Dark Briggate Blues (12 page)

The man pawed at his face.

‘What do you want?’

‘How much do you know about David Carter?’

‘All I know is that he hired me to manage this place.’

‘How did that happen?’ The band started a half-hearted version of ‘String Of Pearls’, taking all the glide out of the melody. A few couples moved to the dance floor, shuffling around to wartime memories.

‘I was knocking about, looking for something. I’d done a few things for my father and some of his friends, but nothing really struck my fancy.’

‘That must have been difficult. You’re a married man. Do you have a family?’

Dawson shrugged. ‘Celia’s parents give her an allowance. It let us get by.’

‘Who introduced you to Carter?’

‘An old school chum. He knew I lived up here. He gave me a ring after David bought the club and everything fell into place.’

‘Do you know what other business Carter owns?’

‘He told me there’s another club, the Bass Note, a shop or two and a garage. I’ve never paid that much attention.’

‘How often do you see him?’

‘He stops in once or twice a week,’ Dawson replied. ‘And every Tuesday afternoon I meet him to go over the figures. So far he’s been pleased enough.’

Markham took a sip of the orange squash. It had been diluted too much.

‘Who does he entertain here?’

‘Businessmen. He’s brought in a councillor or two sometimes.’

‘Has he asked you to supply girls?’

‘You mean tarts?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Markham said.

‘He sort of hinted at it once. I told him I didn’t know any and he didn’t mention it again.’ He finished the Scotch and looked around for the waitress.

‘I’m going to give you some advice, Mr Dawson.’

‘Advice?’ The man stared. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Start looking and find yourself another job. There must be plenty around, the government’s always telling us we have full employment.’

‘Why should I?’ Even in the dim light he could see the flush rising on the man’s cheeks.

‘Because Carter won’t be around too much longer. His little empire is going to fall apart. If I were you I’d want to avoid being a casualty.’

Dawson gave a small laugh.

‘Who’s going to tear it down? You?’

‘Yes, Mr Dawson, me,’ Markham answered seriously.

‘You know what David will say when I tell him, don’t you?’

‘He can say whatever he likes.’ He stood. ‘I’ll wish you goodnight and good luck.’

***

The wind rattled against the flat and the weather forecast on the radio spoke of a gale. So much for any hope of that Indian summer, Markham thought. The tree branches were flailing, people on the pavement wrapped in their overcoats as umbrellas turned inside out. A bus passed, the windows of the upper deck opaque with condensation, as he waited to pull out into traffic in the Anglia.

By noon it had passed, only a few heavy gusts left as a reminder. Litter had been blown into awkward piles against walls. A few slates had come off the roofs and shattered on the pavement. The cafeteria at Marks and Spencer was crowded with workers and housewives, each with their tales of the morning. He sat with his sandwich and listened, drinking tea and smoking a cigarette before returning to the office.

She came about three, still dressed in black, a pencil skirt and angora twinset under a thick coat and a small hat with a veil. A widow, but she wore her weeds with style.

‘Sit down, Mrs Hart,’ he said as he showed her in. He’d expected another telephone call, not a visit.

‘I had to come into town and take care of some things,’ she explained as she lit a cigarette.

‘Did Carter ring again?’

She nodded. ‘This morning.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘The same as before, that he’ll have to wait. That the police haven’t even released Freddie’s body yet.’

Her grief sounded convincing. He wondered how real it could be when they’d both spent their time in bed with other people.

‘How did he react?’

‘He’s very smooth,’ she said, and there was a hint of admiration in her voice. ‘He builds up the pressure so one hardly notices. He’s not someone who likes to wait, is he?’

‘No,’ Markham agreed. ‘He isn’t.’ He decided to change the subject a little. ‘Have the police told you when you can have your husband’s body?’

‘Monday. The undertaker is collecting it.’ She paused for a moment of reflection. ‘The funeral’s on Wednesday in Richmond. That’s where he grew up.’

‘And what then?’

‘If Carter offers a fair price, I’ll sell to him.’ She stubbed out the cigarette. ‘After all, I need to live.’

‘He won’t. He likes to deal on his own terms.’

‘Then he won’t get his hands on Hart Ford, Mr Markham. It’s a simple as that.’ She smirked. ‘I have another offer, anyway.’

‘What? You didn’t mention that.’

‘It’s not really an offer,’ she corrected herself. ‘Just someone who might be interested.’

‘Who?’

‘Will Dawson.’

He breathed evenly.

‘Do you know who he works for?’

‘Himself. He owns the club.’

‘No, Mrs Hart. He’s the manager of the Kit Kat. Carter owns it.

‘What?’ She was full of outrage and disappointment. ‘He never told me that.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Damn him.’ Joanna Hart set her mouth firmly then loyalty won out over anger. ‘But Will’s family has money. So does Celia’s. He could afford it.’

‘Maybe he can. But Carter will be behind any offer he makes. I’d bet on that.’

‘I know Will,’ she protested. ‘He’s an honourable man.’

Markham sighed. He wasn’t sure that honour had any place in the world these days.

‘I’m sure he is.’ He’d allow her that. ‘I don’t understand you. I’ve just told you that Dawson’s working for the man who wants your business and you shrug it off. I don’t know what you want from me.’

‘Support, advice. And to stand up to Carter.’ She eyed him. ‘You seem to be doing a good job of that.’ She opened her black handbag, took out a purse and produced a ten-pound note. ‘Will that keep your services for a little while?’

‘Yes,’ he told her. He had hardly any money in the world but didn’t reach for the note.

‘Daddy lent me a little.’

‘I see.’

‘You’re a strange man yourself.’

‘Am I? I feel like a confused one right now.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ She stood by the door.

‘Perhaps we are.’ He paused. ‘Next Thursday.’

‘Thursday?’ She turned her head.

‘You said the funeral’s on Wednesday. Carter will ring you on Thursday.’ He nodded at the money on the table. ‘You can guarantee it.’

***

He knew exactly where he’d find Carla – in her studio at the Art College. It was where she spent every spare minute. He strode through the corridors, feeling so old next to the earnest students. The room was on the top floor, nothing inspiring about it, just another room behind a door, but inside it was her kingdom. She was standing back, absorbed in studying the painting on the easel, and didn’t even hear him enter.

The figure was a woman. He felt certain of that, although he couldn’t say why. The long hair, probably, and the slim fingers of the praying hands. But everything else had been stripped away. The flesh of the face was almost down to the bone, the eyes sightless, the clothes just rags covered in mud.

‘God, that’s good,’ he said.

She turned with a smile.

‘Thank Donatello, then,’ she told him.

‘Who?’

‘Italian sculptor. Renaissance. This is inspired by a statue of Mary Magdalen that he did.’

‘It’s …’ he began.

‘For God’s sake don’t say beautiful, Dan.’ She delved under her smock for cigarettes and matches. ‘Please. I don’t want any beauty in there. I want pain, suffering, redemption.’

‘You’ve got that.’ He was impressed. It was completely different to anything else she’d done. In spite of what she said, there was beauty in the honesty of anguish.

She kept her eyes on the painting.

‘Not yet. Who knows, maybe I’ll manage it.’ She shrugged off the mood. ‘What do you want to do this evening?’

‘I don’t know. A meal? The pictures?’

She pouted.

‘There’s nothing on I want to see. Some friends of mine are having a party later. We could always go there.’

‘We could.’ He’d met some of her friends. They had little in common.

‘Or we could go out to eat then back to your flat and shag our brains out.’

‘That sounds a much better idea,’ he replied with a grin.

‘Give me ten minutes to change and do my face.’

***

They went to Donmar. He had enough left to afford it. She’d brightened at the suggestion, but once the meal arrived her enthusiasm dimmed.

‘What’s wrong? I thought you liked it here.’

‘I do.’ She pushed the pasta around with a fork. ‘It’s just after Italy, the real thing, it’s just not the same.’

‘It’s still good. You always enjoyed it before.’

‘I know,’ she apologised. ‘It … it just doesn’t taste Italian to me now.’

‘We can leave if you want.’

‘No. You eat. I’ll just have the wine and a coffee.’

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded but he knew all the magic of the evening had already evaporated. Nothing would seem right, the mood had shattered. They could go through the motions but neither of them would be happy.

He ate in silence until his plate was clean while she sipped her wine and smoked. The waiter brought their small cups of dark, hot coffee.

‘Would you rather just go home?’ he asked.

‘Would you think I was really terrible if I said yes?’ she asked glumly. ‘I’m sorry, Dan. I hadn’t thought this would make me feel like this.’ She shook her head and gave a weak laugh. ‘It’s all rather silly, isn’t it?’

‘It’s fine,’ he told her.

‘I can just take the bus …’

He shook his head.

‘I’ll take you home.’ He lifted a hand for the waiter. ‘Can I get the bill, please?’

***

He drove. During the few minutes to Headingley they barely exchanged a word. Carla fretted with her handbag and stared out of the window. When he parked she turned to him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘I really am. It’s such a stupid little thing. I know that.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

She gave him a peck on the cheek.

‘I didn’t mean to ruin everything.’

Studio
20
was almost empty, the musicians still setting up, piano, drums, bass, trumpet and saxophone. A few people sat around, everyone in his own little world. Did he want to wait and hear jamming that would probably be uninspired? No, he decided, and turned on his heel.

‘Dan.’ Bob Barclay’s voice called him back.

‘What is it?’

‘Do you remember that young tenor player from last weekend?’ Of course he did. The boy felt the music in his fingers and his soul. A rarity for British jazz. Rare enough even in America. ‘He sent me a letter. He got the job with Dankworth.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘There’s talk of Big Bill Broonzy touring over here again. Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, too.’

He’d heard them on record. Blues on acoustic guitars and harmonica. Good stuff but it didn’t touch his heart like jazz.

‘Let me know if they’re coming to Leeds.’

‘Not staying?’

‘Not tonight.’

***

At home he looked through his records. Not so many of them, really. Finally he selected some Coleman Hawkins, ballads that moved languorously, suiting his mood. By the time the needle clicked in the final groove he’d smoked his way through three cigarettes, not thinking of anything in particular, just letting the sense of regret and loss weigh down on his mind.

***

The grey morning suited him. It was Saturday. He didn’t need to go to the office. Instead he took the list of properties that Carter owned and spent the day driving from one to another, walking each neighbourhood. They had nothing in common, other than the fact they’d becomes his for next to nothing. But it wasn’t wasted time; now he could place them all if he needed.

***

Markham put a shilling in the gas meter and heated up a tin of tomato soup. A concert played quietly on the Home Service, Rachmaninov’s ‘First Piano Concerto’. A book, an evening of the radio and an early night. But he hadn’t even finished ten pages before there was a timid knock on the door. He opened it, wondering who’d want to visit, and saw Carla standing there, biting her lip and looking bashful.

‘I’m sorry about last night,’ she said. ‘I must have seemed like a shit.’

‘I didn’t know what to think.’ He’d wondered if her final words the night before had meant it was all over.

‘Can I come in?’ she asked and held up a bottle of the Chianti she’d brought back from Italy. ‘Peace offering.’

‘What would you have done if I’d been out?’ he asked later. They were sitting on the floor, only the light through the window illuminating the room.

‘Camped out on your doorstep until you came home,’ she answered. He couldn’t make out her eyes. ‘I mean it, I would. And if you’d brought some floozy with you I’d have told her to get lost.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know. I was fine until we went into the restaurant. I know they want to make it seem like Italy, but as soon as I walked in it just seemed so, I don’t know, false. It made me wish I was back there and I started feeling sad. I took it out on you, I’m afraid.’

‘But you’re here now.’

‘I had a little cry last night.’ She gave a wan little smile. ‘Well, a lot of a cry, actually. And this morning I told myself not to be so stupid. I like it here, really. If I moved to Italy I’d have to learn the lingo. It’s cheap there but it’s not as if I have pots of money to support myself.’

‘And you have me,’ he ventured.

‘If you still want a silly cow.’

‘I do.’

Carla put down her glass.

‘So yesterday we were talking about shagging. Do you still fancy it?’

***

He woke feeling chilly and realised she’d pulled the sheet and blankets around herself, cocooned and blissful as she slept on. Typical, Markham thought. He washed and dressed, watching her face, then slipped out to buy the Sunday papers.

They were sitting by the window, drinking tea and reading the weekly scandal and titillation when Carla stretched and said, ‘I should go. I want to do more on that painting.’