Dark Briggate Blues (4 page)

‘Murdered in cold blood.’ She shook her head. ‘He was a lovely man, too. He was at home a few times when I come to clean. Always had a good word. I hope they hang the bugger as did it.’

‘I’m sure they will,’ he assured her. As long as it wasn’t him. ‘Where’s Mrs Hart?’

‘Her father come for her not half an hour since. Coppers had her half the night asking their questions, then the telephone’s been ringing all morning. The only thing she could do was sit there and cry. I made her phone her parents. She needs her family around her, people who’ll look after her. Poor lass was shaking like a leaf when I arrived. She’s torn to pieces by it.’ She glanced up at him. ‘Who wouldn’t be, eh?’

‘True,’ he agreed. ‘Thank you.’ He began to turn away.

‘Do you want me to tell her who called, luv?’

‘Mr Markham.’

‘Don’t you worry, I’ll let her know. Markham.’ She repeated the name with a satisfied nod.

He sat in the car, hands gripping the steering wheel. Not even the middle of the morning yet and he felt as if he’d lived through an entire day. He started the engine and set off back into town.

The telephone rang before he had a chance to sit down, the bell ringing loud and urgent.

He answered with the number and heard the clunk of coins dropping in a telephone box.

‘Mr Markham?’ a man’s voice said.

‘That’s right.’

‘I understand that you’re missing something.’ The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he drew in a breath without thinking. The Webley stolen from his desk. ‘Well, Mr Markham? Do you know what I mean?’

‘I do,’ he answered quietly. ‘Who are you?’

‘Tell me,’ said the caller, ignoring the question, ‘would you like the return of the … item? Or perhaps I should see it ends up in official hands?’

He didn’t know the voice. Not local. From the South. Long vowels.

‘What do you want?’

‘Many things, Mr Markham.’ The man sounded amused, in control and taking his time. ‘But for the moment I’ll settle for your attention.’

‘You have it,’ he said.

‘Do you know the Adelphi?’

‘Yes.’ It was a grubby old Victorian pub at the top of Hunslet Lane, just over the river.

‘Be in there at, oh, let’s say one o’clock. I’ll tell you more then.’

‘How will I know you?’

The voice turned to a chuckle.

‘You won’t need to, Mr Markham. After all, I know you.’

The line went dead. Markham replaced the receiver and looked at the clock. A little after noon. Soon enough he’d know exactly who was so keen to set him up. Someone had known he was back in the office. Why? he wondered. What the hell was going on?

***

In the service, as part of his military intelligence training, they’d taught him how to shadow someone and how to throw off a tail. Everything hammered into him in drill after drill. He’d never been as good as some of the others. His friend Ged Jones seemed able to disappear in a crowd. But Markham could get by. He walked out purposefully, taking a quick note of the faces on the street as he crossed Briggate, slipped through County Arcade and Cross Arcade, then along Fish Street, ending up staring at the reflections in a window on Kirkgate to see who was behind him.

The man was an amateur. By the time he came out into Kirkgate he was almost running, staring around nervously until he spotted Markham. Older, NHS specs, his overcoat buttoned up and belted with a scarf at the neck and a hat was pulled down on a ruddy, jowly face. It was no one he recognised, no one he could remember ever seeing. But the face was imprinted on his memory now.

He set off again, ambling back to Briggate and stopping often, then down to the bridge over the river Aire. The buildings were old, decayed and black from a hundred or more years of dirt that had built up layer on layer.

The Adelphi probably hadn’t changed since the turn of the century. An old gas lamp still hung over the front door. Inside, the pub was dark wood, dull brass and bevelled etched glass, all neglected and in need of a thorough cleaning. At the bar he ordered an orange squash.

A table and two chairs sat in the middle of the snug. This room was different; freshly scrubbed, the hearth black-leaded, tiles gleaming and windows shining.

‘Have a seat, Mr Markham,’ the man by the window said. The voice on the telephone. He checked his wristwatch. ‘You’re right on time.’ He smiled. ‘Punctuality is a good sign.’

‘Of what?’

‘An organised man.’ He was probably in his late forties but well-kept, broadly built, neat dark hair shot through with grey. His nose had been broken in the past and there were small scars across his knuckles. But he didn’t have the look of a bruiser. His eyes shone with intelligence. The dark suit was costly, a subdued pinstripe, cut smartly enough to hide the start of a belly. The tie was real silk. He sat and gestured at the chair opposite. ‘We have things to talk about.’

‘One thing, at least.’

‘In my experience one thing always leads to another. It’s the way of the world.’ And he had the air of someone who’d spent a fair bit of time in the heart of the world.

‘I like to know who I’m talking to.’

‘I’m David Carter.’ He brought out a pack of Dunhills and a slim gold lighter. ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’ he asked as he blew smoke towards the ceiling.

‘No.’

‘Good.’ He sipped from a glass of whisky, savouring the taste before swallowing it. ‘Never wise to be too public. If people see a name cropping up a few times they tend to become inquisitive.’

‘So what do you want with me?’

The man cocked his head. ‘Your co-operation.’

‘You should have just asked, Mr Carter.’ The words were calm enough, but he was shaking inside. Whoever this man was, he knew exactly what he was doing. ‘You obviously know where my office is.’

Carter reached into the side pocket of his suit and threw a packet of Lucky Strikes onto the table.

‘I’m told you liked those during your National Service in Hamburg. That American colleague of yours used buy them for you from the PX. Have them. My compliments.’

All he could do was sit and stare. Oscar, the American Pfc he’d worked with in Germany, had been able to buy the cigarettes on base for next to nothing. That and the jazz records. Carter possessed a long reach. All the way to the War Office. And far beyond. It was a powerful little gesture. Impressive. And chilling.

‘What do you want in Leeds?’

‘Oh, I’ve been buying some businesses here in the last few months. You won’t have heard.’ He gave a quick, tight smile. ‘And those who work for me are good at staying out of sight. Except for one of the chaps following you today. But you didn’t notice the other, did you?’ He stared at the burning tip of his cigarette for a moment. ‘Tell me, Mr Markham, what do you know about crime in Leeds? This is your home, after all.’

‘I don’t really deal with criminals,’ he answered slowly. ‘If you think I do, you’ve got the wrong man.’

‘Indulge me. What do you
know
?’

He shrugged. ‘There are tarts. Shebeens. I imagine there’s illegal gambling and some protection rackets. I don’t really know.’

‘Penny ante stuff,’ Carter said dismissively. ‘And if someone’s caught they end up in prison.’ He paused. ‘In some cases, on the gallows.’

Markham unwrapped the cellophane from the Lucky Strikes, broke open the packet and lit one. The taste brought quick memories of Germany.

‘What do you want?’ he said.

‘I’m more interested in guineas than change. Let’s say a man signs over half a profitable business to someone. A little while later he sells the rest of it to his new partner at a knockdown price. All above board and completely legitimate. Do that with a number of places and there’s good money to be made.’

‘Hart Ford?’ he guessed.

‘Poor Freddie.’ Carter shook his head sadly. ‘But I had to make an example of him. We had a few discussions but he wouldn’t sell me an interest in the business. The fellow was adamant. Still, he didn’t suffer. All it took was a single shot. But it means that the next person I talk to will be more amenable. And in case you’re wondering, I didn’t pull the trigger. There’s nothing to connect me to the crime.’

‘So why use my gun?’ He realised he was barely breathing. He was a minnow swimming next to a shark.

‘I never claimed anyone did, Mr Markham,’ Carter corrected him. ‘If you think back, I never said that at all. Your gun disappeared, shall we say, and a man was shot. I’ll leave you to guess whether those two events are connected.’ He frowned. ‘But a wrong guess could be fatal, of course.’

‘So what do you want from me besides co-operation?’

‘You did well during your National Service, I understand. They wanted you to stay on in military intelligence. Someone like that can be an asset to my business. You have a mind, Mr Markham. That’s what I was told. I can use a good mind. The only thing I did was put you in a position where you can’t refuse.’

‘What if I go to the police and tell them all this?’ he asked.

‘Then a certain weapon appears. As simple as that. Do you really want to gamble that your weapon wasn’t connected to a crime?’ He raised an eyebrow.

For a long time the only sounds were the clatter of glasses and the low murmur of voices from the bar.

He sighed. ‘Like you said, I’m in no position to refuse.’

‘I’m glad you see it my way, Mr Markham. Martyrs are such tedious people. I’ll be in touch very soon. I have a use in mind for you.’

***

His first thought was to run. To leave Leeds and never come back. But the gun would appear and the police would find him. Or he could do what Carter wanted, whatever use for him the man might find.

No. It was as simple as that. No one was going to use him. He was going to fight back. And he was going to beat the bastard, whatever it took.

***

For the most part Markham steered clear of pubs. He rarely drank, he’d never seen the joy in them. But by eight he was standing in the public bar of the General Elliott, squashed between men wanting their orders filled, voices loud next to his ear. The place was full, a thick fug of smoke hanging beneath the stained ceiling.

Michael Doughty was sitting alone on the other side of the room, huddled into a booth where the red velvet had worn away from the seats. He was a man who heard all and said nothing unless someone paid him. Words seemed to find their way to him, names, places and dates, every one of them lodged in his head.

He was barely noticeable, so ordinary that eyes passed over him, but that was how he liked to be. Doughty always wore a cap, and with an old shirt, a jacket that was frayed at cuffs and heavy boots, he looked exactly like a working man who’d just finished his shift, bags sitting heavy under tired eyes. The only giveaway was his clean, soft hands. A flat pint of mild sat on the table in front of him. Markham put another beside it and Doughty looked up.

‘Slumming it?’ he asked with a smile.

‘I was looking for you.’

‘Come to cross my palm with silver?’ He always seemed amused by life, the working man who dressed the part but made a living from secrets and tales. A hidden man. ‘I hear you’re in trouble.’

‘Don’t believe everything people tell you.’

‘Oh, I don’t, Mr Markham. I’m too long in the game for that. But this is from a very good source.’

‘I’m here, aren’t I? It can’t be too bad.’

‘We’ll still make it cash, if you don’t mind. What do you need?’

‘David Carter.’

Doughty sucked on his dentures.

‘If he’s giving you problems, then you’d do right to be worried.’

‘How much?’

‘A quid,’ the man said after consideration. ‘That’ll get you everything I know.’

Markham opened his wallet and took out a pound note. In a second it had vanished into Doughty’s pocket.

‘Well?’

‘I don’t know where he’s from, so there’s no point in asking. Posh, though, you can tell that. Started out here about nine months ago. You remember Nat Early? He ran that club down on Wellington Street.’

‘The Kit Kat?’

‘That’s the one. All of a sudden he had a partner named Carter. Out of the blue. Three months later he sold up altogether. Not long after that Carter had a finger in a couple of drinking clubs in Armley and Hunslet. Soon after that it was his whole hand. You get the picture?’ He waited for a nod. ‘They were all doing well. There was no reason for Nat or the others to sell up. And since then there have been a few more. Another club. Some businesses here and there.’

‘He’s putting together an empire?’

‘On the quiet. Unless you were looking you wouldn’t even know he was around. But he’s becoming an important man, there’s no doubt about that. A dangerous one, too.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘Him?’ Doughty lit a Woodbine, coughed, and plucked a strand of tobacco from his tongue. ‘He’s not the sort to do anything himself. He has people to do all it for him. You know the type. They come around for a quiet chat and the threat’s usually enough.’

He’d run into men like that over the years, men who thought with their fists and their feet. All you had to do was wind them up, give them their orders and let them go. The war had produced thousands of them who’d never made it all the way back to Civvy Street.

‘A man to avoid?’

‘If he’s after you, it’s probably too late. The way I hear it, he knows plenty of important people down in London. People in the ministries.’

‘What do the police think?’

Doughty shrugged. ‘Maybe they have a weather eye on him. Perhaps some of them are taking a few quid from him. No one’s made any complaints against him yet. Happen they have more important things on their minds. And Scotland Yard …’ He shook his head sadly.

‘Who works for Carter around here?’

Doughty counted out the names on his fingers.

‘Big Chalky White, you know, the one from Burmantofts, John Dodge, Rob Anderson. Familiar?’

‘Anderson. I’ve met him a couple of times.’ He was a man who stuck in the mind, easily six feet three, with a scar that ran the length of his cheek and a pair of dead eyes.

‘If he comes for you, Mr Markham, the best thing you can do is run.’ He downed the pint in a single, long gulp. ‘And that’s your lot. I’ve given you value for money.’