Contents

  Cover

  Also by Chris Nickson from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Leeds, 5 December, 1916 …

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Afterword

  Also by Chris Nickson from Severn House

  The Inspector Tom Harper mysteries

  GODS OF GOLD

  TWO BRONZE PENNIES

  SKIN LIKE SILVER

  THE IRON WATER

  ON COPPER STREET

  THE TIN GOD

  THE LEADEN HEART

  THE MOLTEN CITY

  BRASS LIVES

  The Richard Nottingham mysteries

  COLD CRUEL WINTER

  THE CONSTANT LOVERS

  COME THE FEAR

  AT THE DYING OF THE YEAR

  FAIR AND TENDER LADIES

  FREE FROM ALL DANGER

  The Simon Westow mysteries

  THE HANGING PSALM

  THE HOCUS GIRL

  TO THE DARK

  THE BLOOD COVENANT

  A DARK STEEL DEATH

  Chris Nickson

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.

  Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  This eBook edition first published in 2022 by Severn House,

  an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  severnhouse.com

  Copyright © Chris Nickson, 2022

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Chris Nickson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-5047-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0763-0 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0762-3 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  To Norma Waterson, 1939 – 2022

  The Queen of Song

  Leeds, 5 December, 1916

  The car slid quickly through the streets. Deputy Chief Constable Tom Harper stared out of the window. Leeds was black, a wartime winter-darkness, barely a single thin sliver of light showing through the blackout. A quarter of an hour before, he’d been comfortably asleep in bed, until he was torn out of a dream by the telephone bell. As he hurried to answer, he wondered if it was finally happening: the Zeppelins had come to attack Leeds.

  No. This was worse. Far worse.

  He could see the fire from half a mile away. Flames licked high into the sky. A moment later he smelled the hard, overwhelming stink of cordite.

  ‘Duty sergeant, sir.’ He’d had to press the receiver against his good ear to make out the words. The man’s voice was flat, empty of expression. ‘Our officers at Filling Station Number One rang in. There’s been an explosion. A car is on its way for you.’

  Filling Station Number One. Everyone around here knew it by a different name – Barnbow. The huge munitions factory had been completed in Crossgates just the year before, thousands of women working three shifts a day, manufacturing millions of shells for the artillery. War work. Women’s work.

  One of the wooden huts had been completely destroyed. All that remained were some splinters and boards, tossed far and wide across the ground. Shed 42. The charred sign lay near his feet. In the flickering light he could make out broken bodies thrown over what had once been the floor.

  All Harper could do was stand back and stare as crews fought the blaze. The noise of the burning and the heat pushed him away. He watched the women from the Barnbow fire crew work hoses next to men from the neighbouring brigades.

  He’d seen fires before, plenty of them, but rarely anything quite like this. He felt as if he’d walked into the middle of hell. God only knew how many were dead. Injured? It was impossible to guess. It would be daylight at least before they could come up with any kind of tally. Only one certainty: too many. Too, too many.

  ‘Do you know what happened?’ He turned to the camp superintendent, a tall colonel who stood with a look of disbelief and horror on his face.

  ‘It could have been anything. It happened a little after ten, so the third shift had just clocked on.’ His words halted and he shook his head. ‘My God, so many of them in there …’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Dozens,’ was all he could answer. ‘Dozens of them.’

  Harper walked, another ghost moving through the darkness. Two women sat on the ground, arms tight about each other. Once was covered in blood, crying and shivering uncontrollably as the other tried to comfort her.

  A little further. A woman stood alone, still as stone as she stared into the flames. Her uniform was torn; the sleeves were just shreds of fabric, her skin stained with dried blood. Her lips kept moving. She never noticed Harper as he came close enough to make out what she was saying. Two words, over and over: ‘Edith’s gone, Edith’s gone.’

  Ambulance drivers moved around, calm and professional as they carried away the broken and the dead.

  Harper tried to cough the stench out of his mouth. It was impossible.

  Gradually the fire was damped down, beams still smouldering, metal hot and twisted, as grim women returned to work in the neighbouring huts. Production had to go on. Everywhere was mud and soot, filled with a bitter perfume.

  At the gates he talked to the policemen who stood guard in their heavy winter capes.

  ‘We checked all the fences earlier this evening, sir,’ a sergeant told him. ‘Everything was solid and the barbed wire was intact above it. No one was getting over that.’

  ‘Just the two entrances?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. All secure.’ He shook his head. ‘Them poor lasses in there.’

  It was close to three in the morning when he left. The flames had subsided, the wreckage smoking, embers still glowing red-hot. The same woman stood muttering ‘Edith’s gone’ until someone eventually led her away. Harper could hear singing from the other huts, belting out the music hall songs as they worked. Anything to raise their spirits. The only miracle was that it hadn’t been worse.

  The camp superintendent was still dazed, struggling to understand.

  ‘Was it an accident, do you think?’ Harper asked.

  ‘What?’ The man turned to face him. His mouth opened, his eyes widened. ‘It had to be. Surely … wasn’t it?’

  Christ, Harper thought as the driver pulled away. He hoped it was.

  ONE

  Leeds, January 1917

  He was starting to believe that he lived in a world made of paper. It never ended: the correspondence from the War Office, the Home Office, the watch committee, divisional heads … the minutes of all the meetings. It was probably all important. But Tom Harper felt as if it had nothing to do with coppering. He’d cleared his desk yesterday, starting the week with good intentions. Now it was Tuesday morning and he knew he’d be buried under another blizzard of paper.

  For the last month things had been worse: Chief Constable Parker had been on sick leave with pneumonia. A week in hospital, but now he was recovering. It was a slow process; he wasn’t likely to return before March. And that meant Harper was stuck with two jobs.

  He pulled out his watch and opened the cover. Quarter to seven. Hardly light yet outside. With luck, he’d have the next fifteen minutes to himself. It might be all h
e’d manage in the days that began and ended while it was still dark.

  Then the telephone rang.

  ‘We have trouble, sir.’ Superintendent Ash. His voice was immediately recognizable, even turned hard and metallic on the line.

  Harper tensed. ‘Why? What’s happened? Is something wrong at Millgarth?’

  ‘Not here, sir. It’s the army clothing depot. You remember they took over the old tram sheds and the King’s Mill next door to it back in 1914?’

  Harper felt the shiver of fear crawl up his spine. ‘Yes, of course.’ He’d been part of the group invited to tour the buildings before they opened. Ton after ton of garments sorted, inspected and bundled every week before they were sent off to the soldiers. A gigantic operation.

  ‘Two hours ago, the night watchman was making his final round at the mill.’ Ash paused, considering his words. ‘He thought he heard someone dashing off, then he found a box of matches and some torn-up newspaper in a corner. Came straight outside and reported it to the bobby on guard. His sergeant started the constables searching, then he rang me.’

  Christ Almighty, someone starting a fire in a place like that, filled with clothes … the place would be an inferno before anyone could stop it.

  ‘I’ve had men going through the place from top to bottom, sir,’ Ash continued.

  ‘What have they found?’ He was gripping the instrument so tight that his knuckles had turned white.

  ‘Nothing, sir. I’ve had them search that other depot on Park Row with a nit comb, too. It’s clean. That’s where I am right now.’

  Sabotage. It couldn’t be anything else. The thoughts roared through his head, hammering hard against his skull.

  ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I haven’t informed the army yet.’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ Harper promised. ‘I want someone vetting the records of everyone who works in those places,’ Harper said.

  ‘Walsh is already on it. One of the new detective constables is helping him.’

  He thanked God that Walsh was too old to go and fight. Twice he’d tried to join up; both times he’d been turned away at the recruiting station. Just as well; they needed experienced men like him to stay in the force.

  His secretary was hanging up her coat as he rushed out. ‘You have Inspector Collins at eight,’ Miss Sharp told him.

  ‘Tell him I’ll try to be back by nine.’

  His mouth was dry and his heart beating a terrified tattoo in his chest as he dashed down Park Row. Another raw winter’s day, coming on dawn, the morning sky pale and mottled with high clouds and a thin north wind. He could have been a businessman hurrying down the street to his office, buried in his overcoat and hat. But he had more important things on his mind than profit and loss. Barnbow last month, and they didn’t know the cause yet. Now this.

  Leeds had a saboteur.

  And the police needed to stop him.

  Ash was waiting outside the warehouse. He was still a big, brawny man, but with the years he’d acquired plenty of padding. His belly jutted under the waistcoat and his neck had grown thick and fleshy. With his white hair and lined face, and the spectacles perched on his nose, he’d come to look like an old, wise man. Time had left its mark on him, but it had on them all. By rights, he and Harper should both have been put out to grass by now. But with so many good men, younger men, gone to war, they were needed. And they were working longer, harder hours than ever before.

  ‘The army will be here in a moment,’ Harper said, and nodded at the staff car racing along the road.

  Brigadier Fox looked too young for his rank – barely forty – but Harper knew he’d earned it, gunned down twice in no man’s land and patched up before going back to the trenches. Now permanently back in England after a third wound left him needing a stick to walk. These days he supervised the garrison at Carlton Barracks and was in charge of security at the facilities in Leeds. A war hero and his men loved him for it.

  ‘Brian,’ Harper said as they shook hands. ‘This is Superintendent Ash. You can trust him with your life. I have.’

  A nod and a smile, then Fox’s expression turned grim. ‘What are we going to do about this? We need to discover who’s behind it before he has the chance to do any damage.’

  ‘Increase the patrols every night,’ Ash suggested. ‘Vary the times, so there’s no routine.’

  ‘Nobody in or out without proper identification,’ Harper added. ‘Search everyone. No matches or cigarette lighters allowed inside.’

  The brigadier opened his mouth as if to object, then stopped. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘All sensible. We’ll do that. I’ll post a couple of armed sentries at each of the other places.’ He gave a sad, twisted smile. ‘A rifle and a bayonet can scare people off very effectively.’

  The staff car took them to the clothing depot on Swinegate. The building was faceless, anonymous, the stone black with decades of soot. Royal Army Clothing Depot was stencilled across the wide double gates, the letters beginning to fade.

  The old watchman, a worried, defensive fellow with patches of white stubble on his cheeks, stared down at his boots as he told his story once again.

  Harper stood close, straining to listen, his weak ear trying to catch every nuance in the man’s words. ‘Are you absolutely positive you heard someone running before you found the matches and torn paper?’ he asked once the man had finished.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ But there had been that tiny moment of hesitation before he spoke. A speck of doubt. Harper flicked a glance at Ash. He’d caught it, too, frowning under his heavy moustache.

  More questions, but the watchman wasn’t going to change his tale now he’d told it to the police. Harper dismissed him.

  ‘Well?’ Fox asked. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Something happened, that’s certain. He found the paper and matches,’ Ash replied after a second. ‘I’m not sure it was exactly the way he said, but the gist of it is probably true enough.’

  ‘Then …’

  ‘Then we have someone who wants to hurt the war effort,’ Harper said.

  ‘Why?’ Fox’s face crumpled: he simply couldn’t understand that anyone would do that.

  ‘I couldn’t even begin to tell you, Brian. But we’re going to have our work cut out finding him.’

  More patrols, increased guards on the gas works and electrical stations, any place someone could strike. It didn’t feel like enough, but it was a start. It was one thing they could do.

  Ash’s men were digging into the staff at the depot; soon they’d start asking questions. But so much would depend on luck or the saboteur making a mistake, Harper thought as he walked back to the town hall.

  His head was beginning to ache, pressure building behind his right eye, and his neck felt stiff and painful. By the time he climbed the marble stairs to his office on the first floor, all he wanted was an hour in a darkened room. Fat chance of that happening.

  At least Miss Sharp brought him a cup of tea as he started to go through the papers on his desk.

  ‘No biscuits today. Shortage.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Can’t find any for love nor money. And I’ve given up looking for chocolate, it’s nowhere to be found.’ She placed the small pile of letters on his blotter. ‘These are the ones you need to deal with yourself.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Chief Inspector Collins is outside. He wants to bring you up to date on the specials and Voluntary Women’s Patrols.’

  Very quietly, Harper groaned. He knew it was necessary, but it didn’t seem vital. Not now.

  ‘Send him in.’

  He approved Collins’s plans without question. The specials to take over point duty, directing the traffic, and walking the beats in the quieter suburban neighbourhoods. It would free up the real coppers for the tougher work, and there was never any shortage of that. The special constables were all too old or had medical problems that kept them out of the armed forces. But to Harper every one of them was worth his weight in bright, shiny gold. Plenty of the police had been in the army reserves, called up as soon as war was declared. More had chosen to join, until many of the experienced officers had gone. Half of those who remained were like him, past their prime. At least the specials could keep order.

  ‘Final point, sir,’ Collins said. He’d spent a long time going all round the houses. ‘The Voluntary Women’s Patrols are still having a good effect. We need to continue them.’