Dark Briggate Blues (16 page)

‘Clubs, garages, shops. A bit of everything in there,’ Baker said as he scanned the list. ‘No rhyme or reason to it.’ He put the pipe away in his pocket. ‘You keep breathing ’til Monday and I’ll see what I can turn up.’

Markham spent the weekend looking over his shoulder. Carla went to visit her parents. For once he was glad; he didn’t want her caught in anything. He stuck to busy streets, out only in the daytime then locking and bolting his door at night.

For hours at a time he could forget that Carter wanted him dead, then the thought would come crashing back to leave him paralysed for a few minutes.

He read and listened to music, going through his entire LP collection, everything from Basie to Webster. By Sunday night he’d had his fill of it all. He could skulk around and try to keep himself safe. He could do nothing. He could flinch at every unusual noise and be scared every moment. That wasn’t going to help.

Monday morning he drove the Anglia into town and parked outside the office on Albion Place. He took a deep breath as he unlocked the door. The room felt stuffy and airless, but there was no sign that anyone had been there. Markham hung up his overcoat and settled behind the desk, checking the desk drawers before lighting a cigarette. He’d made the decision.

A little after nine he phoned the planning committee. The voice that answered was cool and slightly amused.

‘Mrs Kingston?’

‘It is.’

‘This is David Markham. Ted Smith’s friend.’

‘Of course. I remember you.’ She was suddenly attentive and he wondered what kind of relationship she had with the old man. Smith had been generous with his contacts and his money; there was still plenty left and it was time to spend the rest of it.

‘I believe inspectors were out at a few businesses.’

‘That’s correct. I’m sad to say that they found several violations of use.’

‘Did any of the businesses have to close?’

‘Under our procedures we issue a notice and give the firm a little time to comply.’ The words flowed with professional ease.

‘And have they?’

‘I don’t know. The inspectors haven’t had time to return yet.’

‘Do you think it might be time they went back?’

‘It might.’

‘I’d be grateful. So would Mr Smith, I’m sure.’

‘I’ll arrange it,’ Kingston agreed brightly. ‘I think we’ve given those businesses a good chance to do everything we require.’

‘Thank you.’

He put another forty pounds of Smith’s money in an envelope and addressed it to the woman at the planning committee. No note. She’d know.

One small blow. He smiled.

***

Baker rang during the shank of the afternoon. He heard the clunk of coins dropping in the telephone box.

‘Meet me in Park Square in a quarter of an hour.’ It was a demand, not a request.

‘All right,’ Markham answered as the policeman replaced the receiver.

He gathered up his coat and left, taking an awkward route through the streets to see if anyone was following him. If they had, he’d shaken them off by the time he reached Park Square.

The houses were old, perfectly laid out around a small, green park. These days they were home to solicitors, dentists and the private practices of doctors. The grass was carefully trimmed, the last of the flowers in the beds hanging on to their blooms. There was just enough of a chill in the air to keep people away from the benches. Only one person was there: Baker, calmly reading his newspaper and puffing on his pipe. Markham sat next to him.

‘What is it?’

Baker kept the paper in his lap, eyes searching around for anyone who might be watching.

‘You’d better tell me the full story on this friend of yours.’

‘Carter?’

The man gave a brief nod, pipe still clenched between his teeth.

‘I put in a request for information on him this morning. Came back straight away. The muckety-mucks said no. Orders of the Assistant Chief Constable himself.’ Baker turned to face him, eyes blazing. ‘I don’t like that. We’re supposed to work without fear or favour. That means no protection for anyone.’

‘I told you that he has friends.’

‘He’s got more than that. You’d better give me the gen. Everything you know.’

He laid out all he’d learned from Ged Jones. In the end it was very little, more supposition and reading between the lines than fact. Baker listened with close attention, pursing his lips at times and staying quiet until Markham had finished.

‘And how did you manage to learn all this?’

‘A friend from National Service. They recruited him into the secret service.’

‘And he told you just like that?’ He sounded grudgingly impressed.

‘We were friends. In military intelligence together,’ Markham told him.

‘Did they teach you all those dirty tricks too, then?’

‘Some of them.’

‘With that background and the people he has looking out for him, your Carter is quite a slippery customer.’

‘A deadly one.’

‘Maybe,’ Baker agreed. ‘But he hasn’t killed you yet. Who did you say works for him?’

‘John Dodge and Big Chalky White.’

‘I know them, right enough. Didn’t you have a third name?’

‘Rob Anderson.’ He felt his fingers throb as he spoke.

‘He’s the big one with the scar on his cheek, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Happen it’s time to have a word with them all. I daresay there’s something they’ve done wrong. And if there isn’t it’ll let Carter know I’m nipping at his heels a bit.’

‘Be careful.’

Baker smiled.

‘He wouldn’t dare hurt a copper, lad. He’s not that stupid. Nobody would be mad enough to protect him then.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘You just watch out for yourself, lad.’ He paused. ‘I know there’s something you’re still not telling me.’

Of course there was. He daren’t mention the gun to Baker. Not now. Not ever.

‘That’s all of it,’ he lied.

The detective raised an eyebrow.

‘If that’s what you want. Just keep your eyes open. Did you do all that fancy spy malarkey to throw off a tail when you were coming here?’

‘I did.’

‘Next time we meet, don’t bother,’ he suggested. ‘If they know you’re seeing a copper it might be good protection for you. At least it could make them think twice.’

He was right; Markham knew that. ‘But dangerous for you.’

‘Don’t you worry about me. It’s like I said, Carter wouldn’t be daft enough to mess with someone on the force.’

‘I meant with your bosses.’

Baker shook his head.

‘I’m a detective sergeant, lad. I wasn’t going any higher, anyway. Another few years and I’ll have my thirty in. There’s nowt they can really do to me.’

‘All right.’

The policeman pushed himself up off the bench, folding the newspaper and pushing it into the pocket of his mac.

‘If you find anything else, let me know right away. And no taking the law into your own hands. You do that and I’ll have you in a cell before you can say Jack Robinson.’

***

At least he had an ally now, Markham thought as he walked back through town. A van had broken down on Commercial Street, the traffic at a standstill, motorists idling in their cars, a few pushing down on their horns in a sporadic symphony of noise.

He paid little attention as he began to cross the road. He heard the motorcycle’s engine growing closer as he stepped off the kerb, then suddenly it was close, a deep-throated roar. Markham turned his head. It was accelerating straight towards him, passing the line of vehicles. Two men, both in leathers, with gauntlets and visors pulled down to cover their faces.

Stupid, he thought and moved back a pace. They couldn’t even wait until everything was flowing again. As they passed the passenger raised his gloved hand, formed his fingers into a pistol and aimed it at him as they roared by. It was only a moment. No one else even noticed. It could have been coincidence. But he knew it wasn’t. It was Carter’s little reminder. Killing him would be so easy. Anywhere, anytime.

He breathed deep, dug out a Craven A and lit it, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. On the way back to the car he kept glancing back and checking the roads.

***

Markham drove, watching his wing mirrors for anyone behind him. He dodged through the back roads, turning a corner and parking for a minute before moving on again. Every trick from his training until he was satisfied that he was alone.

Only then did he head out to Alwoodley, parking outside Joanna Hart’s house. The Humber was in the drive but he still had to knock twice before she answered the door, hair gathered back into a simple ponytail. She had a half-empty glass in her hand and looked up at him with bleary eyes.

‘Oh,’ was all she said, stepping back down the hall. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’

The room was exactly the way he’d seen it the other day. Papers were scattered across the table and a bottle of gin was on the small table beside the chair. She saw his glance.

‘Do you want one?’ she offered. ‘I’ve had a couple already, I’m afraid.’

‘Not for me. Have you heard anything more from Carter?’ She shook her head. ‘He’ll be ringing you again,’ Markham told her.

‘Maybe I should sell the damned place to him. Just get the bloody business out of the way.’ She flopped elegantly into the chair without spilling a drop from the glass. ‘I miss Freddie. He could be fun when he wanted.’

‘What about your lover?’

‘I’m not seeing him any more. I didn’t even have to suggest it. He did.’ She snorted. ‘Maybe his wife’s suspicious or something. I’m glad you’re here. I hate being on my own. And I hate being poor.’

Markham looked around the room again. Furniture that would fetch a good price at auction. All the trappings of money.

She crossed her legs and the sound of nylon on nylon filled the room. The skirt rode up enough to show a little thigh and he turned away. He could feel her gaze, intent and trying to be seductive, while all he wanted was to be out of the house before its walls closed in around him. He didn’t want to be near her like this.

‘Let me know when he does ring,’ Markham said, gathering the coat around his body.

‘Don’t you want to stay a little longer?’ There was a tiny, pleading note in her voice.

‘I still have to see some people.’ He gave her a smile. ‘Don’t bother getting up. I can see myself out.’

***

After the cloying atmosphere of the house the air in the garden felt fresh and sweet. For a moment he wondered what would happen to her. Back to the good time girl she’d been before? Jumping into another marriage that wouldn’t make her happy? Or seeing out time in bottles of gin and loneliness? It didn’t matter; her redemption wasn’t his job.

If she gave in and sold to Carter, that was her decision. He’d done everything he could. If she held on, he’d help her. He needed every lever he could use to bring the man down.

His flat was empty and he relished the peace, the silence that climbed around him. With the lock and the bolt set, he felt safer.

***

At eleven, after the pubs had closed and the city had bedded down for the night, Markham drove down to the International Club, the shebeen down towards Sheepscar. Monday night and business was good, a press of drinkers all seeking the thrill of the illegal.

Brian Harding was there, off in a corner with his head down, so still he might have been dead. Markham bought a large whisky and pulled up a chair to sit across from him. He slid the drink across the table and Harding’s head rose. His eyes were bloodshot, the tiny veins under his flesh broken and red, and he looked as if he hadn’t changed clothes in two or three days.

‘Hello, Brian. I thought you could use that.’

‘I always can.’ He raised the glass and took a sip. ‘Better,’ he pronounced. ‘What can I do for you, Dan? Had
la belle
Hart yet?’

He was surprised that Harding could remember their last conversation; after so many years the man’s brain must have been pickled. But he was one of those rare creatures who seemed to function just as well drunk as sober, thoughts and memory still sharp however much he wanted to dull them. God’s little joke.

‘Not my type,’ he replied with a smile.

‘Anyone’s type if you’re desperate enough.’ He raised the glass in a toast. ‘To poor old Freddie. A long time in the ground now.’

‘And now she owns the Ford agency.’

‘The first decent offer and she’ll sell it. Jo always wanted to be a woman of independent means. It’s the main reason she married Freddie. His family has pots of cash. She thought she’d have the high life.’

‘And she didn’t?’ Markham asked with surprise. ‘I’ve been to her house. It’s hardly a slum.’

‘Well, yes,’ Harding agreed slowly. ‘But it’s hardly
rich
rich, is it? You know what I mean, Dan. Ancestral pile out in the country, walls all around to keep out the peasants. That’s what she’s been angling for all the years I’ve known her.’

‘What would you say if I told you that she was hardly getting any offers for Hart Ford?’

‘Really?’ The man frowned. ‘I’d say there was something a little odd. Aren’t we all supposed to be driving everywhere by
1960
or something? I saw that in the papers. And have little jet cars by the end of the century? You’d have thought they’d be queuing up to take the business off her hands.’

‘I was wondering about that.’

‘Strange.’ He finished the whisky and stared at the glass. Markham bought him another.

‘You know the kind of people who’d be likely to buy the Ford place, don’t you?’

‘One or two, I suppose,’ Harding agreed.

‘Could you ask around a little and see what’s putting them off?’

Harding smiled, showing brown, neglected teeth.

‘I can do better than that. Wait here.’

He reappeared a few seconds later, trailing someone behind him.

‘Dan, this is George Hatton. He might be able to help you. I’ll leave you two to it.’

They shook hands. Hatton could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy, with a paunch that jutted like a prow, a nondescript grey suit and trousers held up by wide blue braces. His hair was grey, combed down hard across his head and thin enough to show the pink of his skull. A pair of shrewd eyes showed behind thick glasses.