Tag: leeds

To Whet Your Appetite

On By chrisnickson2In BlogLeave a comment

My new book, Gods of Gold, is published in the UK on August 28th. Yes, I’d like you to buy it, of course I would, don’t silly. To give you a little inducement, here’s a taster, a teaser, the opening. It’s set in 1890, against the backdrop of the Leeds Gas Strike, and features Detective Inspector Tom Harper of Leeds Police.

Tom Harper pounded down Briggate, the hobnails from his boots scattering sparks behind him. He pushed between people, not even hearing their complaints as he ran on, eyes fixed on the man he was pursuing, leaping over a small dog that tried to snap at his ankles.

‘Police!’ he yelled. ‘Stop him!’

They didn’t, of course they didn’t, but at least they parted to let him through. At Duncan Street, under the Yorkshire Relish sign, he slid between a cart and a tram that was turning the corner. His foot slipped on a pile of horse dung and he drew in his breath sharply, the moment hanging. Then the sole gripped and he was running again.

Harper ducked in front of a hackney carriage, steadying himself with a hand on the horse’s neck. He felt its breath hot against his cheek for a second, then plunged on. He was fast but the man in front was even faster, stretching the distance between them.

His lungs were burning. Without even thinking, he glanced across at the clock on the Ball-Dyson building. Half past eleven. He forced his feet down harder, arms pumping like a harrier.

As they reached Leeds Bridge the man leapt into the road, weaving between the traffic. Harper followed him, squeezing sideways between a pair of omnibuses, seeing the passengers stare down at him in astonishment through the window. Then he was free again, rushing past the row of small shops and watching the man disappear round the corner on to Dock Street.

By the time he arrived the street was empty. He stood, panting heavily, holding on to the gas lamp on the corner, unable to believe his eyes. The man had simply vanished. There was nothing, not even the sound of footsteps. Off to his left, a cluster of warehouses ran down to the river. Across the road the chimneys of the paper mill belched their stink into the air. Where had the bugger gone?

 

Harper had been up at Hope Brothers on Briggate, barely listening as the manager described a shoplifter. The man’s mouth frowned prissily as he talked and rearranged a display of bonnets on a table. Outside, the shop boy was lowering the canvas awning against the June sun.

Harper scribbled a word or two in his notebook. It should be the beat bobby doing this, he thought. He was a detective inspector; his time was more valuable than this. But one of the Hopes lived next door to the new chief constable. A word or two and the superintendent had sent him down here with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders.

Then Harper heard the shout. He dashed out eagerly, the bell tinkling gently as he threw the door wide. Further up the street a man gestured and yelled, ‘He stole my wallet!’

That was all he needed. Inspector Harper began to run.

 

He tipped the hat back and wiped the sweat off his forehead. The air was sultry, hot with the start of summer. Where was the sod? He could be hiding just a few yards away or already off beyond a wall and clear away in Hunslet. One thing was certain: Harper wasn’t going to find him. He straightened his jacket and turned around. What a bloody waste of a morning.

He’d wanted to be a policeman as long as he could remember. When he was a nipper, no more than a toddler, he’d often follow Constable Hardwick, the beat bobby, down their street in the Leylands, just north of the city centre, imitating the man’s waddling walk and nods at the women gathered on their doorsteps. To him, the decision to join the force was made there and then. He didn’t need to think about it again. But that certainty shattered when he was nine. Suddenly his schooldays had ended, like every other boy and girl he knew. His father found him work at Brunswick’s brewery, rolling barrels, full and empty, twelve hours a day and Saturday mornings, his pay going straight to his mam. Each evening he’d trudge home, so tired he could barely stay awake for supper. It took two years for his ambition to rekindle. He’d been sent on an errand that took him past Millgarth police station, and saw two bobbies escorting a prisoner in handcuffs. The desire all came back then, stronger than ever, the thought that he could do something more than use his muscles for the rest of his life. He joined the public library, wary at first in case they wouldn’t let someone like him borrow books. From there he spent his free hours reading; novels, politics, history, he’d roared through them all. Books took him away and showed him the world beyond the end of the road. The only pity was that he didn’t have time for books any longer. He’d laboured at his penmanship, practising over and over until he could manage a fair, legible hand. Then, the day he turned nineteen, he’d applied to join the force, certain they wouldn’t turn him down.

They’d accepted him. The proudest day of his life had been putting on the blue uniform and adjusting the cap. His mother had lived to see it, surprised and happy that he’d managed it. His father had taken him to the public house, put a drink in his hand and shouted a toast – ‘My son, the rozzer.’

He’d been proud then; he’d loved walking the beat, each part of the job. He learned every day. But he was happier still when he was finally able to move into plain clothes. That was real policing, he’d concluded. He’d done well, too, climbing from detective constable to sergeant and then to inspector before he was thirty.

And now he was chasing bloody pickpockets down Briggate. He might as well be back in uniform.

gog finalx

Something Even Newer

On By chrisnickson2In BlogLeave a comment

A few weeks ago I posted a couple of extracts from a 1930s piece featuring Sgt. johnny Williams of Leeds Police CID and his wife, Violet. That piece turned into a novella…and here’s the start of the second one, for your entertainment…

‘We have a visitor from America, apparently.’
‘Oh?’ Violet sat back as the waiter brought their cocktails, taking a small sip of the martini and nodding her approval. ‘That new bartender seems to have the knack,’ she said. ‘So who is this mysterious American?’
They were sitting in the cocktail bar of the Metropole Hotel, a ceiling fan turning just lazily enough to keep the air cool. The warm spring of 1934 had turned into an endless summer of heat hazes and frayed tempers in the city.
‘Someone called Oscar Arbramson,’ Johnny Williams told her. ‘That’s what Superintendent Randall told me.’
‘And why would the Leeds Police be interested? Is he, what do they call it in the pictures, on the lam from something?’
‘He’s a gangster. From Chicago.’ He nodded towards two men at a table on the other side of the bar. ‘That’s him, with his back to us. And the friend he brought along, Barney something-or-other.’
‘So you didn’t invite me here just to be a loving husband?’
‘Well, of course I did. I’m just mixing business and pleasure.’
Violet stared over at the pair. There was little to see of Abramson besides a pair of broad shoulders in a well-tailored suit. The other man looked just as large, with meaty hands and a face that seemed locked in a permanent snarl.
‘They don’t look quite the thing, do they? What are they doing here?’
‘I’ll find out tomorrow. I’m going to call on him bright and early.’
‘Just watch out if he opens a violin case.’
‘Are Americans notoriously bad on the instrument?’
‘It’s where gangsters keep their Tommy guns. You’d know that if you saw more films.’
‘What about cello cases?’ he asked.
‘Howitzers,’ she replied. ‘Absolutely deadly. Now that you’ve had a glance at them, where are you taking me for dinner?’

But it was luncheon before he caught up with the Americans. He’d been called out early to deal with an embezzlement. By ten, simply glancing through the accounts, he knew who was responsible. An hour later the man had confessed.
Johnny shook his head. Randall had assigned Forbes and Gorman to follow the gangster and his friend. They’d rung in from a telephone box; the pair were dining at Jacomelli’s.
He walked over to Boar Lane, rapping his knuckles on the roof of the battered Morris where the policemen were keeping watch, straightened his tie and strolled into the restaurant.
Abramson and Barney filled the table. Two large men, a sense of menace around them. They’d emptied their plates, forks on the crockery, knives still sitting on the crisp table cloth. Johnny pulled out the chair across from them, sat down and took off his hat.
‘How do you do?’
Abramson stared at him. Barney began to rise, a look of anger on his face, but the other man waved him down.
‘Let me guess, you’re a cop.’
‘Sergeant Williams, Leeds Police.’ He smiled.
Abramson leaned back and produced a cigar case from his pocket. He made a production of selecting a large Havana, cutting the tip and lighting it before he peer through the cloud of smoke.
‘Any relation to a reporter?’ he asked. ‘Can’t be your sister, she’s too cute.’
‘My wife,’ he replied. ‘You’ve met her, then?’
‘She stopped by while we were having breakfast. Wants to write a story about Americans visiting Leeds. What’s your angle?’
‘Angle?’ He thought about the word. ‘I don’t suppose I have one. Just a friendly little chat and a word of advice.’
‘Yeah?’ Abramson seemed amused. Barney was still tense, ready to pounce as soon as his boss gave the order. ‘What kind of advice would you have for me’
‘Just the usual. Obey the law, look right and then left before crossing the road, don’t kill anyone. Nothing that unusual.’
The man threw his head back and laughed.
‘You’re good. You out to go into vaudeville. With that accent you’d slay ‘em.’ He leaned forward. A very faint, thin scar ran from the tip of his eyebrow, disappearing into his temple. ‘You heard of Chicago, hotshot?’
‘Big place somewhere in the middle of America? A fire that had something to do with a cow, Al Capone, St. Valentine’s Day Massacre?’
‘That’s the one. Let me tell you something. Over there we don’t like smartass cops. They don’t last too long.’
‘That’s the difference, you see. We have a longer lifespan over here.’ He glanced at Barney. ‘You should really tell your friend to relax a little. His face is so red he looks like he’s going to have a heart attack.’
‘He’s excitable.’
‘Poor chap. Take him up into the Dales for a weekend. Very calming up there. Take a cottage for a few days.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind, Sergeant.’ The waiter brought two cups of coffee. ‘We were just making our plans for today.’
‘The art gallery’s very good,’ Johnny suggested. ‘Wonderful place to spend an hour or two.’ He stood. ‘I’ll leave you gentlemen to it. If you need anything, I’m around.’ He began to turn away, then stopped. ‘By the way, do you play the violin?’
Abramson stared at him, confusion on his face.
‘No. I’m a businessman. Why the hell would I?’
‘Never mind. How about the cello.’
The man shook his head and Johnny walked away.

At the station he telephoned the Evening Post.
‘I hear you saw our visitors.’
‘I popped over while they were having breakfast. I thought you might be there.’
‘I had a little distraction. Did they say what they were doing here?’
‘Looking for business opportunities, he claimed, although he didn’t answer when I asked why here. He’s rather gruff, isn’t he?’
‘I noticed that,’ Johnny told her.
‘And that chap with him just glowered the whole time.’
‘He did that to me, too. Seemed to be getting quite worked up.’
‘Abramson called me a dame,’ Violet said. He could imagine her frown. ‘I always thought they were those old dears who got awards for good works.’
‘Maybe he thinks you’re a young dame. He is American, after all.’

A Sense Of Place

On By chrisnickson2In Uncategorized2 Comments

Nine months ago, I moved back to Leeds. Not just to the city where I’d been born and raised, but to the area where I spent most of my teens.

Back in those days, I couldn’t wait to leave. The city seemed small and stultifying. It seemed horribly provincial, and there’s probably nothing more deadly to a teenager. So I left, only to return, then leave again for 30 years in America.

But I never felt American. I thought England had shaped me, but that wasn’t true. Leeds had, although I didn’t realise it. I loved Seattle, and for a long time I was settled there. But circumstances change…

Returning to England, I didn’t want to be in Leeds. Going back there would seem like defeat. It took a while, and several novels set in Leeds, which meant plenty of visits to the city, to understand that I felt more comfortable, more at home here than I’d felt anywhere else.

Funny thing, though. I’d anticipated this move, but once here, I felt like I was walking with ghosts – mostly my own young ghost. But we’ve made peace on those streets and in the park. My work might take place in the past, but my life is very much in the present, and whether it’s walking around my neighbourhood or in the city centre, or even something as mundane as taking the bus into town, I realise I’m happy here. Happier than I’ve felt anywhere else. It’s finally sunk in.

I did the right thing to leave all those years ago. But I definitely did the right thing in coming back.

A Bit More

On By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

I’ve no idea if you enjoyed the start of something new I posted last week (consider that a hint to offer a reaction or two, please). But in the hope that you did, here’s a bit more:

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 Williams knew Leeds. He understood how the city worked with 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 A1.

            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 Johnny 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’d been gone there’d been two bank jobs, one in Horsforth, the other in Morley. Three men, one of them armed with a sawed-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 about the robberies 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 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 few days away, decent hotel, Whitby just a stroll away along the beach at high 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 will get the same idea. Times are bad, Johnny, you know that. We don’t need folk getting the idea 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, John.’

 

He found a parking place on Boar Lane and walked to the building on the corner, solid stone staring out across City 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 Midland Bank and sauntered inside. Another bobby was questioning a distraught woman, while a pair of CID men looked around the building.

            It was much like any bank – high ceilings, a grandiose interior of marble and tile, varnished wood and glistening brass. And like any bank, 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 detectives 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. ‘But 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 at the corner and he was two boxes of wood and glass. ‘It was like watching one of those films.’

            She didn’t seem too upset or shocked, he thought. More..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 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 sawn down the barrels,’ William explained. ‘Where was Mr. Osbone while all this was going on?’

            He couldn’t 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 it 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 what she meant. ‘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.’

Something New

On By chrisnickson2In Uncategorized2 Comments

I’ve been quiet on the blog lately, but real life does intervene at times, and the bank account is like an open maw constantly needing to be fed. But I haven’t been ignoring fiction. That chugs slowly along. And this is the start of something new, set in Leeds – of course – in the 1930s. Because you’ve been so nice and let me mumble on in peace, here’s the opening. Please do let me know what you think…and I do mean that.

No title yet, but the year is 1934.

He parked the Austin Seven Swallow outside the Eagle. There’d been hardly any traffic on the drive, a few lorries, 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 were in the pub. An old husband and wife, holding hands a chattering away easily, halves of stout on the table in front of them, a few 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, sitting 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 safe them. I’m not strange.’

            A smile flicked across her mouth and 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.’

Sympathy For The Devils

On By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

I haven’t posted any fiction here for a while, so I thought you might enjoy a taste of the book I’m working on, Sympathy for the Devils. Set in Leeds in 1971 – here’s the opening. I’d be really interested to have your opinions; after all, you’re the readers, my intended audience…

 

PROLOGUE

 

COSTA BRAVA, FEBRUARY 10, 1971

 

The house was easy enough to find, a quarter of a mile up the track above the village. His plimsolls didn’t make a sound as he climbed over the hard ground. There was a thin moon, just enough light to pick his way over the tree roots and not enough for anyone to spot him. The haversack on his back didn’t weight much; all he was carrying was what he needed for the job.

He’d scouted the area that morning, looking like a tourist who’d lost his way. He’d spotted the track but hadn’t followed it. Instead he’d spent a few minutes in the village; it didn’t need any more than that, with a few poor shops and a café that sat in the deep shade of a tree.

            So this is Spain, Mark thought. There was no money here, people still using horses and carts, only a few old cars and the burp of a motor scooter somewhere. Two miles away, where he was staying, it was a little better. But not that much. Warmer than Leeds, but, God, the place was deprived.

            There were no lights in the house. He slipped on a pair of gloves, broke the glass on a window and unlatched it. Inside, the air was stuffy, as if no one had been there for a while. Good. He hadn’t asked who owned the place, or why Ellis wanted it torched. That wasn’t his business.

            He unbuckled the haversack and took out the newspapers, souvenir tee shirts and a can of lighter fluid. Easy enough to buy and nothing to arouse suspicion. He tore the newspaper and shirts into strips and glanced around. Right, he thought, and pushed the solid oak table over by the bed, piling cloth and paper on the thin, worn mattress.

            Working quickly, he doused everything in lighter fluid, and replaced the can in the haversack. A quick flick of his fingers and he’d lit a match, tossing it onto the pile. Mark waited a few seconds to be certain the blaze had caught, then left.

            He slipped down the patch, no more than a shadow, moving quickly and lightly. Out past the village, on the dark road, he turned, able to see the flames lighting the sky. Halfway back to the hotel, he heard a soft whoomp, looked, and saw the flames climbing higher. Must have been a propane tank, he thought. Up on the hillside, the blaze stood out like a beacon.

            Mark tossed the empty can of lighter fluid in the bushes, removed the gloves, and walked on.

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

LEEDS, FEBRUARY  8, 1971

 

            ‘Please don’t,’ she said when Mark moved his hands to her breasts, and the look she gave made him stop. Her voice was no more than a whisper, almost pleading. He moved his arms away, cradling her head against his chest.

He’d been awake since six, thinking about that her. Thinking about last night He rolled over, smelling the scent of her on the pillow. The bed was warm, the blankets like a cocoon around him. He settled into it for a minute, then pushed back the covers and stood.

            Bloody freezing. He dressed quickly, making tea and toast, keeping one eye on the clock. He knew better than to be late.

            In the end, he still had to run to catch the bus on Headingley Lane, climbing to the top deck and panting as he found a seat next to a woman who spent the whole trip into town coughing and sniffling. Mark Johnson huddled in his army greatcoat and tried to ignore her.

            It had been a good night, the first time Pam had been to the flat, their first chance to really be alone. They’d been going out for four weeks, the usual cinema and disco routine, over for tea, an awkwardly polite couple of hours with her mum and dad. They didn’t quite approve of him, he could tell; there were too many silences during the meal. No surprise they had a little talk with her later, saying perhaps she shouldn’t see him. She was sixteen, a year younger than him, and still training to be a hairdresser. He’d spent an hour pacing, wondering if she’d actually come. She’d lied to her parents about where she was going and turned up just before eight.

            Anyone else, he’d have jacked them in after last night. But there was something about her that stopped him. There was a freshness, a prettiness about her, the wide eyes that always made him smile. In the end they’d snogged on the bed, rubbing against each other. It was strange; it had been enough for him. He’d driven her home in his old Triumph Herald, parking at the end of the street so nobody see.

            Mark shook his head. He was going soft. He was bloody well falling for her.

            The bus out to Roundhay Park was late. He spent the journey checking his watch, hoping he’d arrive in time. For his own sake.

            Bloody February. It was cold enough to freeze your bollocks off. Mark pulled the greatcoat tight against himself and hurried round the lake as the flares flapped around his ankles and his boots kept slipping on the hard earth. All the way to the other end, of course. Far from prying eyes, just the way Ellis liked it.

            He’d followed the orders, taken a day’s holiday from work, left the car at home and used the bus. The man was so fussy that it was like listening to an old woman. He could see him now, sitting on his usual bench, tossing breadcrumbs from a plastic bag to the ducks gathered close in the water. His minder, Davy Sands, was twenty yards away, standing at the edge of a grove of trees, eyes watching everything carefully.

            Johnson settled on the seat, took a packet of Embassy from his pocket and lit one, feeling the smoke warm his lungs.

            ‘Good morning, Mr. Ellis,’ he said.

            The man threw a final handful of crumbs, folded the bag and put it in the pocket of his donkey jacket. Jimmy Ellis had a whole wardrobe full of suits from Austin Reed, Mark knew that. He’d seen them. And he still dressed like a bloody navvy. Jacket, flat cap, thick sweater, old jeans and steel cap boots. Fifty if he was a day, successful, and happy to put on a labourer’s costume. It didn’t make any sense. Ellis pushed back the sleeve slowly and glanced at his watch.

            ‘You’re ten minutes late.’

            ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Ellis, the bus-‘

            ‘Excuses.’ He turned and stared.  He didn’t need more than a single word. His eyes were blue and empty; look in them and there was nothing. No pleasure, no sorrow, just a void. ‘Next time make bloody well sure you’re on time.’

            ‘Yes, Mr. Ellis.’ He ducked his head quickly.

            ‘Look at you, you’re like one of those fucking hippies. What are those you’re wearing, anyway?’ He nodded at the trousers.

            ‘Loon pants,’ Mark began to explain, but Ellis turned his head and he shut up. He knew better. He’d been doing little jobs for the man since he left school, two years now. Long enough to see what happened to anyone who didn’t treat him with respect.

            Ellis brought an envelope from his jacket pocket and tossed it onto Johnson’s lap.

            ‘What’s that?’

            ‘Open it and you’ll find out, won’t you?’ The older man sighed. ‘I thought you had brains, with all those O-levels, an’ all.’

            Johnson ripped the paper, sorting through a passport and some twenty-pound notes. He didn’t even try to count them, just looked at Ellis with questions in his eyes.

            ‘This passport,’ he said, ‘it’s got the wrong name on it.’

            The man gazed at him as though he was simple. ‘No, it doesn’t. I had it made special for you. You’re taking a little trip.’

            Mark could feel the twinge of the pulse in his neck. He drew deeply on the cigarette.

            ‘Costa Brava,’ Ellis continued. ‘Take the train over to Manchester tomorrow and fly from there. I’ve given you enough for your fare and somewhere to stay. Just two days,’ he warned. ‘I’m not paying for a bloody holiday. Back on Friday.’

            Yes, Mr. Ellis,’ he agreed quickly. He’d need to ring Pam; they were supposed to be going out to the flicks on Thursday night. He’d offer her something better for Friday. ‘What do you want me to do there?

            ‘There’s a bloke I know, he has a house there. Had, by the time you come back. Got it?’

            Mark nodded, trying to hide a smile. He’d done a few torch jobs for the boss before. Businesses and warehouses. But they’d all been local. He was moving up in the world.

            ‘Right,’ Ellis said. ‘Everything is in the envelope, address and there’s a map. I’ll see you right on payment once you’re back.’ He gripped Mark’s wrist, his fingers tight enough to hurt. ‘And don’t bugger it up.’

            ‘I won’t. What’ll I tell them at work?’

            ‘Ring up and say you’re poorly.’

Two days, it wouldn’t matter. The gaffer would moan, but that would be the end of it.

‘Right,’ Mark agreed hurriedly. ‘Do you want me to ring you when I’m back and tell you how it went?’

            Ellis turned the empty eyes on him‘ No need, lad. If you bugger it up, I’ll be the last person you want to talk to. If I went well, I’ll hear about it.’ He waited a moment. ‘Off you go then, on your way.’

Walking Into Reality

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A week or so ago, I just put the final words to the draft of a new novel. A murder mystery; after all, that’s what I do, kill people for a living. When I’d finished, after living deep in the book and with these people for a few months, I decided to take a walk to clear my head.

There’s a place, a house that I used to pass every day on my way to school. I just fancied another look at it and a walk in the woods there. It’s no more than 20 minutes’ walk from where I live now. Across the fields, down the ginnel that runs alongside my old school, then along a road that’s still unpaved 40 years on…and I was pretty much there.

Except I wasn’t.

At the top of the hill everyone knows as Little Switzerland, the road was blocked by police tape and a Police Community Support Worker keeping traffic out. All he’d tell me was that there had been an ‘incident.’

Okay.

There are other ways into the woods, and I was curious now. I still know this area well. The woods cover one side of the valley, with paths on different levels. I took the high path, and even saw someone walking a dog. But the trees were bare, and at the bottom of the hill I could see five police cars. Whatever had happened, it was something big. But I wasn’t going to go closer. Not my affair. It was directly across the street from where I grew up, and where my mother lived until her death. If she’d still been alive, this would have been the best gossip in years.

I did get to take a look at the outside of the house I’d come to see – it was near the top of the hill – then walked home. A question on Twitter provided the answer to what had happened. Two kids on their way to school – my old school – had found a body.

That was bad enough. Horrible for the family of whoever was dead, and traumatic for the kids. But as the story developed, it got worse. He’d been murdered, shot. Supposedly kidnapped and killed; two people are in custody and police are seeking a third.

The reasons will come out in time. But for now, for me at least (and I know this is a selfish view, given the tragedy), it can’t help but be a little surreal. Leaving murder on the page to walk into a crime scene…

The Ways of Darkness

By now, many of you know that Gods of Gold, my mystery set in Victorian Leeds, comes out in August. It is – I hope – the first in a series, and I’m working on the second. Because I’m in one of those devil-may-care moods, I thought you might enjoy the start of the sequel, The Ways of Darkness. Actually, I thought it might help build anticipation for the first book. I’m evil that way….

DECEMBER 1890

CHAPTER ONE

“Have you heard a word I said, Tom Harper?”

“Of course I have.” He stirred and stretched in the chair. “You were talking about visiting your sister.”

Annabelle’s face softened.

“It’ll only be for an hour. We can go in the afternoon, after we’ve eaten.”

“Of course,” he told her with a smile. He was content, finally at home and warm for the first time since morning.

He’d spent the day chasing around Leeds on the trail of a burglar, no closer to catching him than he’d been a month before. He’d gone from Burley to Hunslet, and never a sniff of the man. Still, better that than being in uniform; half of the constables had been on patrol in the outdoor market, cut by the December wind as they tried to nab the pickpockets and sneak thieves. It was still blowing out there, howling and rattling the window frames. At least as a police inspector with he could take Hackney cabs and omnibuses and dodge the weather for a while.

But tomorrow he was off duty, the first Christmas in five years that he hadn’t worked. Christmas 1890, the first together with his wife. He turned his head to look at her and the wedding ring that sparkled in the light. Five months married. Annabelle Harper. The words still made him smile.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Nothing.”

He often glanced at her when she was busy with something else, working in the kitchen or at her desk, going through the figures for her businesses. Sometimes he could scarcely believe she’d married him. Annabelle had grown up in the slums of the Bank, another daughter in a poor Irish family. She’d started work here in the Victoria and eventually married the landlord. Six years later, after he died, everyone advised her to sell. But she’d held on and kept the place, trusting her instincts. She’d built it into a healthy business, then seen a chance and opened bakeries in Sheepscar and Meanwood that were doing well. Annabelle Harper was a rich woman. Not that anyone round here called her Harper. To them she’d always be Mrs. Atkinson, the name she’d carried for so long.

And she was his.

“You look all in,” she told him.

Harper gave a happy sigh. Where they lived, the rooms over the public house, felt perfectly comfortable, curtains drawn against the winter night, the fire in the hearth and the soft hiss of the gas lights. He didn’t even want to move.

“I’m cosy,” he said. “Come and give me a cuddle.”

“A cuddle? You’re lucky I put your supper on the table.”

She stuck out her tongue, her gown swishing as she came and settled in his arms. He could hear the voices in the bar downstairs. Laughter and a snatch of song from the music halls.

“Don’t worry,” she told him. “I’ll send them on their way early tonight. They all have homes to go to. Then we’ll have some peace and quiet.”

But only for a few hours. She’d be up before dawn, the way she always was, working next to the servants, stuffing the goose that was waiting in the kitchen, baking the bread and preparing the Christmas dinner. Dan the barman and the girls who worked for her would join them at the table. They’d light candles on the tree, sing, laugh, exchange gifts and drink their way through the barrel of beer she’d set aside.

After their bellies were full the two of them would walk over to visit her sister, taking presents for Annabelle’s nieces and nephews. For one day, at least, he could forget all the crime in Leeds. Billy Reed, his sergeant, was would cover the holiday. Then Harper would be return on Boxing Day, back to pursue the damned burglar.

Annabelle stirred.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

“What?”

He gazed at her. He hadn’t heard a thing. Six years before, while he was still a constable, he’d taken a blow on the ear that left him partially deaf. The best the doctor had promised was that his hearing might return in time. But in the last few months, since autumn began, it had grown a little worse. Sometimes he missed entire sentences, not just words. His ear simply shut off for a few seconds. He’d never told anyone, scared that it would go on his record, that someone would tell.

“On the stairs.”

He listened. Still nothing. Then someone was knocking on the door. Before he could even move, she rose swiftly to answer it.

“It’s for you.” Her voice was dark.

He’d seen the constable down at Millgarth station. One of the new intake, uniform carefully pressed, the cap pulled down smartly on his head and his face eager for excitement. Had he ever looked as young as that?

“I’m off duty-” he began.

“I know, sir.” The man blushed. “But Superintendent Kendall told me to come and fetch you. There’s been a murder.”

Harper turned helplessly to Annabelle.

“You go, Tom.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Just come home as soon as you can.”

CHAPTER TWO

The cold clawed his breath away. Stars shone brilliantly in a clear sky. He huddled deeper into his overcoat and pulled the muffler tight around his neck.

“What’s your name?” Harper asked as they started down the road.

“Stone, sir. Constable Stone. Started three month back.”

“And where are we going, Mr. Stone?”

“The Leylands, sir.”

Harper frowned.

“Whereabouts?”

“Trafalgar Street.”

He knew it well, no more than a stone’s throw from where he’d grown up on Noble Street. All of it poverty scented by the stink of malt and hops from the Brunswick Brewery up the road. Back-to-backs as far as the eye could see. A place where the pawnbrokers did roaring business each Monday as housewives took anything valuable for the cash to last until Friday payday.

In the last few years the area had filled with Jewish immigrants, almost every house packed with them, from Russia and Hungary and countries whose names he didn’t know, while the English moved out and scattered across the city. Yiddish had become the language of the Leylands. Only the smell of the brewery and the lack of money remained the same.

“Step out,” he told the constable. “We’ll freeze to the bloody spot if we stand still.”

Harper led the way, through the memory of the streets where he used to run as a boy. The gas lamps threw little circles of light but he didn’t need them; he could have found his way in pitch blackness. There streets were empty, curtains closed tight. People would be huddled together in their beds, trying to keep warm.

As they turned the corner into Trafalgar Street he caught the murmur of voices. Suddenly lights burned in the houses and figures gathered on their doorsteps. Harper raised his eyes questioningly at Stone.

“The outhouses, sir. About halfway down.”

The cobbles were icy; Harper’s boots slipped as he walked. Conversation ended as they passed, mean and women looking at them what sad, suspicious eyes. They were goys. Worse, they were authority.

They passed two blocks of four houses before Stone turned and moved between a pair of coppers, their faces ruddy and chilled, keeping back a small press of people. Someone had placed a sheet over the body. Harper knelt and pulled it back for a moment. A young man, strangely serene in death. Straggly dark hair, a white shirt without a collar and a dark suit. The inspector ran has hands over the clothes, feeling the blood crusted where the man had been stabbed. Slowly, he counted the wounds. Four of them. All on his chest. The corpse had been carefully arranged. The body was straight, the arms at ninety degrees to make the shape of a cross.

Harper stood again and noticed Billy Reed talking to one of the uniforms and scribbling in his notebook. The sergeant nodded as he saw him.

“Do we know who he was?”

“Not yet.” Reed rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “Best as I can make out, that one found him an hour ago. But I don’t speak the lingo.” He nodded at a middle-aged man in a dark coat, a black hat that was too large almost covering his eyes. “He started shouting and the beat bobby came along. They called me out.” He shrugged. “I told the super I could take care of it but he wanted you.” His voice was a mixture of apology and resentment.

“It doesn’t matter.”

It did, of course. He didn’t want to be out here in the bitter night with a corpse. He wanted to be at home with his wife, in bed and feeling the warmth of her skin. But Kendall had given his orders.

The man who’d found the body stood apart from the others, head bowed, muttering to himself. He scarcely glanced up as Harper approached, lips moving in undertone of words that was just a whisper.

“Do you know who that man was?” he asked.

“Er iz toyt.” He’s dead.

“English?” the Inspector asked hopefully, but the man just shook his head. He kept his gaze on the ground, too fearful to look directly at a policeman.

“Velz is dayn nomen?” The Yiddish made the man’s head jerk up. What’s your name?

“Israel Liebermann, mayn ir,” the man replied nervously. Sir. Growing up here it had been impossible not to absorb a little of the language. It floated in the shops and all around the boys that played in the road.

“Ikh bin Inspector Harper.”

A hand tapped him on the shoulder and he turned quickly to see a pair of dark eyes staring at him.

“What?” He had the sense that the man had spoken; for that moment he hadn’t heard a word. He swallowed and the world came back into both ears

“I said it was a good try, Inspector Harper. But your accent needs work.” The voice was warm, filled with kindness. He extended his hand and Harper took it.

“I’m Rabbi Feldman.”

The man was dressed for the weather in a heavy overcoat that extended almost to his feet, thick boots, leather gloves and a hat pulled down to his ears. A wiry grey beard flowed down to his chest.

A gust of wind blew hard. Harper shivered, feeling the chill deep in his marrow.

“If you think this is cold, you never had a winter in Odessa.” The rabbi grinned then his face grew serious. “Can I be help at all?”

“Someone’s been murdered. This gentleman found him. But we don’t know who the dead man was.”

Feldman nodded then began a conversation in Yiddish with Liebermann. A pause, another question and a long answer.

He’d heard of the rabbi. Everyone had. In the Leylands he was almost a hero. He was one of them; his family had taken the long march west when the pogroms began. He understood their sorrows and their dreams. In his sixties now, walking with the help of a silver-topped stick, he’d been head of the Belgrave Street Synagogue for over ten years. He taught in the Hebrew school on Gower Street and met with councillors from the Town Hall. He was man of mitzvahs, good deeds. Portly and gentle, with quiet dignity, he was someone that everybody respected.

“He says he needed the outhouse just before ten – he’d looked at his watch in the house so he knew what time it was. He put on his coat and came down.” Feldman smiled. “You understand, it’s cold in these places. You try to finish as soon as possible. When he was done he noticed the shape and went to look. That’s when he began to yell.”

“Thank you,” Harper said, although it was no more than they already knew.

“Murder is a terrible business, Inspector.” The man hesitated. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“We still don’t know the name of the dead man.”

“May I?” Feldman gestured at the corpse. Harper nodded and one of the constables drew back the sheet again.

“Mine Got.” He drew in his breath sharply.

“Do you know him?”

It was a few seconds before the rabbi answered, staring intently at the face. Slowly he took off the hat and tugged a hand through his ragged white hair.

“Yes, Inspector,” he said, and there was all the sadness of the world in his voice. “I know him. I know him very well. I gave him his bris and his bar mitzvah. He’s my sister’s son.”

His nephew. God, he thought, what a way to find out.

“I’m sorry, sir. Truly.”

The man’s shoulders slumped.

“Seventeen.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Just a boychik. He was going to be the one.” Feldman tapped a finger against the side of his head. “He had the smarts, Inspector. His father, he was already training him to run the business.”

“What was his name, sir? I need to know.”

“Abraham. Abraham Levy.” The rabbi rummaged in a trouser pocket, brought out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “Why?” he asked quietly. “Why would someone kill anyone who was so young?”

Harper didn’t have the answer. Why was anyone murdered?

“Where did he live?”

“On Nile Street.” Feldman straightened suddenly. “My sister. I have to tell her.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No,” the man answered, his voice firm. “No, Inspector, please. It’s better from me. I’ll go and see them. Tomorrow you can ask your questions. Tonight’s for grieving. You come in the morning.”

“Of course,” he agreed.

He waited, but the rabbi didn’t move, staring at something no one else could see.

“You know, when I was young, they murdered Jews for fun,” he said. “For sport. So we ran, because running was the only way to stay alive. Then, when we came here, we wondered if we’d run far enough or fast enough, if it would be the same again. We had children and we built lives. But always, we keep our eyes open and a bag close by.” He turned his eyes on Harper, the tears shining on his cheeks. “Is this the way it is now? Do we have to run again?”

“No, sir. That’s something you’ll never have to do again.”

Of course there were those who resented the Jews. He’d heard them from time to time, talking in the pubs after a few pints loosened their tongues. But it had never been more than words.

He watched Feldman shuffle away, exchanging a few solemn words here and there, then stopping to talk to a young woman and place his hand on her shoulder as she put her hands over her face.

“Did you hear all that?” he asked. Reed nodded and lit a cigarette, smoke curling into the air.

“It’s the position he was left in that worries me.”

Harper agreed. A mockery of the crucifixion, out on the cobbles.

“And the time. Christmas Eve.”

“What do you think?” the sergeant asked.

“I don’t know yet, Billy.”

“I’ll tell you something. Look around him. There’s hardly any blood. He wasn’t killed here.”

Harper nodded; he’d noticed. What it all meant was anyone’s guess.

“Talk to everyone in the houses round here and find out if they saw anything. Start the bobbies on that. One or two of them must speak Yiddish. And have a word with that girl over there.” He pointed at her, surrounded now by others trying to give some comfort. “She knew Abraham Levy.”

“Do you think she’ll speak English?”

The Inspector glanced over at her. No more than sixteen. Probably born in Leeds. The place where her parents had lived would be no more than horror stories to her.

“I’m sure she does.”

“What about the body?” Reed wondered. “Do you want me to send it over to Hunslet for Dr. King?”

“No,” Harper said slowly. The police surgeon wouldn’t be there for the next two days. There was little he could tell them that they couldn’t see for themselves. He knew the Jewish way, burial before the next sunset. He could give them that, if nothing else. “They’ll have an undertaker along soon. And Billy…”

“What?”

“Once they’ve all gone, take a look through his pockets. And have them start searching for the knife that killed him. It might be around somewhere. I’m going to Millgarth and write up the report.”

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Time, Place And the Quote Of Great Joy

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Back at the start of 1986, a decade after moving to America, I ended up in Seattle. Once I had the chance to find my feet, the city felt like home. For those who don’t know it, it’s a place that lives up to the hype in its beauty, scenery and people. I was happy there. But there was that lingering feeling of being a man without a country, not quite American, not quite English.

Four months ago I finally came back to Leeds. It only took 37 years for me to find my way home. And home is a real, deep feeling. I do feel like someone who’s found his true place in the world. Considering that most of my novels have been set here, it’s taken me a while to realise that this is where I belong. I feel this city deep in my bones, the way I can feel no other. I understand it, and in an odd way I feel that it understands me.

I’ve been writing about Leeds quite a bit lately. Not just the monthly history blog (which has now migrated to the Leeds Big Bookend website), but my books. August sees the publication of Gods of Gold, the first in a new series set in the Leeds of 1890. I’ve completed another one set in Leeds, Dark Briggate Blues, a surprisingly noir novel – well, that aspect surprised me, anyway – in 1954 Leeds, and I’m at work on the second Victorian novel.

This is the place that moves me, that makes my heart beat a little fast.

And yet. And yet…I can’t fully say goodbye to Seattle. It’s a place with plenty of memories, the home of my son, and where I made many friends. I’m not ready to see it sail away just yet. My way of dealing with all that, to try and make sense of the past, is to write about it. Out of that comes West Seattle Blues. It’s the second of my Seattle books, and this one takes place in March and early April of 1994. For anyone who knows music and Seattle, that’s a time to ring big bells. A time when the course of history altered a little. Here’s the cover.

Image

But it’s going to be Leeds that fills my time for a while yet. Not just living in the here and now, but also with my head in 1890/91.

And I teased with that talk about a quote, didn’t I? It’s one that’s made my month, probably my year. I had one a year ago from Candace Robb, one of the great historical crime novelists (and someone who’s become a treasured friend), whose work influenced the way I’ve looked at mine. My publishers used it on promotional material and it really helped. For Gods of Gold I plucked up my courage and approached the wonderful writer Joanne Harris, who’s read the Richard Nottingham books, to ask if she’d be willing to read this new one and, if she liked it, to write a few words about it. Well, she was willing, more than gracious and once she’d finished it, this is what she replied:

“Gods of Gold creates a vibrant sense of living history and of place, with strong, well-drawn characters and dialogue that’s just made for film, as well as a damn good story.”

Happy? I was over the moon. I still bloody am. As was my publisher. Thank you, Joanne. That, very proudly is going on the book cover.

And I wish you all a happy Valentine’s Day.