Dark Briggate Blues (27 page)

‘What time is it?’ His voice was thick. He tried to push himself up and pain shot through his body. The fingers. He raised his left hand. A fresh, clean bandage, virgin white.

‘A little after nine,’ she told him. ‘You were in quite a state when they brought you in. And you have someone watching over you.’ She nodded towards a uniformed policeman who sat by the nurse’s station, reading a newspaper. ‘Here you go.’ She moved the pillows then eased him to a sitting position with practised strength.

‘Thank you. Could I have some water?’

He drank, draining the whole glass before he set it down.

‘I can probably find a cup of tea if you’d like,’ she offered. ‘There might be some breakfast.’ She leaned closer and lowered her voice. ‘Between you and me, you’re better off without.’

‘Where am I? What hospital?’

‘Harrogate. You’re a bit of a mystery man, aren’t you, brought in by the police. Did you do something very bad?’

‘No,’ he answered. ‘I just saw something awful.’

***

Inspector Crowther sat awkwardly by the bed, mackintosh open, hat sitting on the blanket. He’d made notes of everything Markham told him and leafed through the pages.

‘So Mrs Hart shot him then he fired at her?’

‘Yes.’ He could see it all clearly. He could hear everything, every single word. He’d never be able to forget them. ‘His finger was already on the trigger. I think he did it automatically. Just a reaction.’ The film of it played over and over in his head.

‘They were both dead when we arrived. Took ages to find the place in the dark.’

‘She died immediately.’ His voice was bleak.

‘The gun was in her handbag?’

‘Yes.’ He’d explained it once. He didn’t want to go through it again.

‘Carter ruined your hand.’

Markham didn’t reply. The consultant had done his rounds earlier. There was a chance he’d be able to use the fingers again, but it wasn’t a good one. There’d been so much damage to the nerves. With time and good help … the man’s words had tailed away and he’d shrugged. In the lap of the Gods. But there was no other damage. As soon as Crowther had finished, he could leave.

So many bodies. So much death. And for what? One man’s greed. He sighed. Joanna Hart. Freddie. Ged Jones. Carter himself. Baker wounded. He glanced down at his useless fingers. He was the one who’d got off lightest of all.

‘Where’s my motor car?’ he asked

‘In the car park,’ Crowther replied and fished the keys from his pocket. ‘We brought it down.’ He stood. ‘You’ve been in the middle of quite a sensation, Mr Markham.’

A sensation? He thought about the word. It felt more like a horror story. There was no happy ending. There was nothing, only a void. Carter had been clever, but in the end he’d underestimated Joanna Hart.

She’d saved him. He knew that. Another few seconds and it would have all been very different. He couldn’t dislodge that from his head.

Crowther put away the notebook and stood slowly.

‘There won’t be any charges against you,’ he announced gravely.

‘What?’ Markham asked in surprise.

‘No charges for you,’ he repeated. ‘The case will be closed.’

‘What about Ged Jones?’

‘Out of my hands,’ the inspector said, his voice flat.

‘Sergeant Baker?’

‘He should be back at work by the New Year.’ He held the hat in front of him. ‘That’s the end of it.’ It was more than a statement. It was an order.

***

Half an hour later he sat in the car. The sun came and went as clouds scudded across the sky. He was dressed, discharged with a bottle full of painkillers.

He hadn’t been able to knot his tie and ended up stuffing it in his pocket. His suit stank, stains of blood and more across the material. It was only good for the bin but he’d worn it anyway. As soon as he was home he’d throw it away. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want to carry any of the memories but those wouldn’t be discarded so easily.

On the road back to Leeds he tried to pick out the lane leading to Carter’s house. But it had been dark; the man had been directing him. He kept slowing, ignoring the vehicles blaring their horns behind him, but he couldn’t spot it. Finally, he speeded up again. Maybe it was better never to be certain.

***

He made a cup of tea and looked down from the window. By the time he reached the flat his fingers had started to throb and he’d taken two of the pills. Now he felt as if the world was on the other side of a curtain. The physical pain had gone. But there was nothing that would stop everything spinning over and over in his mind.

He’d locked the door and pushed home the bolts, then put Monk on the gramophone before taking off the record. It mirrored his thoughts too much, disjointed and awkward. Instead he chose Billie Holiday, the sorrow pouring out of her voice. He knew nothing about her, just another American jazz singer, but for today at least, she understood him.

***

Carla had pulled her hair back at each side with a barrette. It hung down on to her shoulders. She looked healthy, skin glowing in the light from the candle on the table. The plates in front of them were empty. She’d sipped at her coffee and a small glass of grappa. Markham still had the remains of his wine, turning the glass in his good hand.

She’d rung from Whitby two days before, the cry of seagulls faint in the background. She’d heard the news on the radio and wanted to hear his voice, to know he was safe. And now she was here. They’d met outside Donmar and lingered over dinner. He told her everything that had happened from the moment she’d gone. It was all there, fresh at the front of his memory. It wouldn’t leave.

‘I’m sorry, Dan.’ She reached out and put her hand over his, her skin warm and soft.

‘It’s done.’ He paused. ‘What about you? You look well. Did you do any painting while you were there?’

‘A bit. Plenty of walking and thinking.’ She seemed hesitant, as if they were acquaintances rather than lovers.

‘But you’re back now.’

‘Yes. Look …’

‘What?’ he asked quickly. A sick feeling crept up from his stomach. He lit another cigarette to try and keep it down.

‘I’ve been offered something.’

‘Something?’

‘A friend of mine knows someone in the art department at Durham University.’ She spoke slowly, keeping her gaze on the table. ‘They have an opening.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Sort of what I’m doing here.’ He heard the rustle of nylon as she crossed her legs. ‘More of it and the money’s better. The head of the department has seen my work in London. He offered me the job.’

It felt as if he stayed silent for a long time.

‘When do you start? After Christmas?’ At least they’d have some more time together first. After that he could drive up on the weekends. She could take the train to Leeds.

‘Right away. They’re short on people. Someone’s been doubling up. I’ve already given in my resignation at the college. It’s just … after what happened, I need a fresh start. I’d always be worried here. Scared.’

‘I’d look after you,’ he said.

She tried to smile.

‘I’m sorry, Dan. I really am. I know it’s a bloody awful time for it to happen. But it’s too good a chance to turn down.’

‘When do you go?’

‘The day after tomorrow. I still have to do all my packing. Everything from the flat and see if there’s anything I can salvage from the studio at college.’

‘How are you getting up there?’

‘I talked to Daddy. He said he’d come up and drive me. He has that big Wolseley.’

He took a deep breath.

‘After you’re settled …?’

She looked into his eyes.

‘Dan?’

‘What?’

‘I want it to be a fresh start. A clean break from everything that happened here. You don’t understand what that did to me, do you? He took two years of my life. Two bloody years I’d worked on those paintings he ruined.’

‘But–’ he began and stopped. Words wouldn’t make any difference. She was right. He could never understand. Not really. He could admire what she did but he couldn’t feel himself inside it. ‘I hope Durham is good to you.’

‘Thank you.’ Her eyes shone, on the edge of tears. ‘Look, I … I’d better go. There’s still so much to do.’

‘Of course.’ She reached into her handbag. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘It’s on me. A bon voyage present or something.’

She leant across the table and kissed him lightly on the lips.

‘I’ll ring you once I have somewhere.’

He watched her walk away, stopping at the door to give a small wave and blow a kiss, then he asked for the bill. By the time he reached the street, she’d gone. A bus passed, the lights inside bright.

He could go over to Studio
20
. There was always music.

CHRIS NICKSON is the author of the Richard Nottingham series (Severn House). A well-known music journalist, he has written many celebrity biographies as well as being a frequent contributor to numerous music magazines. He lives in Leeds.

For a track listing of the music featured in
Dark Briggate Blues
visit:
www.thehistorypress.co.uk/dark-briggate-blues

Cover image © iStockphoto

First published in 2015

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire,
GL
5 2
QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2015

All rights reserved

© Chris Nickson, 2015

The right of Chris Nickson to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN
978 0 7509 6310 7

Original typesetting by The History Press

Ebook compilation by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk