Dark Briggate Blues (25 page)

‘Thank God for that.’

‘The doctor said he’d have died if he’d lost much more blood.’

‘What about Carter?’

‘I can’t tell you, Mr Markham. You know that. It’s a police investigation.’

‘And I told you that he’s after me.’

Crowther gave a long, patient sigh. ‘I’ve got a copper who was shot and a dead body, sir. Do you really believe I’m going to allow anything else to happen?’ He didn’t mention Ged’s death, Markham noted dully, as if that belonged to another place.

‘I don’t think you can stop him.’

‘We’ll catch him.’ The man slammed down the phone.

Markham knew what it meant; they had no idea where Carter was. They’d keep searching. They’d look everywhere and quiz all their snouts because he’d shot one of their own. But Carter was smarter than them. He knew all the tricks, all the places to keep out of sight.

The morning passed with desperate slowness. He smoked too much, filling the ashtray by eleven, a pall of smoke hanging below the ceiling. Finally, as the walls seemed to close in on him, he put on the overcoat and walked out into Albion Place. There was no one standing suspiciously still, not a soul who moved off to follow him.

It was still early, well before people crowded the Kardomah with their luncheon vouchers. Markham took a table by the window, exchanging pleasantries with Joyce the waitress as he ordered. He gazed down on Briggate as he ate, trying not to think, to stop his mind whirring. He’d barely managed three hours’ sleep the night before, waking and moving in the bed until the sheet and blankets were twisted all around him.

After the phone call with Carla he’d replayed every word of it in his head. She was still scared. But at least she missed him enough to ring.

By the time he finished his tea he still couldn’t find meaning in any of it. He paid, walked to the car and drove out to see Joanna Hart.

Mrs Cornwall let him in quickly, careful fingers on the locks behind him.

‘I’m so glad you came, Mr Markham. I tried ringing you a little while ago.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Mrs Hart keeps saying she wants to leave. It just started about eleven; she’d been fine until then. I asked her to wait until I’d talked to you.’

He sighed and glanced at his watch. One o’clock.

‘Where is she?’

‘In the front room. She’s got a right mood on her.’

Joanna Hart was sitting in an armchair, handbag clutch tight on her lap. A cup of cold coffee, still full, was on the table next to her.

‘I hear you want to leave.’

‘That’s right,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve had enough of it here. Did you bring that gin you’d promised?’

Markham looked at her. He’d forgotten. But her life was in danger and that was all she could think about? He shook his head.

‘Do you remember what happened to you? What Carter did to you?’

‘Of course I do.’ There was ice in her voice, but he could see the memory made her blanch.

‘He’s still out there. He shot that policeman.’ She didn’t say anything. ‘Sergeant Baker will live, but you’re safer here where Carter can’t get you. Do you understand?’

‘And how long will I be here?’ she asked.

‘Just until he’s arrested.’

‘And what if you don’t find him? What am I supposed to do, stay here forever?’

‘The police are looking. They’ll find him.’ The same words Crowther had used, and they didn’t sound any more believable when he repeated them.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘For God’s sake, look at me. I’ve been wearing the same clothes for days.’

‘I’ll go and fetch you more,’ he offered.

She stood, shaking her head and looking determined.

‘Take me home,’ she said, and he caught a glimpse of the wilful girl she’d been a few years before. ‘Now. Please.’

He couldn’t keep her in the house if she didn’t want to be there. She could walk out whenever she demanded. At least if he was with her, there might be some small safety.

‘All right,’ he agreed after a while.

‘I’m sorry,’ he told Mrs Cornwall as she unlocked the door. ‘And thank you.’

Joanna Hart didn’t look back or even say goodbye.

As soon as they entered the Hart house she marched into the living room and poured herself a large gin and tonic.

‘Switch on the immersion, would you?’

In the kitchen, plates sat on the draining board, old, dried food stuck to them. Dirty pans littered the stove. He filled the kettle and heard her footsteps on the stairs. The garden looked unkempt, the grass starting to grow wild. A thought struck him.

‘Don’t you have someone who comes in and cleans?’ he shouted up to her.

‘Once a week.’

‘Does she wash the pots?’

‘Of course.’ Mrs Hart sounded bored. ‘Why?’

‘When was she here last?’

‘It should have been two days ago,’ she answered after thinking. ‘Why?’

Hurriedly, he began to search. The bed in the spare room had been slept in, covers roughly thrown back. An empty glass sitting in the kitchen. He sniffed it. Whisky. Carter was clever, he had to give the man that. He knew they’d taken Joanna Hart somewhere safe, so her house would be empty. It was perfect, the last place anyone would think to look.

‘What is it?’ She came and found him in the kitchen, turning off the gas under the whistling kettle. ‘What?’

‘Carter’s been here. He slept here.’

He saw her fingers tighten on the glass and she took a quick drink.

‘Christ.’ He saw the panic rise in her face. ‘Is he going to come back?’

Would he? The sensible thing was to keep moving. That was what they taught, he remembered that; a moving target was always harder to hit.

‘I don’t know. He might try.’

‘I have a gun.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘Freddie brought it back from the war. And Daddy taught me to use a shotgun.’

‘Where is it?’ When she didn’t answer immediately, he asked again. ‘Where is it?’

‘He used to keep it at the back of the top shelf in the larder.’

Markham pushed the tins and packets aside, his hand scrambling along the wood. Finally his fingers closed around the cold metal and he sighed with relief. He pulled out the weapon. A Webley, just like the one he’d owned.

‘Do you know how to use this?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Freddie showed me. We’d go out in the country and shoot at things. I was better than him.’

‘I want to take you back to the safe house.’

‘Not until I have a bath and pack some more clothes,’ she told him, finishing the drink and pouring another. ‘I’m not spending another bloody day wearing these.’ She vanished up the stairs.

He paced, checking every door and window to be certain they were all locked. His hand remained on the gun in his pocket. The Webley sat on a ledge at the top of the stairs. She took her time, half an hour passing, then an hour, before he heard her emerge.

Markham couldn’t settle, couldn’t relax. The spare bedroom gave a view of the empty street whilst a box room looked out over the garden. There was nothing, but that didn’t stop the growing sense of fear. Fear was good, he told himself. It kept you alert. It kept you alive.

He heard a car engine and dashed to the window, but it was just a husband returning from work, parking down the street and vanishing into a house. The start of the suburban evening ritual.

Finally Joanna Hart came downstairs. He hadn’t seen the dress before. It was black and blood red, the skirt flaring below her hips. She’d caught her hair up somehow to show off a long neck. Her makeup was so subtle that it looked completely natural, and there was the faint drift of perfume as she passed him and poured more from the bottle of gin before adding a small dose of tonic.

‘I feel better for that.’

‘Have you packed?’

‘Not yet,’ she said casually. ‘Do you have a cigarette?’

He gave her a Craven A and lit it.

‘We need to get you back to the safe house.’

‘I’ll go,’ she agreed. ‘But we’re all right for a little while yet, aren’t we?’ She took a long sip of the drink. Her eyes were starting to shine. ‘It’s so boring there. Nothing to do except listen to the bloody wireless or read. That woman’s always off doing something and she doesn’t have anything to say when she’s around. I want to do something before I go back to that jail.’

‘What did you have in mind?’ She was tipsy, her skin glowing a little.

‘Oh, I don’t know. A meal out. Something like that.’ She turned to look at him. ‘What do you do, Mr Markham? You must do something for fun.’

‘I go and listen to jazz.’

‘Jazz?’ She stretched the word out as if it was a foreign idea. ‘Isn’t that all noise?’

‘Sometimes it’s beautiful.’

‘Is there a place in town that has it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. We’ll go to the Red Lion to eat. I adore it there. Then you can take me to this jazz place.
Then
I’ll go back to that house.’ She kept her gaze on him. ‘God knows I need to have some fun first.’

He had to be careful. If he insisted, she’d baulk. What he needed was to make her believe that returning to the house was her idea.

‘He’s out there.’

‘I know. But how’s he going to find us?’ she asked defiantly. ‘How many people live in Leeds, Mr Markham? Do you know?’ Hundreds of thousands? He had no idea. She smiled when he didn’t respond. ‘We’ll be lost among all of them if we go into town.’

He wasn’t going to dissuade her. She might be terrified inside, but she wasn’t going to budge. The little girl inside her was petulant enough to demand fun and even fear wasn’t going to deny her. With luck, there’d be nothing good at Studio
20
and she’d want to leave quickly.

The long evening was gliding by as he drove into town, watching in the mirror for any cars that seemed to be following them. They knew her at the restaurant, offering their sympathies on her husband’s death, and guiding her to a good table. He simply followed in her wake, watching faces.

She was effusive with the waiter, too loud and bright, ordering a gin and tonic and making a face when Markham asked for orange squash.

‘How can you drink that stuff?’

‘It’s fine.’ He didn’t want to explain himself.

She ate hungrily, relishing each mouthful. Soup, a steak with chips then pudding, finishing with coffee and another gin. He had little appetite, picking at a chop and leaving most of it. His gaze flickered constantly around the room. Joanna Hart was eager to make small talk but all he managed were brief, inconsequential replies.

Finally she was done, crushing out her cigarette in the ashtray.

‘Shall we go and listen to this jazz of yours, then?’ She glanced in the handbag. ‘Can you be a love and pay? I don’t seem to have any money on me.’

He looked at the bill and drew out his wallet. After paying he had a pound left, along with the change in his pocket. Hardly a fortune. The woman was costing him far more than she’d ever given him. Outside, in the dark, she tucked her arm through his.

‘Are we going to walk?’

‘No.’ He guided her back to the car and drove up to New Briggate, taking his time before opening her door and escorting her down the stairs into the club. The music had barely begun as they sat at a table.

It was an ordinary room, linoleum floor, cheap wallpaper, a collection of signatures in one corner from the stars who played there, and Bob Barclay on his chair behind the plywood partition.

They sat through the first number: a short, ragged version of ‘A Night in Tunisia’ that only brought polite applause. She leant towards him.

‘Can we get a drink?’

‘There’s no licence,’ he told her quietly and she pouted. With luck, that would be enough for her to leave. ‘They have squash. Or there’s tea or coffee.’

Her mouth moved into a determined line.

‘I’ll have a coffee, then.’ It came in a cracked white mug, a slur of milk at the top. She spooned in sugar, took a drink and frowned. ‘God, that’s awful.’

‘People don’t come here for the drinks.’

She nodded at the musicians. ‘For that?’

‘When it’s good.’

‘Are these good?’

Markham shook his head.

‘Bloody awful,’ he whispered. ‘Do you want to leave?’

Her eyes blazed for a moment.

‘No.’ She was firm. ‘I told you, I came out for fun and I’m going to have it.’ She grabbed his hand. ‘Come on, let’s dance.’

It sounded like a dance band tune, and they could at least keep the rhythm. She pulled him close and began to shuffle around the dance floor. He tried to move with her but he’d always been a listener, not a dancer. He felt embarrassed to be on show this way.

‘You could try to look like you’re enjoying yourself!’ she hissed in his ear.

‘I’m not.’

‘Then you’re bloody well going to.’

She was light on her feet, happy to lead until the music ended, when he returned to his chair. A few of the musicians changed, adding a couple of horns, the guitarist and cornet player packing up their instruments.

Markham glanced at his watch. Quarter past eleven. He wanted to leave before midnight, to have her safe again. Joanna Hart opened her handbag, searching for cigarettes. The light caught her silver hip flask.

‘You brought that?’ he asked.

‘Of course. I filled it before we left. I told you that bloody woman at the house wouldn’t get in any gin and you didn’t bring any.’ She pulled out the flask and took a nip. ‘Want one?’

‘No.’

‘You’re a bit of a prig, aren’t you, Mr Markham? I should call you Dan, shouldn’t I?’

‘I told you, I want to be alert. And call me Dan if you like.’

She took another nip from the flask. Christ. That was all he needed, to have her drunk and in a strop. The music started again, a piece by Gershwin, and once more she wanted to dance, pressing herself close against him. Her hair tickled against his cheek and her perfume filled his senses. He tried to relax into the music, to simply feel it and move, but he couldn’t do it. Barclay smirked at him from beyond the partition. They were the only couple on the floor. The other people stared ahead, watching the musicians and nodding their heads in time.

By quarter to twelve he’d danced three more times. She’d taken a few more quick drinks. Her eyes shone brightly. He made a comment; she threw back her head and gave a full-throated laugh that made people turn to look at her.