Richard after a few years with Free from All Danger felt like a homecoming of sorts. I’d originally intended eight books in the series. That was number seven, but it left him at the end with some share of happiness, and God knows he deserves that.

I do have a soft spot for the pair of novels featuring Lottie Armstrong (Modern Crimes and The Year of the Gun). She’s so vibrant and alive, both as a young woman and in her forties. It’s impossible not to like her. The problem is that I painted myself into a corner; it’s impossible to ever bring her back, although she seems quite happy to leave things as they are. In different ways, I’m hugely proud of them both, and particularly of Lottie. I still feel she might pop in for a cup of tea and a natter.

The Dan Markham books (Dark Briggate Blues and The New Eastgate Swing) book came after re-reading Chandler once again and wondering what a private detective novel set in the North of England would be like. I found my answers. The original is the better book, harder and more real, and it spawned a play, to my astonishment. The second certainly isn’t bad, but it doesn’t quite catch the pizazz of the first.

Then there are the anomalies – a three-book series set in medieval Chesterfield. The first came as a literal flash on inspiration, the others were harder work, and the difference shows. I lived down by there for a few years, I like the town itself and I think that shows. There’s also a pair of books set in Seattle in the 1980s and ‘90s that hardly anyone knows about – they’re only available on ebook and audiobook. But I spent twenty years in that city, a big chunk of my life, and I loved it. I was involved in music as a journalist (still am, to a small degree), and the novels, still crime, are part of that passion. You know what? I still really believe in them. They’re pretty accurate snapshots of a time and place, and the scenes that developed in the town – the way music itself was a village in a booming city.

The Dead on Leave, with Leeds in the 1930s of the Depression, was a book born out of anger at the politics around and how they seem to be a rehash of that period. It’s a one-off, it has to be, but I do like it a lot – more time might change my view, but honestly, I hope not.

And that brings me to Tom and Annabelle Harper. I’m not quite sure why, but I feel that they’re maybe my biggest achievement to date. That’s a surprise to me, given that I swore I’d never write a book set in Victorian times. Yet, in some ways they feel like the most satisfying. More complex, yet even more character-driven. And I think someone like Annabelle is the biggest gift anyone can be given. She’s not the focus of the novels, but she walks right off the page, into life. I didn’t create here – she was there, waiting for me. And what feel like the best books in the series are the ones that involve her more, in an organic way: Skin Like Silver and The Tin God. Not every book works as well as I’d hoped; in Two Bronze Pennies I don’t think I achieved what I set out to do. My ambition was greater than my skill. But maybe I’m getting there. The next book in the series, The Leaden Heart, takes place in 1899, the close of a century, and I feel I’m starting to do all my characters real justice. I’m currently working on one set in 1908, so the 20th century is already here, and I still want to take them to the end of World War I, a natural closing point for the series. I feel that I’m creating not only good crime novels, and I strive to make each one quite different, but also a portrait of a family in changing times – and also a more complete picture of Leeds.

And that’s always been the subtext, although it took me a long time to realise it. Leeds is the constant, the character always in the background, changing its shape and its character a little in each era. And I’m trying to portray that, to take the readers there, on its streets, with their smells and noises. I’m hoping to have a novel set in every decade from 1890s-1950s (maybe even the ‘60s, if inspiration arrives), to show how the place changed.

In a way, the nearest I’ve come to running after the character that is Leeds and its essence is a collection of short stories, Leeds, the Biography, even if I didn’t realise it at the time. It’s based on anecdotes, snippets of history, and folk tales, and runs from 360 CE to 1963. For the most part, they’re light tales. But one has resonance – Little Alice Musgrove. That still stands as a good story (you can probably find it online)

But with The Hanging Psalm, out next week, I’m going back to an unexplored place, Leeds in the 1820s, when the Industrial Revolution was still quite new. The Regency, although there’s very little gentility to it; better to describe it as Regency Noir. The book is still too fresh for me to asses it fairly. But I do know how electric it felt to write. So I’m hopeful it will stand the test of time in my mind…and in the meantime, I hope you’ll buy it (definitely buy it if you can!) or borrow it from the library and enjoy it.

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Another Extract From The Hanging Psalm

It’s just over three weeks until The Hanging Psalm is published in the UK (Jan 1 in the rest of the world).

That means I’m trying to tempt you into ordering a copy. All the big retailers have it, and if you’re in Leeds there’s going to be a very special launch event. Meanwhile, it’s now available on NetGalley for authorised bloggers and reviewers.

And it’s the Severn House Editor’s Pick of the Month. Read about that here.

Meanwhile…take a step back to 1820. The Regency. But it’s not Assembly Rooms and genteel manners at the Pump Rooms in Bath.

This is Leeds. It’s Regency Noir.

Enjoy.

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The night was quieter than the day. Shops were shuttered. Lamps flickered in the houses. People safe behind locked doors.

But another Leeds arose in the darkness. A different population that came to life with the shadows. Simon had known them for years, people like Colonel Warburton, the former soldier who always wore the tattered French officer’s coat he claimed to have stripped from a corpse on the battlefield at Waterloo. He held court in a back room of the Boot and Shoe, a bottle of good brandy on the table, quietly buying and selling stolen bonds.

Or Hetty Marcombe. She looked like a harmless, vacant old woman wandering forlornly around the yards of the coaching inns. But she had quiet cunning behind the empty eyes, ready to make off with any case that passengers didn’t keep close. Josh Hartley, Silver Dexter, all the flash men and burglars, and the whores who strutted up and down Briggate. Once the daylight faded, Leeds belonged to them.

Simon was at ease in their company. He talked a little and listened as they spoke. With a word or a nod, one person often led him to another. He learned who’d stolen what, if it had been sold and for how much. Information he’d be able to use in the coming weeks. But tonight his eyes were open for a particular man.

At the Cross Keys, just across the river in Holbeck, he stood inside the door and watched the crowd. Almost every face was young, drinking with the grim determination that dashed headlong towards oblivion. A few more years and most of them would be gone. Violence, disease, the gallows, a ship to the other side of the world. Something would carry them away. And deep inside, they knew it. So they forced out their pleasures like duty.

Strange, Simon thought, Harry Smith didn’t seem to be anywhere tonight. People called him the Vulture. He’d earned the name; he relished it like an honour. Smith fed himself on the weak, the gang of young boys who worked for him, picking pockets and robbing shops.

But Harry heard things that didn’t reach other ears. He was sly, he understood that knowledge brought a good price. And he always knew who’d be willing to pay.

Simon moved on. By the time the clock struck ten he’d gone all round the town. No word of anyone anticipating a fortune soon. Finally, close to midnight, he turned his key in the lock and climbed up to bed.

 

‘You’re a pretty thing. How much do you charge?’

Jane turned away and the man laughed.

‘Don’t play coy, luv. Tuppence and you’ll get the bargain. You might even like it for once.’

She began to walk down Kirkgate, but he staggered along behind, drunk, cursing her. She’d survived the nights out here for too long. She knew the men who populated them. This one was harmless, all drink and bluster and noise. Still, she reached into the pocket of her dress and curled her fingers around the handle of her knife.

The voice faded and she forgot he’d ever been there. No one behind her now. With the shawl over her head, she slipped in and out of the shadows. People passed without a glance. The only light came from gaps in the shutters, but she knew her way around in the darkness.

Lizzie Henry lived out on Black Flags Lane, the far side of Quarry Hill. The building stood alone, looking as if it had once been a large farmhouse. Now, as she entered, she saw a series of rooms off a long hallway. The lamps had been lit and trimmed, the floorboards swept, paintings on the walls; everything was clean and tidy. The faint sound of talk leaked from behind closed doors. But she had no sense of joy from the place.

Jane had heard tales. This was a house that catered to the worst things men desired, anything at all if the fee was right. From somewhere upstairs there was a stifled scream, then silence. She paused for a second, feeling the beat of her heart and the breath in her lungs, then walked on to the open door ahead. Beyond it, a neat, ordered parlour and Lizzie herself sitting in an armchair, close to the blazing fire.

Jane had always pictured the woman as a hag. Instead, the woman was slim, darkly attractive, dressed in an elegant, fashionable gown whose material shimmered and sparkled in the light. She had power and wealth, and wore them easily, a woman who held her secrets close – the names of the men who came here, what they did, those who went too far.

She’d never have difficulty finding girls to serve in the house. Too many were desperate. All it took was the promise of a meal and a bed. And then enough gin and laudanum to dull the pain of living and the agony men inflicted. If a few died, there was ample land for the burials. Girls without names, without pasts; no one would ever ask questions.

Lizzie Henry looked up and her mouth curled into a frown.

‘Who are you? How did you get in?’ Her voice had a harsh rasp. But there was no trace of worry or fear on her face. Beside her, a decanter, a glass and a bell sat on a small wooden table.

Introducing…A New Genre?

Over here, August Bank Holiday has been and gone, a sign that autumn is coming soon – from the weather it feels like it might have arrived.

That means it’s four weeks until The Hanging Psalm is published. And yes, I am excited by it. The series starts here, and it feels very electric and wonderfully jagged to me.

Last week I made the book trailer, presented for your pleasure – and to get you to place your pre-orders for the book, of course. Or if you’re around Leeds, come to the launch at Waterstones on Albion Street, 6.30 pm on Thursday, October 4. No guarantees, but on past experience they might even have free wine. Not that you need the inducement, of course.

Filming the trailer was definitely an interesting experience. Walking around the wild parts of the park at 7 am, trying to find a low enough branch for the noose that could still look high, and doing it without anyone seeing me and calling the police. Luckily, I managed it, with less than a minute before a dog walker came along. By that time the noose was already tucked away in my backpack.

Later the same day, a return trip to the park with my partner, who filmed me tying the noose. So now I have that as a life skill that might come in useful.

The second in the series has just gone to my agent, so fingers crossed for the future on that. Of course, it will help if you all buy the first one.

But the read-through has made realise something I should probably have seen earlier.

Simon Westow, the main character in The Hanging Psalm, is a thief-taker. He searches out items that have been stolen and returns them for a fee. The book is set in 1820, during the Regency, but this isn’t the world of Georgette Heyer, or even Blackadder 3. No silver-tongued gentlemen highwaymen. No balls at the Assembly Rooms in Bath. It’s all Northern. It’s all Leeds.

And the Leeds of the time is a dangerous, deadly place and its crooks mean business. The Industrial Revolution has firmly arrived, on the brink of having the town by the throat, but the transition isn’t complete yet. It’s just a few years since the Luddites shook the country, and there’s still plenty of unrest. Prices for staples are high and wages are low. People are flocking to the industrial towns, looking for work as there’s little opportunity in the countryside. There’s not enough housing to meet the demand.

The rich are few, at the top of the heap and growing wealthier all the time, and the poor…they have little chance.

But down these mean streets a man must go who is himself not mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. (Chandler talking about the private detective in fiction)

And that man is Simon Westow.

In my imagination, Leeds in 1820 is somewhere between the London Dickens describes and the wide-open Los Angeles of Chinatown and Raymond Chandler. It’s a town where danger is always present. And Simon is the early 19th century equivalent of a private investigator. The law is the constable and the night watch; a proper police force is the best part of twenty years away. He’s the best hope people have. He’s an honest man, with principles and morals, who can make his way from the highest to the lowest in society. And he’s a man full of anger at the way he was brought up, in the workhouse and the factories. He’s done well for himself in spite of that, not because of it.

And Jane, who assists him. Well, you’ll have to read for yourself. She intrigues me and she terrifies me at the same time. I’ve no idea where she came from, but the second book digs into her past more.

So yes, it’s the Regency. But not the way we it’s been looked at in fiction.

If you like, think of The Hanging Psalm as Regency Noir.

It’s the Severn House Editor’s Pick of the Month for September. Read more here.

And now, here’s that trailer. And here is the cheapest place to order the book.

Please, let me know what you think.

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