***
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.
CHAPTER FOUR
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.’
‘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.’
CHAPTER FIVE
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 al
one 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.’
Dark Briggate Blues Page 3
