Dark Briggate Blues (9 page)

Atkinson held up a piece of paper.

‘In black and white, Mr Markham.’ He held up a piece of paper. ‘You took out four hundred pounds on Friday morning.’

‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous.’ He could feel the anger rising as he gripped the chair arms. Atkinson stared at him. ‘Where did it happen?’

‘In London.’ He read. ‘On Charing Cross Road.’

‘I was here on Friday. In Leeds.’

But even as he spoke, he knew. Carter.

‘It’s right here, Mr Markham.’ Atkinson gave an indulgent smile, as if explaining to a backward child.

‘Then someone’s made a mistake. Christ.’ He banged his good hand on the desk hard enough to make the bank manager look towards the door.

‘Please, Mr Markham. There’s no need for that.’

He leaned forward.

‘There’s every bloody need for it. I want you to get on to your head office and have them check again. I wasn’t in London and I didn’t take out four hundred pounds. Do you understand that?’

‘I can ask them to look into it,’ Atkinson said quietly. ‘But you understand that at the present time I can’t honour your cheque.’

Markham slammed the door behind him, footsteps sharp over the wood floor. Outside, in the steady rain of Park Row he checked his money. Carter had shown him he was powerless. All it took to destroy him was a telephone call.

***

He sat in the basement cafeteria at Marks and Spencer on Briggate. Mothers chatted in groups around large tables; others balanced trays and shepherded young children. The noise was as deafening as a factory canteen. But that was what he needed: something to block out his thoughts.

He finished the sandwich and pushed the plate away, lighting a cigarette as he stirred the tea. The woman at the cash register had glanced at him sympathetically as he counted out his coppers for the meal.

‘Don’t look so down in the mouth,’ she said. ‘It might never happen.’

But it already had.

Hands in pockets, he made his way back to the office. The rain was still falling, sluicing the rubbish off the pavements and leaving the slabs a dark, shiny grey.

Who was Carter? What had brought him to Leeds? He smoked a cigarette down to the filter, stubbed it out and lit another. There was someone he could call who might be able to give him a few answers.

Markham took out his address book and flipped through to ‘J’. There were two London telephone numbers for the name, one home, another for work. He picked up the receiver and called the operator, waiting until he heard her say she was connecting him.

‘Hello.’ No name, no business.

‘I’m looking for Ged Jones. This is Dan Markham.’

‘Danny boy.’ He could sense Jones’ smile, the slight Welsh lilt in the words. They’d done their National Service together, the pair of them stationed in Hamburg. But Jones had been the one with the brilliant mind, the one who’d stayed on and been recruited by MI
5
. A useful friend to have. ‘It’s been a long time, boy. How are you?’

‘I’m in a bit of a fix,’ he answered honestly.

‘That doesn’t sound too good. Are you still in the detective business?’

‘I am. What about you? Still working for Her Majesty?’

‘I’d be a section head by now if I had the right accent and school tie,’ Jones answered cynically.

‘I’m hoping for some help. A favour …’

‘Always on the cadge,’ he laughed. ‘I remember what you were like over there, looking for cigarettes.’

‘Which I gave to the Germans in exchange for information. How many Nazis did they help to bring in?’

‘Fair enough,’ Jones agreed with a chuckle. ‘So you’re after something. What do you need?’

‘David Carter. Does it ring any bells?’

‘Not even a tiny one. Should it?’

‘That’s what I want to find out.’

‘He been causing you problems, Danny?’

Markham looked at the broken fingers.

‘You might say that. He knows things, Ged. He gave me a pack of Lucky Strikes because he knew Oscar used to get them from the PX in Germany.’

‘I see.’ Jones’ voice was suddenly serious and professional.

‘And he’s also managed to clean out my bank account.’

‘Jesus, boy. Sounds like you’ve managed to make a powerful enemy.’

‘I’m saving the best for last. He’s killed someone and he’s trying to set me up for it.’

He heard the intake of breath.

‘What about the coppers? Aren’t they doing anything?’

‘He’s under their radar. Or there are backhanders. I need to know who he is.’

It only took a moment for Jones to consider the request.

‘Give me an hour or so and I’ll ring you back. But,’ he cautioned, ‘you won’t have heard anything from me. All right?’

‘All right.’

‘Stand by your telephone.’

Markham replaced the receiver, feeling more confident. Ged would dig out the truth. Then he’d have some ammunition.

He’d been pacing the room slowly for five minutes when the phone rang again. He answered with the number; it was far too soon for Ged to be calling back.

‘How do you fancy taking me out tonight?’ Carla asked. ‘These students are bloody awful. I’m going to scream if I don’t have something to look forward to.’

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Dinner somewhere and the pictures?’ she asked hopefully.

‘What’s on?’

He heard the rustle as she glanced through the newspaper.

‘There’s
On the Waterfront
at the Ritz. It’s supposed to be good. Marlon Brando.’

‘OK. Why don’t you come to the office when you finish? We’ll go on from there.’

‘You’re an angel.’ She made a kissing sound. ‘Really, you are. ‘I’ll see you later.’

At least he’d enjoy the evening.

He sat and smoked and paced, glancing at the clock only to watch the minutes moving too slowly. Finally, three hours later, the telephone rang again. Even though he’d expected it, been waiting for it, the sound still startled him.

‘Danny boy, you sound nervous.’ Ged chuckled.

‘I am. I’ve got a couple of broken fingers to keep me on edge.’

‘Courtesy of your friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘From what I’ve learnt that doesn’t surprise me. Turns out there’s quite a bit on him.’

‘What have you found out?’ Markham asked.

‘How long do you have?’

‘As long as you like. You’re paying for the telephone call.’

‘Good to know you’re still a Yorkshireman, anyway.’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, let me tell you about this chap. Do you remember those men in suits who used to wander around the office in Hamburg? Always closed the doors before they talked with each other?’

‘Of course.’ They’d always speculated about them, the ones who never smiled or laughed.

‘Carter was one of them, but in Berlin.’ He paused. ‘It’s interesting, though.’

‘What is?’

‘I was looking for his war record and it’s not available. I’d need a higher clearance to see it. What does that tell you, besides the fact that I need a promotion?’

‘Enough.’ It meant Carter’s work had been top secret and even nine years after the war it was still kept hush-hush.

‘He knew people,’ Jones said. ‘At that level he must have done. I did manage to find out that he was in Berlin a couple of days after it fell. That means he was one of the first spies in there. He was one of the big boys. I’m reading between the lines here, Danny. I had to put all this together from bits and pieces. That’s why it took me a while. His is one of those files that doesn’t say too much, so you know there’s plenty hidden.’

‘I appreciate it, Ged.’

‘It’s fun,’ Jones laughed. ‘For once I’m actually making use of all that bloody training they gave me. Anyway, Carter stayed in Berlin until the airlift was over. So he must have gone up against the Russians, but you remember what that was like. Everyone thought it was going to be war against the Reds.’

He remembered it all too well. Tension every single day. They had to pore over every communication, to keep a close check on so many people who might have been Communist agents.

‘Funny thing, though,’ Jones continued. ‘Less than a week after it was over he was back in London and out of the service in a rush. Make of that what you will.’

‘What do you think?’

Ged was slow to reply.

‘Reading between the lines again, which is fancy talk for guessing, something happened in Berlin. More than a few people died under mysterious circumstances there.’

‘What are you saying? He killed someone? A Russian high up?’

‘Let’s put it this way: from what I’ve read about Carter, it wouldn’t have been the first time.’

‘I see.’

‘He’s a nasty piece of work, boy. I daresay he had a racket or two on the side. Everyone did, a chance to make a bob or two. The best thing you can do is steer clear of him.’

‘It’s a bit late for that.’

‘Then you’d better keep your wits about you.’

‘I’ve learnt that,’ he said ruefully and looked at his bandaged fingers again. ‘What about his background? Do you know anything about that? And any connections to Leeds?’

‘Not unless he has a maiden aunt there.’ Markham heard the sharp sound of a match and Jones exhaling. ‘Grew up in Sussex. Minor public school, read Arabic at Cambridge in the Thirties. You know they sent me there on one of those Russian courses? My mam was so proud, her little boy going to a place like that.’

‘Hard to imagine you in a cap and gown.’

‘Oh Christ, boy, there was none of that. I was just glad to be out of uniform.’

‘Thank you. You’ve been a bloody marvel.’

‘I’ve just been providing value to a taxpayer,’ he said with a laugh. ‘And don’t you worry, no one will know I was ever looking. I just wish I had more to tell you.’

‘You’ve given me a start. That’s something.’

‘Then you can buy me a pint the next time you’re down here.’

‘At least.’

Jones’ voice turned serious.

‘I meant what I said, boy. Watch your back around Carter. He’s a ruthless bastard. And it’s a long time since you had your training.’

‘I know.’ Just as he also knew exactly what Carter could do. ‘I wonder if the people in Whitehall know what he’s up to here?’

‘More to the point, would they really care?’ Ged asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Down here we look outwards, mostly at a certain country that should remain nameless but is coloured bright red. We’ve been very attentive since the man with the bushy moustache died. No one cares what’s going on in England, as long as we’re not giving away all the secrets. If Carter still has the ears of the high and mighty, he could be getting away with murder.’

‘He is,’ Markham said.

‘Then watch yourself.’

‘So I’m on my own?’

‘Unless you can convince the flatfoots.’

‘They don’t care for my profession.’

‘Then I don’t know what to tell you, Danny. I wish I did.’

‘Thanks, anyway, Ged. I appreciate it.’

‘Don’t you worry, boy. Anything else I can do, just give me a ring. It’s good to keep the old skills sharp.’

So he was up against a man who was experienced, professional and deadly. At least he knew now.

He doodled on the notepad for a few minutes, trying to marshal his thoughts. After the beating Harper had received, no one in Leeds would help him. Markham rested his elbows on the desk and stared at the wall. The best defence is a good offence. He had to take the fight to Carter.

***

Carla was standing outside the office when he returned from the market carrying a string bag with its brown paper parcels. Her mouth curved into a smile.

‘You’ll make someone a lovely wife one day, Dan.’

‘The perils of bachelor life.’

She arched her brows. ‘If that’s a hint I’m going to pretend you never said it.’

He shook his head and she laughed.

‘Where do you want to go to eat?’ Markham asked. ‘Delmor?’

‘Not in this weather.’ She pouted. ‘I want Italy to be all sunshine in my mind, not this bloody awful Leeds rain. Jacomelli’s?’

‘We could.’

‘Someone told me about a Chinese place on Bishopgate. Do you fancy it?’

‘Chinese?’ He’d never tasted it before, never even thought about what they’d eat. ‘Why not? I’d better warn you, I don’t have much cash. The bank’s been buggering with my account.’

‘I’m flush,’ she told him. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Let me put these in the car and we can find it.’

***

The restaurant was a hundred yards from the railway station, with red paper lanterns over the tables and heavy, embossed Oriental wallpaper. Rain ran down the windows. They were the only customers in the place and the waiter hovered around them as they sat. Markham studied the menu.

‘What should we order?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘I’m going for the fried rice. Anne said the sweet and sour pork was good.’

‘When’s the film?’

‘Not until half seven. Don’t worry, we have plenty of time.’

The food was better than he expected. Strange, but not so alien after all. Quite tasty once he grew used to it.

‘What do you think?’ Carla asked.

‘Not bad,’ he answered after a few mouthfuls. ‘How’s yours?’

‘Rather good. Different.’

They settled into eating and talking. She told him more about Italy, all the dilapidated beauty of Rome and the waterways and churches in Venice. He was happy to listen, simply to hear her again, so vibrant and alive. They strolled arm-in-arm along Boar Lane, past all the business closed for the night, like any young couple out for the evening. The rain had turned to drizzle, puddles all over the pavement. The air smelt fresh and clean.

With its plush seats, the Ritz always seemed like luxury to him. He folded his raincoat and lit a cigarette. The cinema was packed, barely room for another couple anywhere. People were rapt, caught in the action and tension. And it was good, he had to admit. He didn’t often bother with the pictures, but this was worthwhile. Brando seemed to seethe and burn in his role. He really could be a contender.

‘Would you really mind if I went off and worked?’ Carla asked as they stood outside, the rest of the audience flowing around them.

‘Now?’ he asked in surprise. ‘At this time of night?’