Dark Briggate Blues (23 page)

Markham stood, frowning and thinking. Maybe he was right. Maybe luck had saved him again. But Ged had paid the price.

‘I still don’t understand why Carter’s doing all this.’

Baker sighed. ‘I don’t think reasons matter any more. We just need to find him before it happens again. Or it’ll be you I’m sending to the mortuary next.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Right, we need to be out of here before their clean-up crew arrive. I meant it, lad. Keep your eyes peeled.’

***

It was a stark drive home. Ged was dead. In his office. In his chair. And tomorrow morning it would all be gone, as if nothing had happened. Pictures came into his mind. The pair of them in basic training. The military intelligence classes. In the NAAFI, chatting up the nurses. Walking around the Talstrasse black market in Hamburg, where survivors sold anything and everything to last for another day or week. Ged, flushed with excitement after his first small mission. The way they’d promised to keep in touch when Markham finished his National Service.

The gun was in his hand as he climbed the stairs to his flat but the place was empty. The new telephone, black shiny Bakelite, sat on the table next to his chair. A final gift. He picked up the receiver and listened to the tone. But the only person he wanted to ring was Carla, and she was gone.

The door was locked and bolted, the pistol sitting on the table, ready. He ate and raised a glass of wine in silent toast to Ged while Monk played a lurching melody, pauses and discords ringing through the flat.

***

In the morning he drove into town, constantly checking the mirror. But no one was following him. He unlocked the office door and held his breath, scared to go in. But when he turned the handle, everything was pristine and normal inside. Blotter square in the centre of the desk, chair neatly pushed in. There was no smell of death in the air, not even a bloodstain as a memory of what had happened. Nothing. He might have dreamed it all.

He sat down and looked around. The phone started to ring, jarring him back to reality.

‘Just checking you’re alive,’ Baker said.

‘I’m here,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m thinking of those who aren’t.’

‘That happens after every battle. Any more ideas?’

‘Not yet. Has Graham surfaced?’

‘Not a dickie bird,’ Baker said. His voice was grim. ‘People have been looking into things he’s done. There’s a warrant out for him now. About bloody time, too. Meet me at the cafe in the market. Ten minutes.’

***

The shouts of the traders rose from the market, ‘Ten for a shilling’, ‘You won’t do any better than this’, as they stirred tea and sat at a chipped wooden table in the cafe at the top of the stairs.

‘How do we find him?’ Markham asked.

Baker puffed on his pipe for a long time before answering.

‘Well, we haven’t a clue where he might be. There’s a way, but I don’t like it.’

‘What?’

‘Offer up some bait. Something he wants.’

‘Me.’ He gave a wan smile as the policeman nodded. ‘I’d thought about that, too.’

‘It’s dangerous, lad.’

‘We don’t have much choice, do we?’

‘Not at the moment,’ Baker admitted.

‘Then we’d better try it.’

‘What about Joanna Hart. How is she?’

He didn’t know. Ged’s death had pushed everything else from his mind.

‘I haven’t been by there. I’ll find out later,’ Markham told him.

‘She’s our best witness against Carter.’

‘You want him in court?’

‘I want him to hang for what he’s done.’

‘They’ll never let it go public.’

‘We’ll see, lad. Depends who finds him first.’

It wouldn’t make any difference. He knew that, so did Baker. If they arrested Carter he’d soon be spirited away and that would be the last anyone heard of him. But Markham knew that the copper had his pride. He wanted to be the one to find him, to do his duty.

‘I’ll go and see Jo.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Tell me, if I’m the bait, who’s looking out for me?’

‘I’ll have a couple of people watching.’

‘What do the brass say?’

‘Catch the bastard. Those were the exact words.’

‘Then we’d better make sure we do it.’

***

He was careful, taking a roundabout route to throw off anyone following. Driving along the street to the safe house he glanced into every parked car. No one.

Markham gave the coded knock on the door, waiting as Maggie Cornwall undid the locks. The glass in the windows was thick, curtains closed.

‘I had a telephone call about Mr Jones,’ she said.

‘Yes.’ It was all he could manage. If he said anything more, it would all gush out. ‘How’s Mrs Hart?’

‘She’s still asleep. Best medicine. The doctor gave her some pills. I looked in on her a few minutes ago.’

‘You haven’t told her about Ged?’

The woman shook her head.

‘Don’t you go doing it, either,’ she warned. ‘It’ll only terrify her.’

‘I won’t,’ he promised. He watched her fill the kettle and wash the leaves from the teapot, making a fresh brew.

‘She’ll be safe here. Don’t you worry.’

‘How long can you keep her?’

‘As long as she needs. Or wants. Just so you know that I don’t have the authority to stop her leaving.’

‘She’s upstairs?’

‘Second door on the right.’

He could hear her breathing, soft and even. For a moment he considered waking her, taking a pace into the room, then decided to leave her be. Let her sleep and recover. The world would crowd back around soon enough.

***

A startled pigeon outside the window flew off as he entered the office. The folder Ged had brought with him was gone; the clean-up crew at work, of course. All Markham still had were the papers from Carter’s hotel room. He pored over them again, looking for something, anything he might have missed before. Any clue to where the man might be.

Twice through and finally something caught his eyes. It was just a scrawl on the margin of a letter – ‘ask about progress on old Reginald building.’ He’d seen that name before. Where the hell was it?

Baker was out, the desk sergeant at Millgarth station told him when Markham rang. Following up on an assault on New York Street.

He couldn’t settle. Every few minutes he stood, glancing around the office in disbelief and staring out of the window at the rooftops. Finally he left, starting the car and driving out past Quarry Hill flats and along Regent Street.

Hart Ford was open, shiny new vehicles on display, temptation behind plate glass. The motor car agency took up half the block. Beyond it was the old building, some of the stonework crumbling, doors and windows boarded up.

A name had been carved in the lintel. The painted letters, once smart, impressive gold, had faded to almost nothing. He pulled to the side, craned his neck to make out the word. It took a few moments, but then everything made sense. Reginald.

Owning Hart Ford and the Reginald Building would give Carter real property. An entire block where businesses were eager to be, on a main road into town. The money that could bring in would make the rest of his businesses seem like small change.

It took ten minutes to reach the Town Hall, then another ten to find a clerk in the office he needed. The woman was little more than twenty but she knew her job well, vanishing into a back room and emerging with a heavy, leather-bound register.

With quick movements she leafed through the pages, moving a bright red fingernail down the lines. Everything was in ink, the writing a neat, archaic copperplate. Markham waited, nibbling at his lip as she worked.

‘Found it,’ she said finally. ‘Three months ago, a company called DC Limited bought the building.’ She followed the line across the page. ‘Very reasonable price, from the look of it.’ She glanced up. ‘Does that help you?’

DC Limited. David Carter Limited. Jones’ people probably knew about it. But Ged was dead. There could be more property under the name, places where Carter could be hiding.

‘Is there any way you can find what else the company owns?’

‘I’m sorry, love. Not here.’ She leaned forward, glancing around. ‘Between you and me,’ she whispered, ‘if that company leads to another company, you can hide half of England. It’s all for taxes, stops them paying it all to the Revenue.’

‘Thank you,’ he told her before he left.

‘Anytime, love.’ She gave him a wink.

***

Baker was back the station. They sat in an interview room with its tired green paint, grey light filtering through dirty, barred windows.

‘It makes sense,’ the sergeant admitted when Markham told him. ‘Keep everything legal but shady. I daresay we can dig deep enough and find it all through official channels, but it’ll take weeks.’ He ran a hand through his thin hair. ‘Have you taken a look in the building?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Happen we should.’

***

It only took two minutes to drive there. Markham parked out of sight, the engine ticking slowly as they walked away. Baker had his trilby pushed back at a jaunty, cocky angle, the mackintosh flapping around his knees.

‘You have a gun in your pocket?’ he asked casually.

Markham’s hand was wrapped around the butt.

‘Yes.’

‘Keep it there. I don’t want all the paperwork if you shoot the bastard.’ He nodded towards a door at the back of the building. ‘We’ll go in that way. It’s out of sight of the road.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t want anyone calling the coppers.’

There were no cars around or indication anyone might be around. The only sounds drifted over from Regent Street. Baker tried the door handle, pulling and pushing then finally ramming with his shoulder until the wood splintered around the lock.

‘Rotten,’ he said, shaking his head and fishing out a torch. ‘If there’s anyone inside they’ll know we’re here now.’ He played the beam around a large room. ‘How many floors?’

‘Two,’ Markham said.

‘Doesn’t look like there’s much down here. Stairs are over there.’

He marched across the floor, stepping over old newspapers and pieces of wood and metal, then testing each step as they climbed. Markham followed. The wood of the rail felt spongy under his fingers. He looked up. Nothing but darkness. The only light leaked around the boarded windows. The building was filled with the thin chill of neglect, every footstep echoing around.

There was an office in the corner, partitioned off from everything else. Baker strode over to it, waving the torch into the far corners and catching a reflection of rats’ eyes. But before he’d gone five steps, two shots rang out.

Markham dropped to the floor, fumbling to free the pistol. Baker was three paces away, crumpled on the ground. The torch had fallen, pointing uselessly at a wall. There was nowhere to hide, no cover.

He breathed slowly, extending the weapon, alert for the slightest sign of movement, a sound, a flash, anything. Nothing. Inch by inch he began to crawl over to the policeman, keeping his eyes forward, hand tight and ready against the trigger.

Closing the distance seemed to take an age. Sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes. Finally he was close enough to extend a wary hand, but Baker didn’t move when Markham touched him. He risked a glance, eyes accustomed the gloom now, and saw a dark pool under the policeman’s body.

There was a faint pulse at the wrist.

He didn’t have a choice. Baker would die without help. Markham needed to run, to take the risk. He tensed, then rose into a crouch and sprinted for the stairs, expecting a shot and the burn of pain. But there was nothing as he crashed along, sprinting to the square of light in the distance. Outside, he paused for a second to push the pistol out of sight in his pocket and dashed on.

Heads turned as he burst into Hart Ford. He heard someone draw in breath sharply. A woman covered her mouth. He knew what he looked like, his face grubby, his clothes covered in dirt. A secretary stared at him.

‘Ring nine nine nine,’ he ordered. ‘Police and ambulance. There’s a policeman shot next door.’

Without even thinking, she did as she was told. Customers twinkled away. The staff vanished until he was alone in the showroom. He turned, hands deep in his pockets, and walked back to the back door of the Reginald Building, lighting a cigarette.

Within three minutes he heard the bells of the ambulance and police cars roaring along. A dark Humber sprayed gravel into overgrown bushes as it slewed to a stop and a man in plain clothes, with a sandy moustache and accusing eyes, climbed out.

‘Who’s in there?’

‘Sergeant Baker.’

He frowned. ‘And who the hell are you?’

‘Dan Markham. The building belongs to David Carter.’ The man’s eyes flashed. Good. He knew the name. ‘We were upstairs and someone shot twice. One hit Baker.’

‘You stay here. I don’t want you in there again.’

He waited until the police were all inside the building and casually walked to his car. The ambulance men were waiting with the canvas stretcher, all of them looking worried. Markham opened the door of the Anglia and hid the Colt under the seat before lighting another Craven A.

So close. The first time anyone had taken a shot at him. He could still hear the hiss of the bullet as it passed. Before he had time to think about it he heard shouts and made his way back. They were carrying Baker out. A blanket was pulled up to his chin, his face so pale it looked lifeless. He watched them put him in the vehicle, strapping an oxygen mask over the man’s face. The doors closed and the vehicle raced away, bells clanging loud. He watched until it disappeared round the corner.

‘Right.’ He turned at the voice. The copper from the car. ‘Millgarth.’ It wasn’t a statement; it was an order. Markham began to move towards the Anglia but the man shook his head. ‘With me. Your car will still be here later.’

He sat in the back of the Humber, the cracked seats smelling of old leather and fear. In the car park, the man opened the door and escorted him into the building. Bobbies in uniform gave half-glances as they passed. The news about Baker was already out.

The interview room felt cold. Markham sat and lit another cigarette. The man took off his mac and folded it neatly over the back of his chair, then placed his trilby on the table.