Dark Briggate Blues (8 page)

‘You’d bloody well better have after I’ve been gone so long. Just think of the meal as, what did that Kinsey chap call it? Foreplay.’ She came and kissed him, only their lips touching. She was warm and beautiful, wicked and bright, the skin on her bare arms warm and soft. There was no one in the world he’d rather be with right now.

‘Was it worth all the money and time?’ He knew she’d saved for two years to afford the month in Italy.

There was a whole world in her sigh.

‘Every penny. Oh Dan, it was wonderful. We have to go, you’d love it. The art was bloody marvellous. I think I could have stayed in Florence for a year and still not seen it all. I was sketching like a mad thing. I feel like I’m going to burst with all these ideas. I’d seen pictures of these things in books but until you’re there …’ She shook her head. ‘Go on, start cooking, I’ll tell you whilst we eat.’

The food was as delicious as she’d promised, the sauce light, not sweet, clinging to the pasta, the flavours blending on his tongue.

‘This is glorious,’ he told her. ‘Thank you.’

‘Wind it round your fork,’ she said and demonstrated for him, hand moving deftly as she twisted the fettuccine. ‘Like that.’

It took him a couple of attempts to master it with his right hand, Carla laughing at his clumsiness.

The wine matched the food, a hint of sweetness and an aftertaste that stayed on the tongue. He found an old candle in a drawer and set it in a saucer, turning off the electric light to create the atmosphere. As they ate she chattered about Italy, the memories piling one on top of the other: the scenery, the people, the ridiculously cheap prices. Finally, when they were done and they’d managed to understand how the espresso maker worked, she looked at him.

‘So what happened?’ She stroked the knot on the side of his skull again with her soft fingertips and held up his left hand. ‘Someone’s done you over.’

He hadn’t planned on telling her any of it. But after the wine, having her home and close again, he let it all spill out, from Joanna Hart’s first visit to last night’s beating. She was silent for a long time, smoking her Italian cigarettes, elbows resting on the table, the empty cup and wineglass in front on her.

‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed with a sigh. ‘And it’s going to get worse.’

‘What are you going to do, Dan?’

‘Beat the bastard.’

She was quiet for a long time.

‘This Carter sounds nasty.’

‘He is.’ He held up the fingers as proof. ‘He has connections, too. He knew what brand of American cigarettes I smoked in Germany.’

‘Christ. Look after yourself, Dan.’ She stared into his eyes. ‘Please.’

‘I will,’ he promised and smiled. ‘Now, weren’t we talking about something for after the meal?’

***

He woke in the early light, hearing her soft breathing beside him. Their lovemaking had been rowdy, a need in them both, powerful and loud. She’d straddled him, taking the lead, speeding up then slowing down, making it last until he was bucking under her into a final explosion. He reached out, fingers running lightly down her spine, feeling the small bump of each vertebra as she stirred for a moment.

‘What time is it?’ she mumbled.

He turned to glance at the clock.

‘Six.’

‘God. Wake me in an hour, will you?’

***

She’d never been a morning person. She lingered over tea and toast, telling him more about Italy, little highlights that popped into her head. The statue of Donatello’s Magadalene Penitent in Florence, so raw that it looked as if it could have been sculpted yesterday, the crowds around the Forum in Rome, the light in Naples.

‘What about your luggage?’ he asked as she applied her lipstick.

She turned to him, eyes wide and hopeful. ‘Would you really mind if I left it all here until tonight? I need to see the head of department in an hour about all the students starting next week.’

He surveyed the mess. There were clothes all over the floor, dresses, slacks, underclothes, paths snaking between them. It would take more than an hour for her to re-pack, longer still to transport everything to her flat in Headingley.

‘Of course. You want a lift into town?’

‘You’re a godsend.’

Markham parked and they parted with a kiss. He took time to watch her walk away towards the Art College on Vernon Street, hips swinging, heels clattering against the pavement.

***

He sat in the office, staring at the calendar on the wall without seeing it. His fingers hurt; he’d filled the prescription and taken two more of the pills. All the tiny things he’d always taken for granted became a trial – knotting his tie, tying his shoes, even buttoning his fly.

Carter, he thought. Bloody Carter.

Some memory flickered in his head, words he’d heard his American colleague in Hamburg say one day: the best defence is a good offence. Markham hadn’t understood then. Was he talking about the Russians? But now it made sense. What he needed was a good offence.

He’d brought Carter’s papers from home. Now he spread them out and began to read properly, jotting notes on a stenographer’s pad.

He worked until noon then packed everything away in a folder. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and Detective Sergeant Baker walked in without knocking, sitting hard on the client’s chair and fanning himself with his hat.

‘Off somewhere, Markham?’

‘I was just going to eat. Want to join me?’

‘Your belly can wait,’ Baker decided. ‘What’s happened to your hand?’

‘I had an accident. Broke two fingers.’

The man looked doubtful. ‘Messing about where you shouldn’t?’

‘Just a normal accident.’ Markham shrugged and settled in the chair. Joanna Hart’s lover must have come to nothing as a lead. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Baker?’

‘I still like you for the Hart killing. You fit.’

‘I told you before. I wasn’t there and I didn’t do it.’

‘What if I said I had a witness who says you were there around the time it happened?’

‘Then he’s mistaken or a liar. I’m sure you followed up on what I told you.’

Baker nodded. ‘The shopkeeper in Meanwood says someone came in and bought Craven As,’ he acknowledged. ‘But she can’t describe him. Just that he was young.’ He stared. ‘Could be anyone.’

‘Not anyone. Me.’

‘And my witness could be telling the truth about seeing you at Hart Ford after it closed.’

‘Who is he?’

Baker’s smile was as grim as death.

‘You think I’m going to say and give you a chance to nobble him? I wasn’t born yesterday, lad. All I need now is the weapon and they can start preparing the hangman’s noose.’

‘Then you’ll be looking for a long time.’

For a fat man Baker moved quickly. He was up from the chair, leaning across the desk and pulling Markham by the tie until their faces were an inch apart. He could smell the rank sourness of the policeman’s breath.

‘Don’t play the clever bugger with me. Someone’s dead, lad. It’s not a fucking game. I can get a search warrant for this office and that flat of yours like that.’

‘Look all you like. You won’t find a gun because there isn’t one. Help yourself. I tell you what, I’ll even give you the run of the place whilst I’m out.’

The detective let go of the tie and stood up.

‘You’re a cocky little bastard, Markham.’

‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’ He picked up the folder and riffled through it. ‘See? No gun hidden inside. I’m taking this with me.’ Then he opened the top drawer, produced a key and placed it on the desk. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d lock up when you leave and pop this through the letterbox. If you want me I’ll be at Lyons.’

On Albion Place he lit a cigarette and glanced back at the building. He could leave Baker there. The man might loathe enquiry agents, but he was honest. He wasn’t a copper who planted evidence or lied for a conviction.

And the gun was safely in the river. But who was the witness who claimed to have seen him at Hart Ford? Carter’s doing, it had to be. Trying to tighten the screws just a little more. But as soon as Baker dug deeper he’d see it was all lies.

He ordered a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea, reading through more of the papers. He couldn’t find anything illegal, but it told him the extent of Carter’s empire. Clubs, shops, businesses. If he carried on at this rate, in a couple more years he’d be someone with real power in Leeds; too big to dislodge.

Markham had just put the papers away when something metallic dropped on his empty plate. The office key. He looked up to see Baker standing there.

‘Your office is clean.’

‘I told you it was.’

‘You could have ditched the shooter.’

‘I could, but I didn’t.’ A lie, he thought, but it was also true. He hadn’t used the gun to murder anyone.

‘Or it could be in your flat.’

‘Come and take a look, Sergeant.’

‘All right,’ Baker agreed. ‘I want to see how someone like you lives.’

***

The man was thorough. He went through all the drawers and cupboards, checked the mattress for rips, felt every pillow. On top of the high cistern in the toilet, the back of the dressing table. Baker looked distastefully at Carla’s clothes thrown all across the floor and the records stacked against the wall.

‘You think you’ve been clever, don’t you, Markham?’

‘I’ve been honest with you.’ He’d even made a cup of tea for them both as the policeman searched.

‘I still think you’re behind this.’

‘And I know I’m not. So do you, really. If I were you I’d take a closer look at this witness you have.’

‘You would, would you?’ Baker’s tone oozed sarcasm. ‘I suppose you’d teach your granny to suck eggs, too. I don’t need lessons from a kid on how to do my job, Markham.’

He paused at the door. ‘You should teach your slut to pick up her clothes. This place is a bloody tip.’

***

Carla arrived in the late afternoon, looking worn and despondent.

‘I’d forgotten how dirty this bloody city is. I’ve only been back a day and I feel grubby already.’

‘It’s Leeds,’ was all he could say.

By seven they’d moved the luggage back to her flat in Headingley. It was a garden flat – a cellar in everything but name – with front windows that looked out to the lawn and a bathtub that backed up whenever it rained heavily. She opened the windows to air it and he kissed her goodbye.

At home he put Sarah Vaughan on the gramophone as he worked through more of Carter’s papers. He had the information. Now, how could he use it?

Midnight came and he still didn’t have an answer. All around him the city had gone to sleep.

***

The morning brought a chilling rain that was too heavy for the windscreen wipers. He dashed the few yards from car to office and was still soaked. Inside, he smoked and stared out of the window, watching runnels of water glide down the glass.

He picked up the telephone on the first ring.

‘It’s Joanna Hart.’

‘What can I do for you, Mrs Hart? Have you heard from Carter?’

‘He rang me yesterday,’ she said. She sounded drawn. ‘I tried you but you were out.’

‘Has he made another offer?’

She told him the figure. To Markham it seemed a fortune, but she treated it as an insult.

‘He wants to meet again to discuss it.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I’m trying to arrange Freddie’s funeral.’

‘Then don’t let him bully you.’

‘He was very insistent.’

Markham stared at his bandaged fingers. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Men like that can be.’

‘What should I do?’ she asked

‘Let him stew. He might raise his price.’

‘OK,’ she agreed after a while.

He’d no sooner set the receiver down than it rang again.

‘Have you heard about Billy Harper?’ Harry Dalton asked. He was the man who’d put Markham in touch with the burglar.

‘Billy Harper? No.’

‘He did a job for you last week, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ And he’d done it well, recovering the gun and taking the papers from Carter’s hotel room. ‘But I haven’t seen him since Saturday.’

‘Someone gave him a hell of a beating last night. He’s in the Infirmary. Broke his jaw and messed up his hands. He’ll survive but he’s in a bad way.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t know if he’ll ever work again. Do you know who did it, Dan? The last thing he did was for you.’

‘I’ll try to find out.’

‘You do that. Billy has plenty of friends who’ll be looking for revenge.’

He lit another cigarette and stared out at the rain again. It was beginning to seem like war.

The post plopped onto the mat. Just bills. Never anything worthwhile.

Markham walked into the hush of the bank. People talked in whispers, as if they were in church. The woodwork and brass all gleamed. He waited in the queue, mackintosh dripping rain on the parquet floor.

The cashier took his cheque and walked away. Two minutes later she returned.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t honour this.’

‘What?’ He was loud enough for people to turn. ‘It’s only twenty pounds. There’s plenty in my account.’

She glanced down, embarrassed.

‘Would you like to see the manager, sir?’

***

He had to wait half an hour. Finally the manager invited him into the office. Mr Atkinson, the nameplate on the desk read. A spare, ascetic man, almost bald, eyes hidden behind heavy glasses. He opened a file and looked at the papers inside.

‘I believe you’re an enquiry agent, Mr Markham.’ Atkinson said finally. He pronounced the words as if they were something distasteful.

‘That’s right.’

‘Aren’t you a little young for that?’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ he asked angrily. ‘I want to know why there isn’t enough in my account to cash a cheque.’

Atkinson held up his hand.

‘I merely mentioned it because my experience has shown that the young tend to be rather irresponsible with money.’

‘My account’s in the black.’

Atkinson tapped the folder

‘No, it isn’t, Mrs Markham. You have three pounds and ten shillings in it.’

He started to rise.

‘What?’ That wasn’t possible.