He strolled into the showroom, eyeing the models, the Prefect, Popular, Consul, Zephyr and the brand new Zodiac on gorgeous display. Idly, he wandered from one to another, opening doors to glance at the dashboards before moving on. Finally, on his second time around, a voice behind him said, ‘That’s a good car, you know. Top of the range. Better than a Wolseley, if you ask me. Terribly good value for money. Very smart with the two-tone paint and it’ll go up to eighty when you put your foot down.’
He turned with a smile to face a man in his early forties, still trim, a dark David Niven moustache clipped close and the first hint of grey moving back from his temples. His nails were clean and manicured, with no nicotine stains on his fingers.
‘How much is it?’ Markham asked.
‘Eight hundred and fifty-one.’ He winked. ‘But we’ve been known to let the spare pound go now and again.’
The voice held the ready charm and the confidence that only came with a lifetime of opportunity.
‘Not cheap.’
‘But worth it, old chap,’ the man said. ‘Unless you spring for a Jag, you won’t find a better car on the road. I’m Freddie Hart. I own the place.’
He stood about five feet seven, his back straight, wearing tailored cavalry twill trousers and a blazer with the Royal Army Service Corps badge on the breast pocket.
‘Dan Markham.’
‘Do you drive now, Mr Markham?’ he asked, as if he expected the answer to be ‘no’.
‘I have an Anglia.’
Hart nodded.
‘Lovely little motor car. And one of ours, of course,’ he added with another smile. ‘Good taste on your part. But try this and it’ll never seem the same again.’
‘I’m honestly only looking. Curious.’
‘Well, if you want to take it out and try it, just let me know. It’s the only way to tell, isn’t it? And if you’re interested, I can give you a very fair price for yours.’ He leaned closer. ‘To tell you the truth, every Tom, Dick and Harry wants a motor car these days. It’s hard to keep enough stock.’
‘Good business to be in,’ Markham said.
‘Thriving. You take your time, old chap. If you want anything, just ask for me.’ He held out his hand and they shook before Hart disappeared through a glass door, stopping in a secretary’s office to lean over the desk.
Could it be that obvious, that clichéd: an affair with the secretary? The glass was frosted, but he could see that her hair was blonde. Hart’s grin turned wolfish as he looked at her. If something was going on, at least it would be easy to discover.
But it left one question. Who was the man Joanna Hart had met on Briggate yesterday?
***
He decided to go into the office for an hour, squeezing through the crowds that filled the pavements. The post lay on the floor, a bill and an onionskin airmail letter from Carla in Italy. He looked at the postmark. Sent six days earlier.
Ciao bella, cara … you see, it’s easy to pick up the language! I’m having a ridiculous time. Spent a week in Venice that could easily have lasted a month or a year. I’m in Florence now and I can see why those rich young men used to relish the Grand Tour. Everywhere I turn it takes my breath away. My God, these Italians had a love of beauty that we English never seemed to discover for ourselves. While they dissect the soul, our Constables and Gainsboroughs paint these stolid scenes. Sometimes I think the only one worth a damn was Turner.
Anyway, the weather is beautiful (of course!) and I’m brown as a berry, although my bum’s sore from Italian men pinching it! It really is true what they say. We should come here next year and you can look after me – what do you say? Everything’s unbelievably cheap, we could live here on next to nothing. I leave for Rome tomorrow, all that history and grandeur they taught us about in school. Then home again. I bloody well hope you’ve missed me!
She’d signed it with three kisses, everything scrawled in her own disorganised fashion. Another eight days and she’d be back; he’d circled the date in his diary. Soon enough he’d see her smile and hold her again. He’d missed her.
Their meeting had been pure accident, a lunchtime in the record shop downstairs at Vallance’s. He was looking through the LP sleeves, hoping they’d finally decided to stock some jazz, when he heard the woman next to him mutter, ‘Oh bugger.’
He turned and noticed her, auburn hair, every inch as tall as him, in a bright, flame-patterned dress under a maroon coat. In a black-and-white world she was a splash of Technicolor.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘I’m looking for something to inspire me. But this lot are all dead, aren’t they?’ She frowned. ‘If they’re not, they look it.’
‘I know who you need,’ he told her.
‘Who?’
‘Thelonious Monk.’
She burst out laughing, a hand covering the deep red of her mouth.
‘You just made that up.’
He met her the next day and lent her the record. The following morning the telephone rang in his office.
‘You sod,’ she said, with no hello or how are you. ‘He’s brutal. He’s bloody wonderful. Do you have any more?’
He asked her out, a meal at Jacomelli’s, and they began seeing each other regularly. They enjoyed each other’s company, and some nights they ended up in bed together.
She was an artist, making her living as an instructor at Leeds College of Art. The daughter of a Sheffield doctor, she’d been offered a scholarship and then stayed on to teach when she’d finished her diploma.
Carla had her studio at the college. He’d often find her there at lunchtimes or in the early evenings, bright clothes covered by an ancient smock, a scarf wound around her brilliant hair, sipping tea from a flask and working. She was good, everything striking and bold, even if he didn’t understand any of her paintings.
They’d gone to London together once, a long dirty weekend in the capital. She had to go down, did he want to come with her? Of course he did. He hadn’t been since he was a child, back before the war. She’d taken him around the National and the Tate, praising and criticising by turns. Then they spent an evening in Soho, eating real Italian food and eavesdropping on conversations in the pubs before heading off to Ronnie Scott’s jazz club. They walked and watched the tarts in their windows before going back to the hotel.
The next morning, she announced she’d meet him at twelve.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I have a meeting at my gallery.’
‘Your gallery?’
‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘They sell my work. Didn’t I tell you before? It’s why I needed to come down here. Can you do the catch on this brassiere?’
***
He folded the letter, stuck it back in the envelope and slid it into his jacket pocket. Now she’d put thoughts of Italy into his mind. He decided to go up to Donmar’s to eat. It wasn’t Soho, and he was certain it wasn’t anything like Naples or Milan, but it was all Leeds had to offer.
Carla had brought him here. She seemed to gravitate to places like this, to find them without effort. All he had to offer her was jazz.
***
By half past four he was parked on Byron Street, close enough to the corner of Regent Street to have a view across to Hart Ford. Time crawled by, the way it always did when he was waiting. At five he sat upright, a camera ready in his hands. The last of the customers vanished from the dealership and there was a short parade of salesmen and mechanics leaving to form queues at the bus stops. But no blonde woman.
Then she was there, in the passenger window of a shiny new Humber Hawk. He snapped a couple of pictures, enough to show her face, with Freddie Hart at the steering wheel. No Ford for him, Markham thought. As the car moved away, Markham started the Anglia and followed.
Beyond the city the traffic thinned to just a few cars and Markham had to keep his distance, hoping they wouldn’t turn off the main road where he might lose them.
Finally, as they came to Pannal, th
e Hawk indicated a right-hand turn and he knew exactly where they were going. The Harewood Arms in Follifoot. A little country pub for the well-heeled set. He parked in sight of the entrance, in ample time to snap more shots of them going in, Hart’s arm possessively around the woman’s waist.
***
At ten he drove back into town. The crowds from the late shows and the Odeon and the Ritz filled the pavements, mixing with the drinkers leaving pubs before closing time. He parked and crossed the street, then pushed open a door and took the stairs down to the cellar and Studio 20. The only jazz club in Leeds. Open seven nights a week, as late as the musicians were willing to play.
It was early yet, just six people in the audience. A piano player he didn’t recognise doodled on the keyboard, trying to herd an improvisation into a version of ‘Lover Come Back To Me’. Everything would begin to come alive around midnight, when the musicians drifted in from their paying gigs, ready to have some fun.
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.’
CHAPTER THREE
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.
Dark Briggate Blues Page 2
