Dark Briggate Blues (14 page)

He’d decided to come back and finish his damned tax return. It wouldn’t take more than an hour at most, then the evening was his own. But now his heart was beating faster and his mouth felt dry. Carter. He searched quickly through the desk drawers and the filing cabinet. Nothing was missing. What did the man want? The papers that had been stolen with the gun? No. If they’d been so important he’d have had someone in the office before. And they weren’t even here.

If nothing had been taken, then something must have been left.

A chill prickle of sweat rolled down his back as he hunted. At first he was methodical, exactly the way they’d taught him in military intelligence, under and behind desk drawers, checking the lino for a loose corner where something could be hidden. Not a thing. All the files in the cabinet were exactly as they should have been. No papers or packets added.

As the minutes passed he became more frantic, looking anywhere and everywhere. Think, he told himself. Bloody think. Finally he dragged out the filing cabinet, grunting with effort. There was only wall behind it. On his knees he reached under the bottom drawer. Then he felt it. Slowly, cautiously, he tried to grip with his fingertips, pulling it out into the open.

A bulky brown envelope he knew he’d never seen before. Carefully, he broke the seal with his thumbnail as he shouldered the cabinet back into place.

Money.

He counted quickly, then again, scarcely able to believe his eyes. Five hundred pounds in white five-pound notes. A fortune. Almost two years’ salary. He flicked through the notes once more.

He smoked a cigarette, the money spread out across the desk. It was here for a reason and it wasn’t generosity. Markham licked the glue and sealed the envelope again, then hurried down the stairs to the floor below. Miss Jacobs’ secretarial agency did work for many small businesses; he used her whenever he needed a letter typing. He was barely in time; she was just locking up, the girls who worked for her leaving in a rapid shower of heels on the steps.

‘Mr Markham,’ she said. ‘If you need a letter it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.’ She was always immaculately turned out, grey hair set in neat waves around a bony, disapproving face. She wore an engagement ring, the memento of a fiancé who never returned from Ypres all those years before. A photograph of him in uniform, trapped in time, sat on her desk.

‘It’s nothing like that,’ he told her, trying to put some charm into his smile. ‘I was hoping you could keep this for me until tomorrow morning.’

‘I suppose I could,’ she agreed with a prim sniff. After so many years she was used to strange requests from men.

‘I’d be very grateful.’

She put it securely in her handbag, wished him goodnight and left. He returned to his office, lit another cigarette and ran a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of what he’d just found.

***

He heard the footsteps clambering up to the third floor and sat behind the desk, straightening his tie as he waited. The door flew open and Detective Sergeant Graham marched in, a pair of uniformed constables behind him.

‘Here you go, lads,’ Graham said, eyes already hungrily scanning the room. ‘Meet an enquiry agent. Likes to think he’s one of those private detectives from the films.’ One of the coppers smirked. The other, younger, a glimmer of intelligence in his eyes, looked embarrassed. ‘A little bird told me you have some dodgy money here.’

‘That little bird again? He’s busy, isn’t he?’ Markham took the wallet from his pocket and produced the money Jenkins had given him, flattening it out on the desk. ‘This looks fine to me.’

‘Not that,’ Graham said. A flush of anger rose on his cheeks. ‘Don’t get clever with me, lad.’

‘That’s all the money I have here.’

‘Aye, and I was born yesterday. Never done a thing wrong in your life, have you?’

‘I suppose you want to search.’

‘That’s why I’ve come.’

‘Do you have a warrant?’ Markham asked.

Graham leaned forwards, palms on the desk, until his face was close enough for Markham to smell the decay on his breath.

‘Do I need one?’ he asked threateningly.

Markham shrugged. ‘Be my guest. There’s nothing here, I already told you that.’

‘We’ll see, lad. We’ll see.’ He stood and looked around, as if he was considering where to start. ‘Pull out that filing cabinet,’ he told the officers.

Markham kept his face impassive, watching them work, then Graham kneeling, reaching and searching for the envelope.

‘Found anything, Sergeant?’

Graham rose slowly. He didn’t even try to hide the hatred in his eyes.

‘Search everywhere,’ he shouted. ‘Take the place apart.’

They were thorough, pulling open every file, removing every drawer. Ten minutes later they stood by the door, empty-handed.

‘It looks like that little bird of yours isn’t too reliable, Sergeant.’

‘You’d better watch your mouth,’ Graham warned and stormed off, the uniforms trooping behind him.

He waited until the footsteps had receded and let out a long, slow breath. Dodgy money. Counterfeit. That explained a lot. It would have been a few years in jail if they’d found it.

He’d been lucky. He was surviving by the skin of his teeth. But survival wasn’t going to be enough.

***

When he turned the corner he saw Graham leaning against the car and sighed. He should have guessed. He’d made the man look like a fool; now there’d be a price to pay.

‘I thought our business was done, Sergeant.’ He had the key tight in his hand.

‘You think, lad?’ He pushed himself upright, making his large hands into fists. ‘I don’t know what you did, but that money was there.’

‘Was it? Your boys were thorough. They didn’t find it.’

‘Next time,’ he warned. ‘Meanwhile, you and me are going to have a little talk.’ He nodded at a ginnel that led to the back of a building. ‘Down there. Five minutes. That’s all I need and you’ll be crying for your mummy and telling me everything.’

‘Leave it, Ronnie.’ Baker’s voice was low and even as he emerged from the shadows, hands pushed deep in the pockets of his raincoat. ‘You had your chance.’

Graham kept his gaze firmly on Markham.

‘This one thinks he’s a bright boy. We can’t let him get away with that.’

‘He’s smarter than you. The best thing you can do is let it go.’

Graham was still for a few moments then spat and walked away.

‘Good job I was passing by,’ Baker said quietly.

‘Were you?’ Markham asked and saw the man shrug.

‘Maybe. I told you, I don’t like bent coppers.’ He snorted and gave a grim smile. ‘I like them even less than enquiry agents. Be grateful for that.’

Markham nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘I don’t know what’s going on but watch yourself. Graham doesn’t like to lose. Do you want to talk about it?’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Have it your own way. Having him after you makes me think you might just have something about you, after all. Just don’t be a bloody fool. I don’t want to be the person who has to sweep up the pieces. And believe me, Danny boy, you don’t want me angry at you.’

Markham unlocked the car door and Baker began to stroll away.

‘Remember, though, if you leave the straight and narrow it won’t just be Sergeant Graham you need to worry about.’

By ten on Thursday morning no one had come out of the Jenkins’ house. He poured more tea from the flask and waited.

A pair of women strolled along, pausing for a moment outside the place. One shook her head before they moved on. Odd, he thought.

Markham waited a few more minutes then opened the latch on the gate and walked down the gravel drive to knock on the front door. Nothing. He tried again. No answer.

The grass of the square front garden was neatly trimmed, the rose beds dug and weeded. He peered through the front windows. The curtains were open. Not a stick of furniture inside, just bare floorboards. He darted round to the back of the house. Exactly the same in the living room. Empty.

‘They flitted last night.’

The woman leaned against the fence between the drives, puffing on a cigarette and watching him with amusement. She had a pleasant, plump face with smile lines around her mouth and eyes, an apron tied around her waist.

‘A flit?’ he asked in surprise.

‘After dark. It’s not quite what one expects around here,’ she said with a brief grin. ‘A van came and they put in what they had. Not that they had much,’ she added with pleasure. ‘They’d only been here three days, too.’

‘They were here yesterday,’ he said. It was a pointless remark, more to himself than to her.

‘How do you know?’ She jumped on the remark. ‘Were you watching the house? What’s going on? Are they criminals? I thought he looked a bit shifty. Are you a policeman?’

‘No. Mr Jenkins wanted me to keep an eye on things.’

‘Who’s Mr Jenkins?’ she asked. ‘The landlord?’

‘He’s the husband,’ Markham said.

She shook her head.

‘No. I had her round for a cup of tea. She said they were called Thompson.’

‘I see.’

He saw all too well. He’d been conned. A job to keep him out of the office whilst they hid the counterfeit money. And once they were done they’d pulled down the tent and vanished.

‘Why were you watching her?’ the woman asked. She ground out the cigarette and picked up the butt. ‘Did he think she had a fancy man?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Well,’ she said slowly and glanced over her shoulder. ‘Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea? I’d love to hear about it.’

***

In the office he tried the telephone number on the card. A dead line, of course.

It had taken time and effort to set everything up, to find the couple and make the arrangements. If he dug a little he’d probably discover that Carter owned the house.

If Carter’s plan had worked, Markham would be in Armley jail now, on remand and waiting to be tried.
Prima facie
evidence; a five-year sentence. No question about it.

Carter was worried. Now Markham needed to make things bite.

He smoked his way through two cigarettes without finding an answer. It was almost noon. By now Freddie Hart would be in the ground, friends and family getting drunk in his memory.

On the way to the post with his tax return he stopped at the secretarial agency. As he opened the door the staccato clack of typewriter keys hit him like a loud wave. Miss Jacobs sat at her own desk, facing the others like a teacher in front of the class, busy with her own work. He smiled sheepishly as she silently handed over the envelope she’d kept for him. It was still sealed. He thrust it into the pocket of his mac, thanked her and left.

It went through the slot in the post box, two envelopes, one to the Inland Revenue, the other with no name or address. It would sit in the unclaimed room for years before being destroyed. A British bureaucracy was the best place to make anything vanish. He’d learnt that after he was conscripted.

***

At five, just as he was taking the raincoat from its hook, the phone rang.

‘The bloody bastard came to the funeral!’ she shouted down the line.

‘Mrs Hart …’ he began.

‘He was there at the back of the church and in the cemetery.’ She sounded drunk, her words slurred and bitter.

‘Carter?’ he asked. The question was pointless; it couldn’t be anyone else.

‘Bastard,’ she repeated as the fire seemed to drain from her voice.

‘Did he say anything?’

‘Just his commis–,’ her tongue stumbled over the word. ‘Commiserations. He said he’d be in touch tomorrow.’

‘Then don’t worry about it until tomorrow. Where are you now?’

‘Mummy and Daddy’s.’

‘You stay there and sleep it off,’ he advised.

‘Can’t. People still here. Got to go and grieve for them.’

‘When will you be back in Leeds?’

‘In the morning. I need to start sorting out the house. Bloody thing’s mortgaged to the hilt.’

‘I’ll come by in the afternoon. We can talk more then.’

‘What if he rings before that?’ A note of panic rose in her voice.

‘Then put him off.’

***

With her husband in the ground she’d abandoned her widow’s black clothes. Joanna Hart answered the door wearing a bright floral dress, catching the last gasp of summer. Her hair was up in a chignon, face heavily made up to hide the lines, all the weariness and the puffiness of her hangover. Another five years and she’d look old.

The dining table was piled high with papers, roughly sorted into piles. She flopped into a chair and reached over to a small table for a glass filled with a clear liquid.

‘Did he call?’ Markham asked.

‘A little after luncheon.’ She shook her head. ‘Bloody man.’ She nodded at the shamble of documents. ‘There’s no choice. I’m going to have to sell the business very soon. Freddie left me with nothing. This house has to go, too.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he told her.

‘Oh, don’t.’ She waved his words away. ‘I’ll get by, I suppose.’ She lit a cigarette and blew out a thick trail of smoke.

‘Did Carter make you another offer?’

‘For what it was worth.’ She grimaced. ‘I told him I expected better.’

‘What about your friend?’

‘Will? I asked him after the funeral. I told him what I needed.’ Joanna Hart shook her head. ‘He said it was a bit rich for his blood.’

‘So Carter has the only bid.’

‘I need more, though.’ She tapped ash off the cigarette. ‘Freddie hadn’t paid his bloody taxes and they want their pound of flesh. You know what they’re like; they’re not going to wait. If I don’t pay them soon they’ll close the business. Then I won’t have a damned thing to sell.’

‘And you’ve had no other offers at all?’ It seemed strange. This was the age of the motor car, pronounced by the newspapers. They seemed to bring new models out every month. People had money to spend.

‘None,’ she said. ‘Help me. Make him offer more.’

‘I can’t force him to do anything,’ he told her.

‘He wants to meet me tomorrow.’

‘Where?’

‘In town. Jacomelli’s at half past twelve. He’s booked a private room. I told him you’d be with me.’ She looked at him, her eyes pleading. ‘You will, won’t you?’