Dark Briggate Blues (3 page)

Bob Barclay, the owner, sat behind his partition, tapping his hand in time on the wood, nodding at Markham as he saw him. The club had no alcohol licence, so it was tea, coffee or orange squash, and uncomfortable chairs. Somewhere only for the jazz faithful. And when the sound took flight, it was worthwhile. But not tonight. The air was flat, without any sense of expectation. He turned on his heel and went back to the car.

Out past Sheepscar he turned on to a side street. This had probably been a respectable area once, he thought. Now it had been left to run down and fade away. He walked up the path to a detached Edwardian villa, every window carefully blacked out as if the war had never ended.

Inside, Markham paid his half-crown to Marvin, the large West Indian man on the door, and entered. Apart from one back room the house was empty, sounds rattling up the stairway. A thick old dining table with heavy, lovingly turned legs served as a bar. Other small tables and chairs were scattered around. Music played scratchily from a gramophone in the corner, some American rhythm and blues to liven up the atmosphere.

‘Whisky, Mr Markham?’ Thomas the barman held up a bottle with no label and a dark amber liquid.

‘Is it?’

‘Fresh from the glens,’ the man answered with a grin. ‘Just distilled it yesterday.’

He could believe it. No one came to the International Club for the quality of the drink. Just for the fact that it served alcohol outside licensing hours. It wasn’t even a real club; there was no membership, simply an entry charge, and any trouble dealt with efficiently and viciously by Marvin and his knife.

He lifted the glass, took a tiny sip and nodded.

‘The real thing,’ he said with surprise.

‘Only to special customers,’ Thomas laughed. ‘But don’t tell everyone.’

The place had been around since just after the war. Plenty of backhanders went to the coppers to stop them closing it. He’d spotted enough of them in here, knocking back the booze until the small hours. But the International catered to everyone, from councillors and businessmen wanting the seamy side to those who craved one extra drink then another, eking out the last of their wages.

The man he hoped to find was huddled on a chair by the darkened window, hands turning and turning an empty glass on the table. Markham sat next to him.

‘Keeping busy, Brian?’

The man glanced up and shrugged. He was in his mid-thirties, sandy hair already fading away from his forehead. His eyes were glazed, the worse for wear after a long evening of drinking. But every night was the same for Brian Harding, one more chance to obliterate the world and his inheritance. He was lucky: he’d been doing it since he was demobbed, his liver hadn’t packed up yet and he still had money left.

‘Do you know someone called Freddie Hart?’

‘Course.’ He gave a small chuckle. ‘Freddie. He was always a bit of a bastard.’ There was no hint of slurring, every word clearly enunciated. Whatever horrors the drink smothered, it didn’t affect his speech.

‘What about his wife?’

‘Joanna?’ Harding snorted dismissively. ‘Everyone had Jo. Well, everyone but Freddie. I think that’s why he married her, to show he could go one better than the rest of us.’ He turned the glass upside down and stared pointedly. Markham passed over his own whisky. ‘Why are you interested in that pair, Dan?’

‘Just a passing curiosity,’ he said. ‘So what made Freddie Hart a bastard?’

‘His father wangled him a billet in the Service Corps and he was quite happy to sit on his arse while the rest of us were out there fighting.’ He knew that Harding had been amongst the first troops into the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, and since then he’d spent his time trying to erase the sights from his head. ‘Feathered the nest a little, that’s what I heard. And then his father set him up with that Ford place. A licence to print money.’

‘Wealthy family?’

‘Buckets of the stuff. Grandfather made his money with something or other, bought up a chunk of the North Riding and settled back to become lord of the manor. All very feudal. That’s the way Freddie was brought up. My brother was at school with him. Said he was a shit even then. A sneak.’

‘What about Joanna?’

‘Harrogate,’ Harding said simply, as if that explained everything. Markham waited. ‘Joanna Wilson – that was her maiden name. Mad for everything in trousers when she was younger. A real looker back then, too.’ He turned. ‘Have you seen her?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s still quite the thing. But her family’s skint. They’re squeaking by these days, from what I hear. Sold off everything they can.’

‘So she has nothing of her own?’

‘Only the notches on the bedpost.’ Harding smiled and showed a row of brown, rotted teeth. ‘Nothing that’ll buy you a cup of tea and a sandwich.’ He downed the drink in a gulp.

‘Look after yourself, Brian.’ Markham stood.

‘I always do, Dan. A few glasses is just what the doctor ordered.’

On Sunday lunchtime he was back at the Harewood Arms. The car park was filled with Morgans and MGs, their tops down to enjoy the September sun. He left the Anglia around the corner and out of sight. There wasn’t a single face he knew in the pub. That was good: it meant he could listen. With luck he’d overhear something about Freddie Hart.

He leant against the bar, surveying the crowd and cocking an ear to the conversation. Horses, wives, motor cars. His thoughts had drifted away when a hand clapped him on the shoulder and he turned with a start.

‘Hello, old chap. I didn’t expect to see you here.’ Hart stood there, a guileless smile on his face, his wife at his side.

‘Oh you know, it’s a lovely day,’ Markham said with a shrug. ‘I just fancied a run out.’ It sounded a likely lie.

‘Any more thoughts about that car?’ Hart asked.

He shook his head. ‘A bit rich for me, I think.’

‘Ah well.’ He shrugged. ‘You won’t have met my wife.’ He put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. ‘This is Joanna. Darling, this is Mr—’

‘Markham. Dan Markham.’

‘He was looking at a Zodiac yesterday.’

‘Very pleased to meet you,’ she said, shaking his hand as if she’d never seen him before and was barely interested now.

‘We’re meeting a crowd,’ Hart said and gestured to a group in the corner. ‘Why don’t you join us? They’re great fun.’

‘Thanks, but no.’ He held up the half-empty pint glass. ‘I’m going as soon as I’ve finished this.’

Hart shrugged, ordering a pint of bitter and a gin and tonic from the barman. Joanna kept her face bland.

‘What do you do, Mr Markham?’ she said.

‘I’m an enquiry agent.’

‘Really?’ Her eyes widened. ‘That must be exciting.’

‘It has its moments.’ He drained the rest of the shandy. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you.’

Outside, he lit a cigarette and strolled back to the car. She’d been cool. Not a hint of surprise or anger. A good enough actress to be in pictures. And Hart … he was daring. Taking his girlfriend to the pub on Saturday evening, his wife on Sunday. Maybe the man liked danger.

***

By Monday the sun had gone. It was chilly enough to take the overcoat from the wardrobe. He set off early and parked in town, but didn’t go straight to the office. Instead he cut through the splendour of Country Arcade, then into the market on the other side of Vicar Lane. Up the stairs, looking down at all the stalls and the market clock, he entered the small cafe that catered to the workers.

It smelt of grease and stale smoke, condensation running down the windows, the air heavy with steam. He ordered a cup of tea and sat down next to a middle-aged man engrossed in the
Daily Express
, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

‘Who do you fancy at Sandown?’ the man asked without looking up.

‘I haven’t a clue.’ Markham took a ten-shilling note from his pocket. ‘Whatever you fancy, have a bet on it.’

The money disappeared into a fist.

‘What do you need?’ Harsh light glistened on Ted Collins’ bald head. He adjusted his glasses and sat back. Collins was a civilian chief clerk for the police, working out of Millgarth station just down the road. For a fee he was happy to provide confidential information. Pay enough and damning records or evidence could disappear without trace. It was a good little earner, enough to feed the man’s losing habit on the horses and provide well for his wife and three children.

‘Frederick Hart. He owns Hart Ford. Wife Joanna, née Wilson.’

Collins said nothing, picking at a tooth with his thumbnail.

‘How much do you need to know?’

‘Any criminal records, rumours.’

The man considered the request.

‘Ten bob more,’ he said, and Markham passed it over. ‘Kardomah, half past twelve.’ He turned back to the newspaper.

***

The Kardomah stood on Briggate, a fixture that seemed rooted since the beginning of time. Soot had turned the red bricks almost black, rubbing off on clothes as people brushed passed. The ground floor was overwhelmed with the heady smells of tea and fresh coffee. Up the stairs was the tea room. Markham took a table by the window and glanced out at the traffic.

‘Don’t often see you in here for you dinner, Mr Markham.’

He looked up to see Joyce, the waitress, poised with a pencil and pad in her hands. Their paths regularly crossed on the way to work. She looked smart in the black and white uniform, a cheery smile on her lips.

‘I’m meeting someone.’

‘Do you want to wait, luv?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ he told her. ‘I’ll just have a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich.’

‘I’ve seen that ham.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I’d not bother if I were you.’

‘Cheese?’

‘Can’t go wrong with that,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll pop them out to you in a minute.’

‘Thanks, Joyce.’

Half past came and went and Collins didn’t appear. He ate the sandwich and sipped at the coffee, smoking the last cigarette in the packet. The man finally arrived at quarter to, bustling through the room, his mac flapping as he moved. He settled on the chair with a sigh.

‘Had something urgent come up,’ he said. There was no apology; Collins wasn’t the kind of man who ever said sorry. ‘Tea,’ he ordered as Joyce hovered. ‘Nothing to eat.’ As she left he passed a piece of paper across the table. ‘That’s what I found.’

Markham studied the note. Hart had been arrested once for drunk and disorderly in ’
46
. Joanna’s past was more interesting. She’d accumulated six fines for her own drunk and disorderlies. The last was six years ago, probably just before her marriage. It looked as if a wedding ring had curbed her excesses.

‘She has a juvenile record, too,’ Collins said. ‘That’s sealed. It’ll cost you more.’

Markham shook his head. It would only be more wild behaviour, a confirmation of what he already knew.

Collins slurped his tea and tossed a sixpence on the table.

‘Too much to do. You know where to find me.’

Markham paid the bill and walked back to the office. The information was nothing useful. Hart’s arrest had probably come when he was celebrating being demobbed. There was nothing unusual there. One of thousands, probably.

***

He parked on Byron Street a little before five. When the blonde appeared, marching purposefully down the street, he followed on foot then took the same bus out to Meanwood.

He was behind her when she alighted, crossing over the road and vanishing down Bentley Grove. Markham was just in time to see a door open and close. He waited five minutes then walked quickly down the block, noting the house number from the corner of his eye.

It was a working-class street, neat terraces with net curtains and clean windows. There was a shop on the corner, the type of place where they’d have chapter and verse on every person in the neighbourhood. Inside, there was a bare board floor and all the basics, jars and tins, displayed on wooden shelves. A handwritten note saying ‘no credit given’ was pinned to the wall. Behind the counter a woman in a nylon overall stared at him.

‘Ten Craven As, please,’ he asked, taking a ten-shilling note from his wallet.

She waited a moment before she handed them over.

‘Don’t get much passing trade.’

‘I had to deliver a message,’ he lied. ‘But there was no one at home.’

‘Which one?’ Her ears pricked at the possibility of gossip.

‘Fifteen.’

‘Aye, well.’ She shook her head. ‘You’ll never find Arthur Willis home before seven. Allus stops for a drink on the way back from work. And that Annie, she’s out till all hours. Her fancy man drops her off on the corner in his big car and she thinks no one will notice.’ She snorted. ‘Little madam.’

‘I’ll just go back later,’ he said.

‘I’d do that if I were you, luv,’ she advised as she gave him a handful of copper and silver.

The bus into town took a long time to arrive. He strolled along Regent Street, back to his car. Then he saw the ambulance and police outside Hart Ford, and Detective Sergeant Baker glancing up and catching sight of him.

And everything changed.

The houses in Alwoodley were expensive, but they were as much alike as any terrace street. Every one had its carefully-tended front garden hidden behind a privet hedge, and borders of rose bushes and bright perennials beginning to wilt with the approach of autumn. He stopped outside number three, listening to the Anglia’s engine tick as it cooled. An empty Wolseley Six was parked down the street.

Markham walked down the drive, soles scuffing along the gravel, knocked on the door, waited and knocked once more. Finally he heard the sound of feet clicking sharply over the floor and the handle turned to show a middle-aged woman wearing a light brown overcoat, with a scarf over her hairdo and a handbag clutched in her fingers.

‘Yes?’ she asked.

‘I’m looking for Mrs Hart.’

‘She’s not here, luv.’ The woman had a thirty-a-day voice and lines so deep they seemed to cut her face into sections. Her gaze turned suspicious. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

He considered lying. But there was nothing wrong with the truth.

‘She employed me for a job. I just heard about her husband.’