Dark Briggate Blues (11 page)

It only took Markham four days to gather the evidence. Mrs Smith came into Leeds every day to spend time with a butcher in Bramley. Straight from the bus stop to the shop. It wasn’t glamorous deception; it wasn’t anything much at all. He took the pictures and presented them quietly to his client.

Mr Smith really was Smith. Ted Smith. He had a small fortune; he’d designed and patented something for aeroplanes then built it in his small factory. The RAF had bought the device during the war, then the commercial airlines had been clamouring once the fighting was over. When he told his wife he wanted a divorce she’d threatened to take him for everything he was worth. Then he produced the photographs. She went off to Bramley without a penny.

‘I’m grateful, lad,’ he said as he wrote out a cheque with a very generous fifty pound bonus. ‘If there’s ever owt you need, you come and see me. I appreciate someone who does a good, fast job.’

Now was the time to see if he’d meant it.

‘Come in,’ Smith said. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

They settled at the kitchen table. Smith moved aside a pile of papers covered with sketches for some component and put down a plate of biscuits. He might have looked frail but Ted Smith was a powerful man. His name opened every door in the Civic Hall; he knew everyone important in Leeds and plenty down in London. He poured the tea, nibbled on a digestive and said, ‘It must be summat important.’ He nodded at Markham’s left hand. ‘Anything to do with those?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you need?’

Markham didn’t hesitate.

‘Access to people on the council.’

Smith looked thoughtful. He pulled a pipe from the pocket of his cardigan and lit it, puffing until he was satisfied that it was drawing properly.

‘Councillors or them as really run things?’

‘Is there a difference?’

‘A big one, lad.’ He smiled. ‘Councillors come and go. But they’re not the ones who get things done. It’s mostly the folk as run different departments as have the power. Tell me something.’

‘What?’

‘Do you know who your councillor is?’

‘No,’ Markham admitted.

Smith pointed with the pipe stem.

‘See, that’s what I mean. Most people couldn’t even tell you who was Lord Mayor.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Need to keep your finger on the pulse. What happens here is as important as what those buggers in Whitehall are doing. So who do you need to talk to?’

‘Someone in licensing and someone in planning,’ Markham said. ‘People with influence.’

Smith nodded.

‘I know just who you need.’ He puffed on the pipe for a few more seconds. ‘How powerful is the person you’re up against?’

Markham laughed. Ted Smith had always been a perceptive man.

‘Very. He killed someone but I can’t prove it.’

‘That murder in the newspapers?’

‘Yes.’

‘Talked to the police?’

‘They say he’s clean.’

‘Aye, well, most coppers share a single brain cell. Let me ring a few people. You’ll hear in the morning. That do you?’

‘Thank you.’

Smith waved away the gratitude.

‘It’s nowt. From the look of you, you’re still going to need plenty of luck.’

‘Very likely.’

‘If there’s anything else I can do to help, make sure you let me know.’

‘I will.’

‘I mean it, Daniel. You saved me a lot of money and grief. I’ve not forgotten that.’ He stood. ‘Wait here a minute.’

He disappeared and Markham looked around the room while he was alone. A small refrigerator stood in the corner, next to the larder, and there was a new gas cooker. All mod cons, but Ted Smith was a man who welcomed progress: it had been his business, and from the drawings on the table he hadn’t retired yet.

Smith returned with a sealed envelope.

‘Take that. You might find it useful.’

Markham looked at him quizzically but slipped it into his inside pocket.

‘Thank you, Mr Smith. I mean it.’

‘Just do me one favour, lad. When it’s over, come out and tell me about it. I don’t get to live much these days.’

‘I promise.’

***

The telephone bell shrilled at exactly five minutes past nine.

‘Mr Markham?’

‘Yes,’ he answered.

‘I’m John Hay. I’m the clerk to the licensing committee. Mr Smith asked me to give you a ring.’

Markham smiled. Ted Smith’s name conjured up people eager to help.

‘There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. It’s delicate.’

‘We’d better meet, then,’ Hay said cautiously. ‘About noon at Whitelocks? It’s far enough from the Civic Hall for us not to be disturbed.’

Or seen together, Markham thought. ‘That would be fine. How will I know you?’

‘My teeth,’ the man replied with a small, self-conscious laugh. ‘Honestly, you’ll know.’

‘Then I’ll see you there.’

***

Ten minutes later the phone rang again.

‘I’m looking for Daniel Markham.’ It was a woman’s voice, calm and assured.

‘That’s me.’

‘Oh good. I’ve been talking to Ted Smith. He asked me to ring you. I’m Carol Kingston.’

‘With the planning committee?’

‘I’m a secretary there.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I’m the one who handles all the applications and complaints.’

Smith had promised him the ones who really ran things.

‘There are a few things I’d like to talk to you about.’

‘I imagined that from what Ted said,’ she said with amusement. ‘Look, why don’t we meet later? How about one o’clock outside the entrance to Marshall and Snelgrove?’

That would give him plenty of time to talk to Hay.

‘Perfect,’ he agreed.

He took out the envelope Smith had given him. He’d slit it open the night before, astonished to see ten twenty-pound notes inside. Nothing had been said, but he knew what it was – money to grease palms, to make the system work. Money talked; this amount of money only needed to whisper. And right now, with no cash in the bank, it was a godsend.

***

As soon as he walked into Whitelock’s he understood what Hay meant about the teeth. They protruded enough to make him look like a horse. He was standing by himself at the end of the polished bar, a half pint of beer in front of him. The pub was busy, high murmurs of conversation and laughter filling the air. A few men in suits stood around, but most of the customers wore donkey jackets and caps.

‘Mr Hay,’ he said. ‘I’m Dan Markham.’

The man smiled briefly and nodded as a table was vacated.

‘Let’s sit there.’

Once they were settled, Hay was all business. His gaze moved around nervously for a moment, then he said, ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like some questions asked about a couple of licences.’

‘I see.’ He turned the glass and took a swift drink. ‘Which ones?’

‘The Kit Kat Club on Wellington Street. And the Bass Note up on Merrion Street.’ The two clubs that Carter owned.

‘What do you want?’

‘Ideally? Their licences revoked for a few days.’

‘It’s possible.’ Hay nodded, and the action made him look even more equine. He gazed at nothing, thinking. ‘Suspending the licences would be difficult. A couple of raids and regular checks would be easier.’

Markham took two of the twenty-pound notes from his pocket, folded them and slid them across the table.

‘Would that help?’

‘It would make a difference,’ he agreed. ‘Might I ask why?’

‘I think it’s best for both of us if I don’t say anything.’

Hay nodded again.

‘Tell me, do you think it’s possible that the club is serving underage customers?’ the man asked slowly and deliberately, giving a wink.

‘I think it’s very likely,’ Markham answered, understanding.

‘We’re duty bound to act whenever there are reports of violations like that. You can leave this with me.’ The notes vanished into a trouser pocket and Hay stood. ‘I think you’ll find there’ll be action very soon.’

Then he was gone, head down as he moved quickly through the crowd and out into Turk’s Head Court. Markham looked at his watch. It had been quick; he had three quarters of an hour to kill before meeting Mrs Kingston.

He arrived right on time. She was already there, standing and swinging her handbag in front of her, a bemused face like a young Ann Sheridan, with carefully shaped eyebrows and a red bow mouth. She was dressed in a stylish skirt and short jacket, her dark hair carefully set.

‘You must be Carol Kingston.’

‘I am,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re punctual.’ She began to move away to the department store, the doorman quickly opening the door for her. Inside, she walked around confidently, as if she was a regular customer. ‘Now, Ted said I should help you.’

‘Do you know him well?’

‘Oh, we go back years. He’s a poppet. He said you’re an enquiry agent. Is that exciting?’ She nodded at his bandaged fingers. ‘It sounds rather dangerous.’

‘It has its moments.’

She stopped to glance through a rack of blouses, pulling one or two out to study them.

‘So what can I do for you, Mr Markham?’

‘How closely can the committee look at planning applications that were granted a while ago?’

She pursed her lips.

‘It’s certainly not usual. But the committee looks at what I give them. And they usually do what I recommend.’ She stood in front of a mirror and held up one of the blouses in front of herself before giving an approving nod. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘I have a list of properties. Most of them are businesses.’

‘Let me see.’

He passed it over, along with two more of the twenty-pound notes. She glanced at the names and addresses before putting the paper in her handbag.

‘I’m sure we can send out a letter and an inspector. There might be all manner of violations there that need to be investigated. The businesses might need to be closed whilst they come up to scratch.’ She arched a brow. ‘Would that suit?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr Markham, I’m going to try this on.’

He parked on Chapeltown Road and darted across to Cantor’s for fish and chips. The smell filled the Anglia as he drove home.

He saw her legs first, a pair of cigarette ends by her feet, then the calves that disappeared into a dress of brilliant reds and yellows.

‘I was beginning to think I’d have to go to the pub to wait for you,’ Carla said. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve got fish and chips, haven’t you? There’d better be enough for two.’

At the table he divided up the food and set out the salt and a bottle of vinegar.

‘How are the new students?’ he asked.

‘As green as you’d imagine. One or two look like they might have some talent. Most of them just seem to be passing the time.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, how’s your quest?’

Quest? He hadn’t thought of it that way, but maybe it was a good word. And quests sometimes did succeed.

‘It’s starting to move,’ he said cautiously. ‘I think it is, anyway.’

‘You’d better look after yourself.’ She put a hand over his. ‘I don’t want anything else happening to you.’

‘I will.’ But once Carter realised what was happening, that it was concerted and organised, he’d know who was behind it. What Markham needed was to find a way to increase the pressure, to keep Carter too busy for revenge.

‘You’re miles away, Dan.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Do you have a plan?’

‘Mostly I’m making it up as I go along.’

‘That’s the best way,’ Carla told him firmly. ‘Be spontaneous.’

‘I think I’ll need to be.’

‘Good. Now, I don’t suppose you have anything like a drink around, do you? I’m parched.’

***

A bored doorman stood outside the Kit Kat Club. He was a big and brawny, wearing a tailcoat with epaulettes and a top hat. But the man’s scowl and pug face made a mockery of any welcome. Reluctantly, he held the door open, no greeting, and let the handle go as soon as Markham was through.

He’d dropped Carla off in Headingley and decided to see what the club looked like when it was alive. For a Thursday night, business was slow. Couples were dotted around the room, fewer than half the tables filled. The dance band plodded rather than swung, playing the charts with a lack of enthusiasm. The singer hit the right notes, but that was the best anyone could say.

It was depressing, he thought. He sat at a table and lit a cigarette, ordering an orange squash when the waitress appeared.

He’d been there fifteen minutes when Dawson bustled through the front entrance, tightening his tie and adjusting his jacket. He stopped, glancing around, his gaze lingering here and there. After a few seconds he made his way over to Markham, a smile on his face.

‘I’m glad you decided to visit,’ he said as he sat. The waitress appeared with a glass of Scotch. ‘Something for you?’

Markham held up the orange squash.

‘I’m fine.’

‘It’ll pick up later. It’s still early.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘And it’s packed on the weekends,’ Dawson insisted. ‘Everyone wants to have fun and we provide it.’

‘Good little earner, is it?’

‘It does well enough.’

‘You’re not the owner, are you?’

Dawson lifted his chin.

‘I never said I was. I’m the manager.’

‘And Mr Carter owns the club?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You know he’s a dangerous man to work for?’

‘Is he?’ The man took a drink. ‘I’ve found him very fair.’

Markham held up his hand to show the broken fingers.

‘There’s the proof.’

Dawson glanced at the hand then turned away sharply.

‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘You shouldn’t. He did it himself. With a hammer. And he enjoyed it.’

‘Mr Carter is a businessman.’

‘You know what they say: business can be cutthroat.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t buy that.’

‘I’m not selling it, Mr Dawson.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a fact.’

‘If you don’t like the owner, what brought you back here?’

‘I’m curious. And you invited me, remember? How’s your girlfriend?’

‘What?’ The question took him by surprise.

‘That’s who you slipped out to see, isn’t it?’ Dawson didn’t respond. ‘You’d better clean the lipstick off your cheek before you go home.’