Modern Crimes E-Book

Chris Nickson

• Herausgeber: The Mystery Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 379

Beschreibung

1924: Still reeling from the effects of the Great War, life in the city of Leeds is hard: poverty is rife, work is scarce and crime is becoming more sophisticated. Bravely entering this maelstrom is one of the city's first policewomen to walk the beat, the resourceful, inquisitive and practical WPC Lottie Armstrong. Eager to prove herself and determined to succeed, Lottie faces apathy from colleagues and the general public alike until she suddenly finds herself on the trail of a missing girl that leads to the underbelly of the city and to murder. As Lottie uncovers a plot involving high level corruption, CID reluctantly find they need her knowledge and people skills, but as the truth is slowly laid bare Lottie's bravery is tested to its limit in a breathtaking climax.

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR CHRIS NICKSON

Dark Briggate Blues: A Dan Markham Mystery

‘The book is a pacy, atmospheric and entertaining page-turner with a whole host of well-rounded characters’

Yorkshire Post

‘[Dark Briggate Blues is] written with an obvious affection for the private investigator genre, this is a skilful take in an unusual setting. It has real depth which will keep you turning the pages’

Hull Daily Mail

‘This is a tense thriller, all the more disturbing for the ordinariness of its setting among the smoky, rain-slicked streets of a northern industrial city. Nickson has captured the minutiae of the mid-twentieth century perfectly’

Historical Novel Society

The New Eastgare Swing: A Dan Markham Mystery

‘[The New Eastgate Swing] provides a fast-paced and unpredictable insight into the dark underbelly of 1950s Leeds’

Leeds City Magazine

‘Chris’s enormous affection for his home

city shines through the books’

Mystery People

‘Chris writes with such gusto, pouring his immense

knowledge and passion for Leeds into every story he brings

to life and I love his clever fusion of history with fi ction’

theculturevulture.co.uk

For Mrs Florence E. Parrish, Miss Anne Carnegie Brown,and Mrs Florence G. Strickland, who paved the way asthe first women police constables in Leeds.And for all the people who had to live in the shadowsuntil we saw the light.

CONTENTS

Praise for Chris Nickson

Title

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Year of the Gun

About the Author

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Leeds, 1924

AS she walked into Millgarth Police Station, Charlotte Armstrong nodded to the desk sergeant then strode back along the corridor to the matron’s office. The day shift of bobbies had already gone on patrol and the building was quiet. She rested her hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath and straightened her back.

‘Good morning, ma’am. WPC Armstrong reporting.’

Mrs Maitland looked up, giving her a quick inspection. She was a pinch-faced woman in her late forties, dark hair going grey and pulled back into a tight bun. She’d never mentioned Mr Maitland, but in two years the woman had never revealed anything personal; the job seemed to be her life. She was here first thing in the morning and long into the evening, as if she had no better place to be.

‘There’s a hair on your jacket, Armstrong.’

Lottie looked down. One hair, dark blonde, hers. She plucked it away, annoyed at herself and at the matron.

‘Sorry, ma’am.’ She stayed at attention.

Maitland returned to the letters on her desk. This was her way. Keeping someone waiting was how she enforced discipline.

The door opened and Cathy Taylor marched in. She was late and she knew it. Lottie could see it in her eyes. But she just winked, stood to attention and said, ‘WPC Taylor reporting, ma’am.’

‘You were supposed to be here at eight, Taylor,’ Mrs Maitland said.

‘Sorry, ma’am, my watch must be running slow.’

The matron sniffed. There were only two women constables in Leeds and she had to keep them in order.

‘Well, since you’re finally here, I have a job for the pair of you.’ She scribbled an address on a piece of paper. ‘Go and see her. She runs a home for unmarried mothers. One of her girls has been acting strangely and causing a fuss.’ She stared at the pair of them. ‘What are you waiting for? Off you go.’

‘It’s in Woodhouse, we might as well walk,’ Cathy said as they set out up the Headrow. She folded the note and put it in her uniform pocket. Early September but it was already feeling like autumn, enough of a nip in the morning air for their breath to steam. ‘Bet you the girl’s just gone off to find some fun. It’s always old cows who run those places.’

‘At least it makes a change from talking to prozzies or chasing lads playing truant.’ Lottie sighed. She loved the job, but she wished the force would let them do more, rather than treat them like delicate flowers with tender sensibilities.

Still, it was better than labouring in a mill or being a housewife. Like so many others, she’d developed a taste for freedom when she worked. Earning her own money, that was important. Stuff the vote. The government had only given it to women over thirty; she still had five years to go.

Lottie had been a clerk at the Barnbow munitions factory in Cross Gates during the war. 1916, she was just seventeen, fresh in the job with everything to learn, newly promoted from the factory. But she’d managed, even finding time to flirt with the procurement officers who came to check things.

Geoff had been one of them. Shy, diffident, still limping badly from a wound he’d suffered the year before at Gallipoli. He had a modest charm about him, like he had nothing to prove. In his uniform he looked quite dashing.

Lottie was the one who made the running. Someone had to and he wasn’t the type to put himself forward. On his third visit to the factory she’d suggested an outing to the pictures, watching him blush as she spoke. From there it had taken two years until they reached the altar. By then the fighting was over and he’d returned to his job in the Dunlop area office.

She tried to become a housewife, but life chafed around her. Other women were having babies but Geoff’s injuries meant she never would. Lottie needed something, but there was nothing that appealed, until the Leeds Police advertised for policewomen. They particularly wanted married women. And suddenly life excited her again.

‘You’ll be getting yourself shot if you keep coming in late,’ Lottie warned.

Cathy pouted. ‘It was only a couple of minutes. Anyway, Mrs Prissy wouldn’t know what to do if she didn’t have something to complain about.’ She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand.

‘Late night?’

‘I went to the pictures with my friends, then they wanted to go on dancing so I couldn’t say no.’

Cathy was twenty-four, a year younger than Lottie, with a husband who was gone most of the time in the merchant marine. No children. Hardly a wonder she liked to be out a few nights a week, dancing and flirting and enjoying herself. Married but single, she called it with a small laugh.

Lottie had gone with her a couple of times after work, changing into civvies at the station then on to a see a film at the Majestic. It had been fun, but not something she’d want to do often. Cathy had wanted to carry on, to have a cocktail. God only knew where she found the energy. By the end of a shift all Lottie wanted was to be at home and off her feet. When the working week was over, she was exhausted. She was lucky to stay up until ten, never mind the wee hours.

But Cathy wanted to embrace life. She was pretty enough for a portrait, always getting looks from men. She wore her hair in a modern bob, and had a pair of shapely legs and that bony, modern figure that always made Lottie feel huge in comparison.

‘What are you going to do when your Jimmy comes home?’ Lottie had asked her. ‘You can’t go gadding about then.’

‘We’ll enjoy our time together. After a month he’ll ship out again. Don’t get me wrong: I love him and I’d never, you know… but I can’t sit at home every evening, can I? He wouldn’t want me to, anyway.’

They matched each other step for step along Woodhouse Lane and out past the university, going towards the Moor, with its library and police sub-station on the corner.

‘Down here,’ Cathy said, turning briskly along Raglan Road, followed by the first right and second left. She scratched at her calf through the skirt. ‘God, I wish they’d do something about this uniform. It’s not bad enough that it itches, it’s so heavy, too. Like wearing a battleship. This is it. Thirty-six.’

On a street of imposing terraced houses, this one loomed on the corner, detached, standing apart at the back of a long, neat garden and looking out over the Meanwood valley, with all the factories and chimneys spewing smoke into the air. Hardly an inspiring view, Lottie thought.

She knocked and waited. Some lovely stained glass in the window; she wouldn’t mind that at home. She was miles away when the knob turned and a small woman in an apron stared up at her.

‘I was wondering how long it would take the police to get here.’ There was no welcome in the voice. The woman raised an eyebrow and stood aside. ‘Well, are you coming in or do we do it all on the street?’

Lottie led the way, following an open door into a neat parlour. A Sunday room, still smelling of wax, the wood on the furniture gleaming.

‘Go on, sit yourselves down.’ The woman bustled around, flicking off some non-existent dust.

‘You run a home for unwed mothers here, Mrs…’ Lottie said.

‘Allen,’ she answered briskly. ‘Yes, I do. It’s a Christian thing, and I try to put them on the right path.’ She sat very primly, back straight, her stare direct.

‘One of your girls has been causing problems, is that right?’ She took her notebook and pencil from her pocket.

‘She has. She went out and didn’t come back last night. No word this morning, either.’

That was bad; a missing girl. Lottie’s eyes flickered towards Cathy, and she felt a prickle of fear.

‘Could you tell us a little bit about her, Mrs Allen? Her name, what she looks like, where she’s from.’ Lottie smiled. She kept her voice calm and even. There was usually a simple explanation.

‘She’s called Jocelyn Hill. Seventeen, but she could easily pass for younger. You know the type, looks like butter wouldn’t melt, but she’s a sly little thing. Always out for a chance. A bit of extra food, this and that.’ She shook her head in disgust. ‘Half of me wishes I’d never taken her in.’

‘What does she look like?’ Cathy asked. She liked facts, something solid.

‘Only about five feet tall, I suppose. Dark hair in one of those bobs they all seem to wear. Like yours,’ she added. ‘Thin as you like, no figure on her at all. Apart from the baby, of course.’

‘How far along is she?’ Lottie wondered.

‘Eight months,’ Mrs Allen replied, ‘so it’s not like she can hide it.’

‘Has she gone missing before?’

‘Of course not.’ She snorted. ‘They all know the rules when they arrive. No going out, only family to visit, in bed by ten. Break a rule once and they’re gone. I won’t stand for it otherwise. I give them a warm, clean place to have their children and I help find good homes for the little ones. I’m not about to let them take advantage of me.’

‘Have you had others disappear, Mrs Allen?’ Cathy asked quietly.

‘Only the one,’ the woman said after a while. ‘Three years ago. But she was wild, wouldn’t ever settle down here. Jocelyn liked to push things, but she was nothing like that.’

‘Where did Jocelyn come from?’ Lottie had her pencil poised, ready to take down the address. Mrs Allen took a ledger from one of the empty bookshelves, found a pair of glasses in her pocket and began to search.

‘Here we are.’ She read out an address in Cross Green. Lottie glanced towards Cathy and saw a tiny shake of the head.

‘Thank you,’ she said, standing. ‘Is it possible to take a look in her room? Perhaps we could talk to some of the other girls who knew her?’

‘Nothing to see in the room,’ the woman told them. ‘I’ve already packed her case. If she shows up at the door she’s out on her ear. And she never really got along with the others. Kept herself to herself.’

‘Maybe a look in her case, then…’ Lottie suggested.

‘Two dresses and some underwear that’s as flimsy as nothing. Not hard to see how she ended up this way, is it?’

The door closed quickly behind them. As they walked back along the street Cathy looked over her shoulder.

‘She’s watching us from the front window.’ She shivered a little. ‘Blimey, I think I’d run off from that place, too. She’s…’

‘Strange?’ Lottie suggested.

‘Worse than that. Did you smell it in the hall?’

‘You mean the mothballs?’ She crinkled her nose. ‘She must have them everywhere.’

‘I could feel the joy being sucked out of me as soon as I walked through the door.’

They didn’t even need to talk about where they were going next. Over to Cross Green to see if Jocelyn Hill had gone home. A tram back into the city centre, then a walk through the market and up the hill towards St Hilda’s and Cross Green.

Wherever they went, people stopped to look at them. Policewomen were still a novelty in Leeds. By now Lottie was used to it. If she had sixpence for every time someone had asked if she was a real rozzer, she’d be a rich woman. She was every bit as real as the beat bobbies out there. Probably better at her job than half of them, too.

Even Lottie’s mother had been doubtful about her taking the job. It wasn’t becoming, she said. Not like marrying a grocer three months after being widowed and upping sticks to Northallerton. That was perfectly acceptable.

There was nothing inspiring about Cross Green. Not even much that was green. Street after street of tired-looking people and back-to-back houses. Small groups of men hung around on the street corners and outside the pubs. Far more than there should have been, Lottie thought. But what were they supposed to do when there weren’t any jobs?

The men who fought had been promised a home fit for heroes. Fine words, but if they’d built any homes it hadn’t been in Leeds. There had been jobs when the women were sacked, but not much of that work had lasted. According to the newspapers it was the same all over the country.

There was nothing she could do about that. Lottie was just glad Geoff’s position was secure. And that she had work of her own.

‘You’re miles away,’ Cathy said.

‘Sorry.’

They passed another group of men and she was aware of them watching her backside as she walked. Someone said something in a low voice and there was a flurry of laughter.

‘Ten to one that was a mucky remark.’

‘More like two to one.’ Cathy smiled. ‘Look on the bright side. At least they noticed.’

Lottie wasn’t too certain. Just because that was part of life didn’t mean she had to like it.

‘Charlton Street,’ she said. ‘Down here.’

It was close to the railway embankment. Number nine stood towards the far end, exactly like its neighbours on either side. She assessed it quickly: dirty windows, mud on the doorstep. No pride in the place.

‘Ready?’ she asked.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ Cathy said.

The woman who opened the door stared at them with folded arms and a glare on her face.

‘He can’t have done too much wrong if they’re sending the lasses out,’ she said. ‘What is it this time?’

‘Jocelyn,’ Lottie said. ‘Is she here?’

‘Here?’ The woman’s expression moved from surprise to panic. ‘Why would she be here? Oh God, something’s happened, hasn’t it?’

‘Why don’t we talk inside?’ It was a gentle question, and Mrs Hill gave a short nod, leading them back to the scullery. A scarred wooden table, battered chairs. Stone sink and a blackleaded range. How many of these had she seen in the job?

‘Right.’ The woman had gathered herself. ‘You’d better tell me what’s going on. What’s happened to our Jocelyn?’

‘She left the home last night and hasn’t come back.’

‘Stupid little bitch.’ She spat out the words like venom. ‘I told her it were for her own good.’

‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’ Lottie suggested. ‘Then we can find her.’ She gave Cathy a look: make some tea. As she started to bustle around, Mrs Hill was looking down and biting her lip.

‘Why did you send Jocelyn over there?’ Lottie asked softly but the answer was obvious. Woodhouse was far enough away that no one would recognise her.

‘She got herself in the family way. Why the bloody hell do you think?’ The woman sneered. ‘It weren’t for the fun of it. Didn’t want everyone round here talking about us like that.’

‘Have you spoken to her since she went there?’ It had been a while; there must have been some contact.

‘Oh aye, I pick up the telephone every day and we have a natter.’ She snorted. ‘Course I haven’t. Don’t have time to write letters. She wouldn’t answer if I did, anyway.’

Lottie tightened her lips. ‘Mrs Hill, do you have any idea why she might have run off, or where she might have gone?’

‘Not really. But once our Jos gets an idea in her head there’s no shifting it.’ She shrugged. ‘Been that way since she was little.’

‘Do you have any idea at all where she might have gone?’

‘Not really.’ She reached into the pocket of her apron, took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, just as Cathy put three mugs of tea on the table. The woman heaped in two spoonfuls of sugar and took a long drink. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll swing for her if she’s done owt daft.’

‘What about the baby’s father? Could she have gone to him?’

‘Possibly,’ Mrs Hill admitted. ‘She’d never say who it were, though, not even when her dad took a belt to her.’

‘No idea who it could be?’

‘One or two.’

And they could easily deny it, Lottie thought. Not much help at all.

‘What about her friends? Who are they?’

‘You’d do best talking to Elizabeth Townend and Eileen Donnelly, then. Thick as thieves, the three of them.’ She gave a dark glance. ‘I’ll warn you, though, they wouldn’t tell me owt.’

‘Where do I find them, Mrs Hill?’

The sun had a little warmth behind it as they walked over to the Burton’s factory in Burmantofts. Street after street of houses and factories, the smell of soot in the air

‘What did you think?’ Lottie asked.

‘That kitchen was covered in grease,’ Cathy complained. ‘I can still feel it all over my hands.’

‘About Mrs Hill, I meant.’

‘I think she’s more scared than anything else. Packing the girl off to the home like that seems a bit of a surprise. I hadn’t expected her to care so much about reputation.’

But everyone cared in their own way, Lottie thought. And some of those ways were unexpected.

The building was huge, and still growing, judging by the labourers they saw laying bricks and mixing cement. Inside, the sound of the machines filled the air like a swarm of flies; there were hundreds of women with their heads down, sewing the suits to go on sale in shops the firm had all over the country. Business was good. The noise only quietened as they were shown into a hushed waiting room.

‘Not bad, this place, is it?’ Cathy said, inspecting the posters on the walls. ‘Look, they’ve even got a social club. Nights out, day trips. Canteen. Why can’t we have things like that?’

‘Maybe you should apply on the way out. At least you wouldn’t have to wear a scratchy skirt.’ It came out harsher than she’d intended and she tempered it with a wink.

‘Maybe I will. At least I wouldn’t have to put up with Moaning Minnie on morning parade. She gets on my wick.’

Time passed, the clock on the wall ticking away the minutes until the door opened and a young woman showed them to a room down the corridor. It was sparsely furnished with a table and some old chairs, and metal filing cabinets lining the walls. A storage room for old paperwork, Lottie guessed.

Two girls sat waiting nervously, glancing around as the door opened. Lottie smiled, trying to ease their fears. But their eyes were on Cathy. She wasn’t surprised or envious; it was usually the way. Cathy had a look that attracted gazes, that small twinkle that made her seem as if she knew secrets.

‘Who’s Elizabeth and who’s Eileen?’ Lottie asked. She knew her voice sounded too jolly; couldn’t be helped.

‘I’m Eileen,’ one of the girls replied in a small voice.

She should have guessed. Red hair gathered in a scarf, freckles on her nose. She looked so young. They both did.

‘I’m Constable Armstrong. Don’t worry, you haven’t done anything wrong.’ She could see the relief. ‘But you both know Jocelyn Hill.’

‘Jos?’ Elizabeth Townend asked in surprise. She was short, with dark brown hair carefully covered, eyes wide, a broad face and heavy lips. ‘What about her?’ The girl had a wary, suspicious voice.

‘Do you know where she’d gone?’

‘Course,’ Elizabeth snorted. ‘Got herself up the spout and her mam and dad sent her off to have it.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Everybody knows.’

Lottie looked at Eileen. She was staring at the floor, picking at a piece of skin by her fingernail. ‘Jocelyn disappeared last night.’

She saw the brief look they exchanged. Shock, she decided; they didn’t know anything.

‘Why?’ Eileen asked.

‘We don’t know,’ Lottie replied gently. ‘Have either of you talked to her since she went into the home? Any letters or anything?’

They both shook their heads. It was as if Jocelyn had left the world when she entered the house. Like vanishing into a convent.

‘Do you know who the father of her child is?’

The question brought an embarrassed silence.

‘Do you?’ Lottie asked again quietly.

‘She wouldn’t never say,’ Eileen answered, blushing as she spoke.

‘We asked,’ Elizabeth interrupted, ‘but she just laughed and said she couldn’t tell us.’

‘No guesses?’ Cathy asked with a grin. ‘Come on, you must have done that.’

‘We thought it might be my brother.’ Elizabeth coughed. ‘But she said it weren’t. Not even warm.’ She shrugged. ‘So we really don’t know. Honest.’

It was frustrating but it felt like the truth. A dead end. Lottie hated to go back to the station with nothing; it made her feel as if she’d failed. Mrs Maitland would look at her with disappointment, although the woman wouldn’t say a word.

‘Is there anyone who might be able to help?’ Cathy said it before she could.

‘Maybe Mrs Brown,’ Eileen suggested after a few seconds.

‘Who’s she?’

‘The midwife,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Over on Lavender Walk. I know Jos went to see her, back when she found out she were up the duff. We went with her and waited on the corner. She were in a right strop when she came out, wouldn’t say why.’

But Lottie could guess. Midwives delivered babies. They also stopped women coming anywhere near term, doling out the herbs and potions that caused abortions if the gin baths and other remedies didn’t work. She must have refused to help Jocelyn. That was a start.

‘Right,’ she said as she rose. ‘Thank you. And look after yourselves.’

‘Do you think you’ll find Jos?’ Eileen asked. There was a tremor in her voice.

‘I’m sure we will,’ Lottie assured her. ‘You just leave it to us.’ She paused for a fraction of a second. ‘Is there anything else you can think of?’ One after the other the girls shook their heads. ‘All right. If you think of anything just send us a message at Millgarth. We’ll come and listen to you, I promise.’

The corridor stank of boiled cabbage and custard, drifting up from the canteen below. Lottie wrinkled her nose and held her breath until they were outside. It took her back to Barnbow, all the smells of cooking as they came out of the sheds, sour enough to put her off her dinner half the time.

‘I don’t know how you do it.’ Cathy interrupted the memories.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re so good at getting them to talk.’

‘Not really. I just ask questions.’ She shrugged. It was nothing special. It wasn’t even as if she was especially nosy normally; she didn’t know all the doings in her own street and didn’t care. But when it came to work, she was curious. She enjoyed it. It was like working through a maze or a puzzle and she’d always enjoyed that.

‘You have the feel for it.’

‘Right now I’m just worried about Jocelyn Hill.’

If the girl hadn’t shown her face somewhere by evening all the beat bobbies would be asking and looking. A missing pregnant girl was cause for alarm.

It wasn’t difficult to find the midwife. Everyone for streets around knew her. She’d probably delivered most of the children in the neighbourhood. There was no lavender on Lavender Walk. Not much of anything except grimy brick and cobbles.

They’d barely turned into the street when a door opened thirty yards along and a girl came out, dressed in a short skirt that came just below her knees and a cloche hat jammed over short hair. She turned the key in the lock behind her then glanced around, eyes widening to see the two policewomen.

Lottie recognised her immediately.

‘Margaret Simmons.’ It came as a shout. Before the words were out the girl was running, heels clattering on the pavement as she dashed away. Lottie began to follow but she already knew she didn’t have a chance. She’d never been fast.

But Cathy was quick. As soon as the girl began to move she was already running. Within ten yards she was gaining ground, feet pounding, legs and arms pumping.

Lottie smiled and stood, watching. Cathy had told her once she’d been a champion sprinter at school, as fast as any of the boys. Now she could believe it. Even before they reached the postbox at the end of the block, Cathy had hold of the girl and was taking out her handcuffs. She didn’t even look winded.

‘Maggie.’ Lottie shook her head as she approached. ‘You should have known we’d catch up with you.’ Never mind that it was just a pair of gloves from Schofield’s, or that they’d been looking for someone else on the street. Make her think she’d been nicked.

Cathy beamed proudly. ‘What should we do with her?’

‘Do you want to take her down to Millgarth?’ Lottie asked. ‘I’ll take care of the other thing.’

Maggie glared. ‘I thought you came for me.’

‘You’re not important enough,’ Lottie told her. ‘You just showed your face at the wrong time.’

‘Come on.’ Cathy had a grip on Simmons’s arm. ‘You’ll like being back in jail. You can see some of your old friends.’

The outside of number twenty-one was spick and span, windows gleaming, paintwork washed. The front door gleamed. Mrs Brown was houseproud.

Lottie didn’t expect to learn much. Abortion was against the law. Admitting anything to do with it was a ticket to jail. No one was that stupid. But she had to try.

Mrs Brown was dumpy, sleeves rolled back to show heavy forearms. A fleshy, jowly face, with eyes that seemed to have seen everything, and wavy hair the colour of old iron. She glanced at the uniform.

‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

Back into the kitchen, the centre of the house, probably the only room always in use. A kettle was steaming on the hob, apple peelings on newspaper in the middle of a battered deal table. By the back door, a large old leather bag. The tools of the trade, Lottie thought.

The woman sat down with a deep sigh. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘what do you want?’

What was the best way to do this? By the book wasn’t going to work. Woman to woman? All she could do was play it by ear.

‘You probably haven’t heard yet,’ Lottie began, ‘but a girl’s gone missing.’

Mrs Brown cocked her head. ‘Oh aye? What’s that got to do with me?’

‘She came to see you a while ago. I wondered if she might have been back, or if you know where she’s gone.’

‘What’s her name, then?’ She pulled out a packet of Black Cats, lit one and blew smoke at the ceiling.

‘Jocelyn Hill.’

The laugh sounded like a cackle, mouth open wide to show half the teeth missing.

‘She’s run off from that home, has she? I thought she might, she never wanted to go in the first place.’

‘It was her mother’s idea, wasn’t it?’

Mrs Brown nodded. ‘Out of sight, out of mind, and no little ’un to embarrass everyone. But she’s not been back here, luv. All I could do for her is deliver the poor little thing, and that won’t be for a few weeks yet.’

‘Could she have gone to see the father?’

The woman shrugged. ‘Who knows? She never told me who he were. Didn’t ask, not my business. That it?’

‘Yes.’ Another dead end. ‘You didn’t hear any rumours or gossip about the dad, did you?’

Mrs Brown pursed her lips. ‘There’s always gossip when a girl ends up with a bun in the oven. Maybe there was something about Ray Coleman. Maybe it was someone else. I don’t really remember.’

‘Thank you.’

A name. A thread, if nothing more. But she couldn’t do anything about it. If a man was involved, one of the male constables had to take over. Those were the rules. She hated them; she was capable and wanted to be able to follow the investigation. She was a copper; she wasn’t about to faint with an attack of the vapours. But there was no choice but to obey if she wanted to keep her job. At least she’d have something to report.

Still, she thought as she strolled back to Millgarth, it hadn’t been a bad day for the policewomen. They were on the trail of the missing girl and they’d put a shoplifter in the cells. That should make Mrs Maitland very happy.

CHAPTER TWO

LOTTIE gathered the plates off the table, took them into the kitchen and returned with the teapot.

‘You won’t believe what Mrs Maitland said this afternoon,’ she said to Geoff.

‘What?’ She saw the interest in his eyes, the pleasure he took in her, and remembered again why she’d fallen in love with him. He might have his failings, but he truly cared about her.

‘She wants me to go with one of the male constables tomorrow.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

He didn’t understand her job. Geoff had encouraged her to apply, pushed her when she’d had her doubts, even trained her in unarmed combat so she could defend herself, but he’d never seen quite why she wanted to become a policewoman. His world at Dunlop was very ordered, controlling an office of clerks and typists, making sure the world of tyres ran smoothly.

‘Good?’ She grinned with satisfaction. ‘It’s never happened before.’

She’d scarcely been able to believe her ears when the matron told her. It felt like the biggest thing that had happened since she’d been sworn in. The anticipation rippled through her.

On the tram home she’d already looked forward to the next morning, scarcely noticing her stop or the walk up from Chapeltown Road to their house on Oak Road. She knew she’d only be working with Constable Tennison for a few minutes, listening while he questioned Ray Coleman about Jocelyn Hill, but even so, it was a huge step forward. For women on the force, but even more for her.

‘You’re sensible enough, Armstrong,’ the matron had said. ‘I think you can be trusted.’

‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you.’

Lottie hung up her uniform, slipped on a comfortable dress and started to cook tea. But everything seemed to happen without thought; her mind was fixed on the next morning. Being a proper copper. Part of her hoped that they wouldn’t find Jocelyn overnight. Terrible, and she knew it. Even so…

She finished the washing up and settled down with the new issue of Good Housekeeping. On the wireless the news from the BBC was just finishing. Geoff had built the set the year before, endless evenings in the kitchen with a set of plans and a soldering iron. It was cobbled together, far from perfect, but it worked. A bit like their marriage, she thought with a quiet smile.

‘Do you fancy doing something tonight?’ Geoff asked. ‘The pictures?’

‘Would you mind if we stayed at home?’

Normally she’d have jumped at the chance. The Thief of Baghdad had just opened at the Tower. But not tonight; her mind was too fixed on the morning. If they went to see a film she’d never be able to concentrate. It would just be a waste of money.

‘Of course not.’ He gave her a bright smile.

She was at the station long before Mrs Maitland. Lottie waited, cradling a mug of tea. She was aware of the blatant stares and the sly glances of the uniforms as they left after roll call. Never mind, she told herself. Only to be expected. They’re men.

‘You’re miles away, luv.’

The voice was deep, seeming to rise from the ground, and wryly amused. She looked up quickly to see a broad man towering over her. He was in his fifties, hair cut brutally short. But his eyes were warm and he was grinning.

‘You must be Armstrong,’ he continued. ‘I’m Constable Tennison. You might as well call me Henry, every other bugger does.’

She stood, taking the large hand he offered. ‘Charlotte Armstrong,’ she said. ‘Lottie.’

‘Soon as your guv’nor shows up and gives us the nod we’ll go and talk to Coleman.’ He grimaced. ‘They haven’t found that lass yet.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘All his life,’ Tennison answered with a nod. ‘And he knows me. I’ve clouted him round the ear a few times when he was a nipper, done him for truancy.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s not a bad lad. Only twenty now, so he was a bit too young to fight. Lost two brothers in the war, spent the years running a bit wild. And you know what it’s like these days. There’s nothing in the way of jobs for the likes of him.’

‘It’s no better for the girls.’

‘I know that, luv. I see it every day. I know Jocelyn and her friends too. Poor lass. I hope we find her sharpish. Maybe Ray can help.’

Mrs Maitland marched briskly round the corner, took out a key and unlocked her office. As she opened the door, she said, ‘Enter.’

Tennison raised an eyebrow at Lottie and followed her into the room. They stood at attention while the matron removed her hat and took her seat behind the desk.

‘You both know this is unprecedented,’ she said seriously. ‘The first time a male and female constable have worked together. The station inspector and I only sanctioned it because it’s urgent that we find what’s happened to Miss Hill. I don’t need to remind you that she’s been missing for a day and a half now, and no sign overnight. So I’m willing to pursue every avenue, however unorthodox.’ She paused for a second. ‘Still, no matter what, I expect the two of you to conduct yourselves properly. Armstrong, remember that Constable Tennison is in charge, and the honour of the women police constables rests on your shoulders. If he gives you an order, you will obey it. Understood?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Mrs Maitland looked at them both, then nodded. ‘Dismissed.’

Cathy was waiting outside, learning against the wall, ready to report for duty. She gave a broad wink, assessed Constable Tennison, and hissed, ‘Tell me all about it later,’ then slid through the open door.

‘Blimey,’ Tennison said once they were outside, ‘that matron of yours is something, isn’t she? What does she do, chew steel girders for breakfast?’

‘You saw her on a good day,’ Lottie told him. ‘Wait until she wants to tear a strip off you.’

He grimaced, fitted his helmet on his head, rolled his shoulders back and said, ‘Right. We’d better see a man about a girl.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Unless he’s moved in the last month, he’s with his mam and dad on Everleigh Drive.’ It was just a few minutes’ walk from Jocelyn’s house, tucked away off York Road, across from the baths. Tennison grinned at her. ‘Think you can walk that far?’

‘Cheeky devil. How do you want to handle Coleman?’

‘Just a quiet word,’ he answered thoughtfully. ‘To start with, anyway. We don’t even know he’s the father of her baby.’

‘He’ll deny it. Men always do. When I was at Barnbow—’

‘Oh, a Barnbow canary, were you?’ He smirked.

‘I was.’ She bristled. ‘And proud of it. Why?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Tennison said. ‘Go on.’

‘As soon as a girl was up the spout we’d take bets on whether the lad would admit it was his. Almost every one of them tried to wriggle out of it for a while.’

He stayed silent. But there wasn’t much he could say, Lottie thought; he was a man.

‘Do you reckon you’ll know if he’s lying?’ Tennison asked after a while.

‘Maybe.’ Would she, Lottie wondered? Would she be able to see the guilt on Ray Coleman’s face? ‘Is that why they want me there?’

‘Like as not.’ He glanced around. ‘I don’t see a sergeant and I’m going to trust you to say nothing.’ He took out a cigarette and lit it, cupping it out of sight in his hand. ‘Young Ray’s going to be embarrassed with a woman there. Maybe it’ll make him tell the truth. Seems to me it doesn’t matter whether the bairn’s his or not. She hasn’t said, has she?’

‘No, she won’t tell anyone.’

‘And what we need is to find her. We’ll just hope that Ray can help us. If he feels some responsibility, so much the better. Maybe it’ll make him shape up. I did when my first was born.’

‘How many do you have?’

‘Three. Two now.’ She could hear the change in his tone and knew what was coming. ‘Our Robert died on the Somme. Broke his mother’s heart. Me, I’m glad the other two were girls. God only knows what might have happened otherwise.’ Tennison gave a small cough. ‘What about you?’

‘We can’t,’ Lottie explained. ‘My husband had an injury.’ She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

He didn’t say anything, just offered a short nod. That was better than most; people generally stumbled over awkward apologies. To her it had become a fact of life. But Tennison was in his fifties, about the same age her father would be if he was still alive. He’d seen a thing or two.

‘It’s along here,’ he told her after a couple of minutes. Tennison dropped his dog end and ground it out on the pavement, then adjusted his helmet. ‘Ready?’

Someone must have seen them coming; Ray Coleman answered the front door himself. He looked younger than twenty, with fair hair, not even really shaving yet, just some light down on his upper lip. Skinny, a jumper over his shirt, a pair of trousers that had seen better days. No boots on his feet and socks that had been darned umpteen times.

‘Constable,’ he said in a nervous voice. He gulped, his Adam’s apple jumping. ‘Do you need something?’

‘Just a chat,’ Tennison said gently. ‘We can do it here if you like, or maybe inside over a cup of tea.’

‘Yes.’ He moved aside, letting them through. No need to show them the way in a house like this. Ray’s mother was in the kitchen, already putting a kettle on the hob. There were no modern conveniences here. The house had probably looked much the same thirty years before.

Mrs Coleman disappeared as the tea was mashing. Not a word had been said, they’d simply taken their places around the table. Ray lit a cigarette, his foot tapping quickly on the floor. Tennison sat back, hands over his ample belly. He leaned forward as the door closed.

‘Little birds keep saying you know Jocelyn Hill.’

‘That’s right,’ Coleman agreed. ‘You know, say hello, walk to the shops, like that. Until she went away.’

‘And you wouldn’t know anything about her going away?’ Tennison smiled.

‘Me?’ The boy looked cornered, a fox with the hounds approaching. ‘No. Why would I?’

As lies went, it was pathetic. The blush was flooding up his face.

‘Are you sure about that?’ Lottie asked. She gave him time to answer, pouring the tea and pushing the cups across the table. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being friends, after all.’

‘Yes, we’re friends, I suppose.’

‘Maybe a bit more, eh?’ Tennison suggested with a wink. ‘You know why she went away.’

‘I know what everyone says.’ Coleman’s face was bright red.

‘Perhaps you had something to do with it.’

The idea seemed to floor him. ‘Give over, Jos wouldn’t look twice at me. Not… you know. I wasn’t her type.’

Lottie believed him. There was something in his voice, disappointment, a little pain. He carried a torch for her and she didn’t even notice.

‘What was her type?’ she asked.

He didn’t answer at first, spooning sugar into the cup and stirring it. Then, ‘She liked them a bit older. With some money. But she kept that quiet. Her mam didn’t know. No one round here did. She sneaked off in the evening.’

Tennison opened his mouth to speak. Lottie shook her head slightly at him.

‘Did you ever follow her, Ray?’ she continued.

He bit his lip and nodded. ‘I just wanted to know where she was going. I…’ He shrugged. He didn’t possess the words. Or maybe he didn’t want to admit them to himself.

‘When was this?’

‘The night before last. I saw her near her house.’

‘Where did she go?’ Without thinking she reached out and patted the back of his hand. It was pure instinct. His eyes widened in surprise.

‘The Market Tavern.’

She knew it, a stone’s throw from Millgarth station. The Madhouse, everyone called it, although she’d never heard why.

Tennison gave a quick cough. ‘Did you see her come out again, Ray?’ he asked.

‘Can’t have been more than ten minutes.’ She could hear the frustration in his voice. ‘She came out with a man and he helped her into a motor car. Then they drove away.’

How could a lad with no job hope to compete with someone who owned a car?

‘Do you know what type of car it was?’

‘A Standard Pall Mall,’ he answered without hesitation.

In spite of everything, she had to smile to herself. Only a man would know something like that. Only a man would care. Still, they had a lead now. There weren’t many vehicles on the roads; it should be easy to find the driver. But a few more questions might yield something better.

‘Had you seen the driver before?’

‘No. But…’ he hesitated. ‘He seemed like he had everything. Like he knew everything. And Jos, she just looked at him with these big eyes.’

‘Thank you,’ Lottie told him. ‘You might be helping her. You heard she was missing?’

He nodded. ‘Everybody knows. That was one reason I followed her. She was supposed to be at that place, not round here.’ His voice trembled.

‘Don’t you worry, we’ll find her,’ she assured him. ‘Maybe she’ll realise things are better closer to home.’

‘By God,’ Tennison said in admiration as they walked back down the street. ‘Where did you learn to do all that?’

‘What?’

‘Get them to talk. You should be a detective.’

She laughed. ‘And pigs will fly. Come on, he wanted to tell us, you could see it in his face. He loves her, he wants to see her safe as much as anyone.’

‘If you say so,’ he said doubtfully. ‘That touching his hand, what made you do it?’

‘I don’t know. It just seemed to be what he needed. Why? Was it bad?’

‘It was ruddy marvellous.’ He smiled at her and glanced at his wristwatch. ‘What time are you due back on patrol?’

She looked at him. ‘I don’t know. As soon as we’re done, I suppose. Why?’

‘Oh, I just thought we could drop in to the Market Tavern before you went back, that’s all.’ He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, a sly grin on his lips.

‘Go on, then,’ she agreed quickly. ‘As long as it stays quiet. Mrs Maitland will have me off the force if she finds out.’

‘I won’t say a word, cross my heart.’ He winked. ‘For a lass, you’re all right, you know that?’

She nudged him in the ribs, hard enough for him to feel. ‘And I’ve come across worse blokes than you.’ Her eyes were laughing. ‘So who’s this rich man, do you think?’