Dark Briggate Blues (13 page)

‘You don’t have to.’

She leant across and kissed him.

‘I do,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to give me a lift to the college?’

***

He left her on Woodhouse Lane, striding away purposefully. So close to the city centre that he might as well go to the office and see if there’d been any interesting post the day before. The streets were empty, the shops were shut; even the pubs in the middle of town didn’t open on the Sabbath.

Bills – rent, rates, another form from the Inland Revenue – nothing he wanted to think about today. He tossed them on the desk and left, feeling happy. They’d had a good night, a very good night that made him smile.

He turned the corner on to Briggate and paused for a moment. He knew the man leaning against his car, drawing on a cigarette and then studying the glowing tip. Detective Sergeant Ronnie Graham. Someone had pointed him out once. A hard man with hungry pockets and fists that saw more use than his brain.

Graham was in his early thirties, as bulky and muscled as a boxer, hair so short it seemed to barely colour his scalp. But the dark mackintosh and big, booted feet gave him away as a copper.

‘Can I help you, Sergeant?’

The policeman stared at him as if he wanted to memorise every feature of Markham’s face, the look slowly turning to contempt.

‘I think it’s you who needs help, lad, not me.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘A little bird told me what happened to those fingers of yours.’

‘You must know some very talkative birds,’ Markham said.

‘It also told me what you were supposed to do. Seems like you haven’t been doing it.’

‘So it sent down a crooked copper?’

Graham made one hand into a meaty fist.

‘You’d better be careful.’

Markham had been enjoying Sunday. He felt at peace with the world after time with Carla. He didn’t want this. And he didn’t have to prolong it. He unlocked the car door.

‘Was there anything else?’

‘I don’t waste the time of day on people like you for no reason. Two things. A reminder to do what you’re told.’

‘Anything else?’

‘What do you know about a raid on the Kit Kat Club last night? Seems it was ordered by the licensing committee.’

‘Maybe someone tipped them off.’ He started the engine. ‘Good day, Sergeant.’

‘We’ll be meeting again.’

He glanced in the mirror as he drove away. Graham was standing, hands on hips, looking at the vehicle.

Carter was bound to have a copper or two on his payroll. It was inevitable that he and Graham should find each other. The policeman lived with his hand out. He beat confessions from people. He planted items on searches.

Still, he’d learned something. The licensing committee had already taken action. Twenty quid of Ted Smith’s money well spent. And over the next week it would become more interesting when the inspectors from the planning department visited Carter’s other businesses and found faults.

‘I hear you saw Sergeant Graham yesterday.’

Baker stood by the table in the Kardomah, his face flushed after hauling his bulk up the stairs.

‘For a minute or two.’ Markham waved at a seat. The letter from the bank had arrived that morning. No apologies, just excuses. A mix-up in accounting. But he had money again. He was flush.

‘Don’t mind if I do.’ The man put his hat on the crisp white cloth and mopped his face with a handkerchief. Joyce the waitress appeared, her steps silent on the thick carpet.

‘Cup of tea, luv,’ Baker said, ‘and a slice of cake.’

‘We’ve a nice sponge today,’ she told him.

‘Aye, that’ll be grand. Just put it all on this young man’s bill.’

‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ Markham said wryly.

‘What did you do to annoy Graham? He’s not often about on a Sunday.’

‘He seemed to think I’d done something that I hadn’t.’

Baker eyed him sharply.

‘There seems to be a lot of that about lately. I think you might have shot someone but you haven’t. Now Graham thinks you’ve done summat else and you’ve not. You’re innocent as a newborn bloody lamb, aren’t you?’

‘Not my fault people make mistakes.’ He finished the last of his soup and roll.

‘Maybe not. But there’s something going on. Why don’t you tell me what and get it off your chest. You’ll feel better. If Graham’s involved it must have a stink to it.’

‘No love lost between you two?’

‘He’s a disgrace to the bloody force.’ Baker’s voice was serious and flinty. ‘And if you ever claim I said that, I’ll deny it and break two more of your fingers. Got that?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Good lad.’ He stopped talking as Joyce returned, then gave his attention to the food.

Markham stirred his coffee and lit a cigarette, letting the smoke drift up towards the ceiling.

‘Why are you so interested in Graham?’ he asked.

‘I told you why,’ Baker answered finally as he slurped the tea. ‘A little fix here and there when you know in your bones that someone’s guilty but you can’t prove it. That’s fair enough, that’s justice is all. But what he does is wrong and it makes us all look bad. If you have something going with him, I’ll see you go down, too.’

‘Yesterday was the first time I’d met him.’

Baker gave a small nod.

‘Then make sure it’s the last. If he wants something from you, walk away. Consider that a warning.’

‘I don’t want anything to do with him.’

‘Then he wants something from you.’ The policeman sat back and lit his pipe. ‘What is it?’

For a moment Markham considered telling him about David Carter. But he didn’t know how far the man’s influence reached. Not to Baker, that was certain. But those higher up, where everything could become lost? He was safer keeping it all to himself.

‘I didn’t give him the chance to tell me.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Baker said flatly. ‘I don’t like you, but you’re not a bloody fool. Don’t get mixed up with him.’

‘I’m not going to.’

‘And when you’re ready, come and tell me what’s going on.’ He paused for the length of a heartbeat. ‘If you don’t, I’m going to take you in again and question you properly. You know things you’re not telling me.’

‘I promise.’

Baker nodded again and rose, gathering his mac around his body and placing the hat on his head before lumbering away.

‘Is that everything?’ Joyce’s voice took him away from his thoughts.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘I don’t know who that man is but he’s a messy eater.’ She looked down at the crumbs on the tablecloth.

‘He tries,’ Markham told her. ‘How much do I owe you?’

***

The fingers. He’d barely thought about them for a couple of days until Baker mentioned them. The pain had turned to a faint ache at the back of his mind, always there but easy to ignore. He gazed down at his hand and saw how dirty the dressing had become. It needed changing and he knew the damage should be inspected to see how it was healing. First, though, he’d finish his tax return.

He could pay an accountant. But in his first year he’d made so little that it had been impossible. Now he’d acquired the habit of doing it himself. He could be creative and he hadn’t been caught. So far.

He was adding a column of figures to claim as expenses when there was a knock on the door and he saw a shadow through the glass.

‘Come in.’

The man was probably forty, but he could have passed for fifty, face weighed down by the heavy bags under his eyes. A fifty-shilling suit, shiny at the elbows, the tie knotted at his throat, a moustache bristling above his upper lip.

‘Are you Mr Markham?’ he asked.

‘I am. Have a seat.’

The man looked around the room as if he wasn’t sure what to expect.

‘You’re an enquiry agent?’

Markham smiled.

‘That’s right.’ He kept a small advert in the
Yorkshire Evening Post
classifieds. It didn’t cost much and it brought in trade. The man had it in his hand. ‘How can I help you, Mr …?’

‘Jenkins. Roger Jenkins.’

‘Mr Jenkins. What can I do for you?’

It was divorce, he was sure of it. The man had that diffident manner, putting off the words as long as possible, eyes darting everywhere.

‘It’s my wife,’ Jenkins answered finally. ‘I think she’s seeing someone.’

‘What makes you think that?’ he asked, pen poised over a notepad.

‘She’s … I don’t know.’ Jenkins pursed his lips. ‘She’s just different. Colder at home.’

‘What’s your wife’s name?’

‘Laura.’

‘Do you have any children?’

‘No. I’m afraid we were never blessed that way.’

It took another quarter of an hour to draw it all out. Laura Jenkins rarely went out in the evening, but the man suspected she might be seeing someone during the day. He had no idea who it might be. He seemed baffled by it all. Their friends were all good, upright, hard-working people. He wanted Markham to keep an eye on her, to see if she was having an affair.

‘And if she is?’ It was the question he always asked. Divorce was a messy business, one that ruined lives. Co-respondents would be cited, it would be dirty and ugly and it would all be out in public in the courtroom.

‘I’ll make my decision then,’ Jenkins said calmly. ‘We’ve been married fourteen years. Right before I went off to fight. You don’t throw that away like tea leaves.’

‘No,’ Markham agreed.

He had the address, in the Carr Manors. Comfortable semi-detached houses from the ’thirties. Jenkins might not look much but he had some money. Or far too many bills.

‘How much do you charge?’

‘A five-pound retainer. The fee’s dependent on what I need to do. And expenses, of course.’

The man pulled the wallet from his suit jacket and took out a note, rubbing it carefully to be sure there was only one. Markham began to write out a receipt but Jenkins refused.

‘What if Laura found it?’ he asked with a horrified look. ‘How would I explain that?’

‘What’s your line of work?’ Markham asked.

‘I’m a manufacturer’s agent.’ Jenkins reached back into the wallet for a business card. ‘Knitwear,’ he explained. ‘I sell it to wholesalers around here and up in the Northeast. I’m gone one week in four – Newcastle, Sunderland, around there.’

‘And you think Laura’s unfaithful when you’re away?’

‘Yes.’ There was quiet defeat in the word.

‘And you’ve no idea at all who she might be seeing?’

‘None,’ Jenkins answered after a small hesitation.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I …’ He shook his head. ‘No, not really.’

‘Does she have a job?’

‘Of course not. She’s a housewife.’ He said it with a kind of pride, that he earned enough to support his family.

‘Do you have a photograph of her?’

‘No.’ He seemed surprised by the idea. ‘Why?’

‘So I can recognise her.’ He said it with a gentle smile.

‘She’s the only woman who lives there. You’ll be able to follow her. That’s what you do, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Does she drive?’

‘No. I can take her wherever she needs and she walks to the shops. When can you start?’

‘Tomorrow?’

The man nodded.

‘That would be good. The sooner, the better.’

‘Leave it with me, Mr Jenkins. How do you want me to contact you with my reports?’

‘I’ll be in touch with you.’

‘Of course.’ It was often the way. They didn’t want someone ringing at work or to receive anything at home. ‘Give me a few days and I’ll see what I can find.’

***

He drove by the Jenkins’ house, a semi with a bay window and a small front lawn tucked behind a privet hedge. There was a place towards the end of the road where he could park and watch. Tomorrow.

On the way home he stopped by the doctor’s surgery, spending half an hour in the waiting room before the physician could see him.

‘You look like you’ve been in the wars,’ he said as he snipped off the bandages and put on fresh ones.

‘A little.’

‘Yes.’ The man pronounced the word slowly. ‘It’s nasty but it’s healing, Mr Markham, but you need to be patient.’ He pushed his lips together. ‘I’ll be honest with you, though. I’m not sure how well those fingers will work after this.’

‘I understand.’ Another reason to make Carter pay.

***

The next morning he was parked on Carr Manor Parade, slumped down in the seat of the Anglia, eyes on the Jenkins’ house. He’d made a sandwich, wrapped in greaseproof paper on the passenger seat, and a thermos flask of tea.

The man had left promptly at half past eight, driving off in a Ford Popular. Laura Jenkins emerged a little after nine. There was nothing glamorous about her. Flat-heeled shoes on thin legs, a dark woollen coat, scarf over her hair and a shopping bag in her hand. As ordinary as she could be.

He could have walked down to the parade behind her. But at this time of day a man on his own would have stood out. Mornings were when the women went out to the grocer, the greengrocer, the baker, while the men were at their work. A chance to gossip and see someone else, to decide what to make for tea.

This was the stuff of his life, tracking all this, making quick notes on a pad. All too often suspicions turned out to be nothing more than groundless fears. Inside, he felt sure that Laura Jenkins was a faithful wife. Ground down and unhappy with the routine perhaps, but not about to do anything about it. He parked by the parade and saw her arrive, moving quickly from shop to shop before starting the short trek home.

He was there, down the street again, to see her arrive and unlock the door. By afternoon nothing more had happened. She hadn’t gone out again. The coal man delivered his load along the road, hoisting the hundredweight sacks easily on his shoulder. Later it was the soft drink man with his bottles of lemonade. Neither of them stopped at the Jenkins’ house.

At four he turned the key in the ignition and drove away. Nothing. He’d return tomorrow and do it all again. But he doubted that he’d discover anything.

***

As soon as he walked into the office he knew something was wrong. The chair was pulled away from the desk; he always pushed it in before he left. The blotter sat left of centre; he kept it squarely in the middle. Someone had been here. He breathed slowly and looked around, taking in everything.