Dark Briggate Blues (18 page)

‘When will the offer come through?’

‘Tomorrow. He said he still needed to come up with an exact figure. He was just checking that I hadn’t already sold to anyone. So I can forget about our friend.’

He didn’t say anything. For some reason Carter had his sights on Hart Ford; he wouldn’t be happy at anything that stopped him buying it. And he wasn’t a man who liked to lose.

‘Have you heard from Carter again?’

‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘This morning he sent me a big bunch of flowers. The char had to dig out another vase to hold them all. But he won’t go a penny higher.’

***

In the end, the job for the Birmingham agency only took an hour. He was finished before five and was back in the office, writing out his report and dropping it in the post box on his way back to the motor car.

Sergeant Graham was leaning against the wall. The trilby shaded his eyes and his hands were pushed deep into overcoat pockets.

‘Looking for me?’ Markham asked.

‘I’m not here for my health.’ He moved close.

‘What do you want?’ He knew. Word would have passed about Hatton’s interest. Carter would have made a telephone call to send out his pet copper.

‘Someone wanted you to do something.’

‘I’ll tell you what I told him: I don’t work for Carter.’

‘He’s heard that the Hart woman might sell to someone else.’

‘If the money’s right, I’m sure she will.’ He had the car key in his hand, protruding between his index and middle fingers.

Graham shook his head.

‘Not good enough. He told you what he was going to do. To make an example of you.’

‘Then he hasn’t succeeded, has he? I’m still here.’

‘If Mrs Hart hasn’t signed over the business to him by Monday, you’ll be gone. Simple message, even for someone like you.’ He brought out one large hand and slapped Markham very lightly on the face. ‘He’s giving you one last chance. You’re a lucky lad.’

‘Since you’re playing messenger boy you can tell him something.’ He saw Graham bristle.

‘What’s that?’

‘To go fuck himself.’

The sergeant smiled.

‘You think having Baker on your side will help you? He’s on his way out. Coppers like him are the past. The pair of you, you’re amateurs.’

‘But we’re not bent.’

He wasn’t prepared for the fist. It sank into his belly and forced all the air from him. Markham sank to the ground and Graham casually brought up his knee to catch him on the jaw and send him sprawling.

By the time he could breathe and start to move, the policeman had gone. People walked around him as he crawled and gathered his keys from the pavement. Very slowly, the paralysis faded from his solar plexus. He spat blood from his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue.

He steadied himself on the car, pushing himself upright and wiping the dirt from his trousers. Finally he lit a cigarette, smoking the whole thing then grinding it out before driving home.

The blows had been Graham’s own touch. The hard man giving a taste of what he enjoyed. But the message had been clear. Monday. It was Friday now. A weekend of grace then it would all come to a climax.

***

Late in the evening he was back in town, casually dressed in cavalry twill trousers and an old jacket, his shirt collar unbuttoned, the tie in the drawer at home. The end of the week and people were out to enjoy themselves. Crowds spilled out from the pubs, scattering to the late buses. A few revellers remained, a knot here and there on street corners.

He parked and took the stairs down to Studio
20
. The music was already roaring, a trumpeter letting his notes soar like Louis Armstrong over a rowdy, bumpy rhythm section. It hit him as he opened the door. Bass, drums, the piano punctuating with jagged chords, a tenor sax taking over the lead on ‘A Night in Tunisia’ as the crowd applauded.

The group was half West Indian, the trumpeter wiping his face with a handkerchief as he sat down, smiling and nodding his head in time with the beat. The sax spiralled higher, turning the melody inside out before dipping down an octave and starting to climb again on a subtly different route.

Markham nodded to Bob Barclay, in his usual place behind the partition, then sat. His stomach was still sore and a bruise was beginning to form on his chin. His fingers throbbed; he’d taken a couple of pills before coming out. But as the music grew around him, he forgot the pain.

The drummer propelled the group, pushing and nudging, but it was the front men who shone, feeding off each other, swapping phrases, eyes closed to listen then play, their skin wet with sweat. They batted around an idea, smiling as they resolved it into ‘A Foggy Day In London Town’ to finish their set. It had been ragged at times, but there was electricity in what they played and the audience knew it, clapping wildly.

Markham stood, ready to leave. Whoever else played tonight, they wouldn’t top that. Barclay waved him over, watching as two new reedmen set up to play.

‘What did you think?’ he asked, nodding at the players who’d just finished.

‘They’re good.’

‘Yes,’ Barclay agreed with a hint of doubt. ‘You know what, though, Dan? Three people in the crowd walked out as soon as they saw those two were coloured.’ He shook his head. ‘People, eh? Who do they think made jazz in the first place?’

‘So who are this pair?’

‘They came over three months ago. Tony and Terry. Working as street cleaners for the council. They play for fun.’

‘Maybe they’ll make money from it sometime.’

Barclay shook his head.

‘Money and jazz, Dan. Don’t go well together. Never have.’

Out on Briggate he looked around as he walked to the car. Monday, Carter had said, but he wasn’t going to put his trust in a word. No one was waiting. No one had broken into the flat.

***

By eleven on Saturday he was parking in Ilkley. He’d dressed for the occasion in dark trousers and a tweed jacket, with a checked shirt and pale tie. Respectable but casual. He knocked on Ted Smith’s door and heard footsteps shuffling along the hall.

‘Hello, Dan.’ The man beamed. Maybe so few people visited him that anyone was welcome. ‘Come on in, I’ll put the kettle on.’

They settled in the kitchen, teapot and a pint bottle of milk between them, a fresh packet of digestive biscuits tipped on to a plate.

‘Right,’ Smith said. ‘I know you’re not here to pass an hour. Is everything over? Do you need more money?’ His voice was eager, his eyes shining and curious.

‘No more money,’ Markham told him. ‘I still have some of what you gave me before.’ He began to reach for his wallet but Smith reached out a hand to stop him.

‘You keep it, you might need it. Have you won?’

‘Not yet.’ He detailed everything that had happened, the pushes forwards, the steps back and the threats. Smith listened closely. When Markham finished, he asked,

‘What’s so special about this Ford place?’

‘I don’t know.’ He’d wondered about that himself, unable to find an answer. It was just a business. If Carter really wanted a motor car agency he was able to open one of his own. Everything perfectly legal.

‘Seems an odd thing to me. But how can I help you, Dan?’

‘I just wanted you aware of everything. In case something happens to me.’

‘You really think it will?’

‘I think he’s a man who does what he says. And he’s well-protected. He has friends in Whitehall.’

‘Is it worth it?’

‘Yes.’ Markham didn’t even have to think. ‘It is.’

‘Right. The Chief Constable’s a friend of mine. Owt happens, I’ll have a word with him. I can do it now, if you prefer?’

Markham shook his head.

‘No. But thank you.’

‘It’s your choice.’ Smith gave him a curious look. ‘But you look after yourself. I respect a man who’ll stand up for what he believes, but I don’t want to read about you in the
Evening Post
. I’m not sure anything’s worth that.’

‘I’m not sure it is, either,’ he answered with a wry smile. ‘But here I am.’

‘Make sure it’s not the last time.’ He poured another cup of tea, draining the pot, and taking one more biscuit. ‘You said that girl you like has gone away for a little while.’

‘I think so. She promised she would.’

‘I saw your face. You’re sweet on her, aren’t you?’

‘A bit.’ He didn’t want to say anything more. For all he knew, everything was over with Carla. If it was, he could hardly blame her. If she hadn’t been involved with him then her paintings, everything she’d created, would still be whole. Her art was who Carla was. It was everything that mattered to her. She might care about him, but he’d always play second fiddle to her work. He couldn’t afford to dwell on it now.

‘Think about what matters. You get to my age, the only regrets are the things you didn’t do.’

‘I will.’

***

The hard metal ringing of the alarm clock woke him at half past one. Outside the window the night was silent. No cars on the road, no stragglers on the pavement making their late way home.

He dressed in a dark suit and tie, topping if off with the overcoat and trilby. The effect was exactly what he’d hoped, an anonymous young businessman who might be a guest at an expensive hotel. In town he parked on Basinghall Street, away from the lights.

On the way home from Ilkley he’d stopped on King Street and walked through the ground floor of the Metropole Hotel. It was as grand as its name, an old Victorian building that kept the old standards of luxury and service.

There was no doorman in the small hours, but nothing to stop him walking in, either. He smiled at the desk clerk and passed quickly, walking with the assurance of a guest. The thick carpet muffled his footsteps. Down the corridor he waited ten minutes, long enough for his face to vanish from the man’s mind.

Then he reached up and pulled the fire alarm before slipping through a door and out of sight to hide among piles of towels and sheets. A cacophony of bells began to sound. Within a few seconds Markham could hear voices and footsteps on the stairs as people tumbled from their rooms and staff shouted questions and instructions.

He waited eight minutes. Time enough for everyone to be up and outside and the fire engine to arrive. At the second floor he listened carefully then put on a pair of leather gloves. At room
203
he brought a thin piece of plastic from his pocket and pushed on the door, enough to force a gap between wood and frame. Markham worked the perspex between them to force open the Yale lock, exactly the way the army had taught him. A quick turn of the handle and he was in.

The light was still on, the bedclothes were thrown back; there was still a dent in the pillow. Like a good guest, Carter had abandoned his room when the alarm sounded. Papers sat on the table. He took them without looking, then emptied the contents of each drawer into a pile onto the floor.

With a Stanley knife he slashed the mattress and pillows, then the twelve suits in the wardrobe, cutting a sleeve off each one. Finally he attacked the shirts and looked around at his handiwork.

Back in the corridor he closed the door gently, checking that the lock held. His footsteps echoed lightly on the concrete of the service stairs. Down on the ground floor he found a rear door that was unlocked and slipped out into the night. He walked to the car, forcing himself to stroll and not run, sucking the smoke of a cigarette deep into his lungs.

In the flat he undressed and glanced through the papers he’d taken. More letters relating to the businesses Carter owned. Several were from the council, violations and fines and threatening closure. Good, he thought with a smile. A couple of notes from friends awaiting replies.

The man would know who was responsible. He’d want his revenge. Markham was banking on that.

The car was waiting on Town Street, pulling into traffic directly behind the Anglia. The driver didn’t even try to disguise his actions, staying close on the drive into town. Markham turned off, cutting through back streets and bouncing over the cobbles, the car sticking close as he headed away from Leeds.

He knew the spot he wanted. Out in Shadwell, just beyond the suburbs. A lazy little stream where he’d gone fishing with his father, riding bicycles into the country. He’d been back several times since, when he wanted solitude close to home.

There was only one man in the vehicle behind him. Markham pressed down on the accelerator just after a corner and pulled ahead, keeping up the speed as the road snaked. Around a second bend, out of sight for a few seconds, he stamped on the brake and yanked on the wheel to turn onto a small track.

The other car dashed past, then stopped, reversing slowly. It gave him the time he wanted, to leave the Anglia and run down a path. He picked up a branch, weighing it in his hands. It hurt to grip with his injured fingers, but was worth the pain. The trees were thick; plenty of places to hide.

He heard the man, the crack of twigs on the ground. Markham tightened his grip on the wood, scarcely daring to breathe. The man was blundering along, confident and contemptuous. As he passed, Markham brought the branch down hard on his head.

He fell with a small sigh and lay still. Quickly, Markham felt for a pulse then emptied the man’s pockets – wallet, grubby handkerchief, change, keys. He took the thirty shillings in notes, the keys and most of the coins, leaving tuppence for a telephone call; there was a box a mile down the road.

He stripped the man naked, throwing clothes and possessions into the stream. It ran deep here; everything would sink. There was no need for more. With a final glance he walked back to the cars and put on his gloves.

The boot of the man’s car was empty but he found a gun wedged under the front seat, a Colt automatic with a full magazine, the safety catch on. He put it in his overcoat, locked the door and tossed the keys into a hedge before driving away.

Whoever he was, the man would wake in a while. Sooner or later he’d be able to raise some help, if he wasn’t arrested for exposure first. Either way, Markham had sent another message to Carter. Now it was time for one more.