Dark Briggate Blues

by Chris Nickson

  ‘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.’

  ‘Where does Carter live?’

  ‘He keeps a room at the Metropole. Doesn’t stint himself. But he doesn’t need to, does he?’ Doughty put the cigarettes and matches in pocket and stood. ‘Good luck. If you’re dealing with him, you’ll need it.’

  After he’d gone, Markham sat for a minute. He felt in his pocket for cigarettes and brought out the packet of Lucky Strikes. American cigarettes were almost impossible to find in England. But Carter had them.

  At least he now had an idea who he was up against. He couldn’t go to the police, not if they were certainly receiving backhanders from the man. Baker wouldn’t believe him, and if the gun appeared he’d be happy to see Markham banged up. He was on his own. He finished the smoke, crushed the butt in an ashtray and left.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The telephone rang, the bell a stark sound that filled the office. For a moment he considered ignoring it. If Carter wanted to reel him in, let him do it later rather than sooner. But the sound persisted; finally he picked up the heavy Bakelite receiver.

  ‘Mr Markham, this is Mrs Hart. Joanna Hart.’ Her voice was subdued and tentative.

  ‘Mrs Hart. I heard about your husband. I’m very sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘My father’s taking care of all the details. I just can’t face it.’ She sounded completely different to the scheming woman who’d come into his office the Friday before. All the brightness had been dulled and the words made her seem younger and fragile. ‘The housekeeper told me you’d been by. I just wanted to ask you to destroy whatever you’d found. It doesn’t matter any more, does it?’

  ‘I don’t suppose it does.’ There’d been next to nothing, anyway. ‘I’ll return the rest of your retainer.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ she answered quickly. ‘You can keep it. It’s only fair.’

  ‘OK,’ he agreed. ‘But tell me something, Mrs Hart.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What made you pick me?’

  ‘You?’ The question seemed to surprise her. ‘There aren’t many enquiry agents in Leeds. And a friend of mine mentioned your name.’

  ‘Who was that?’ He doubted they knew anyone in common.

  ‘Celia Dawson. I’ve known her since we were at school. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I was just curious.’

  ‘Her husband, Will, works with someone who’d heard of you.’

  ‘I see,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘There’s just one other thing. When you left my office the other day you met a man. Who was he?’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Markham,’ she told him curtly and the line went dead.

  Will Dawson. He knew he’d never heard the name before. But he’d find out who the man was. First, though, he needed to make some telephone calls.

  ***

  Markham was back in Chapel Allerton by four, parking by the flat. Inside, he put some Monk on the gramophone. The music was as disjointed as his thoughts, raw and awkward and impossible to ignore. He began cooking a stew, adding sprigs of herbs and a little red wine before leaving it to cook on the gas ring.

  He felt like a man at the bottom of a deep pit, wondering if he’d be able to climb up out. As long as Carter had the Webley, he had power over him.

  Carter thought he’d won. He needed to let the man believe that.

  And then he needed to use all those skills the British Army had taught him. They were the ones who selected him for military intelligence. They’d shown him all the techniques and sent him over to Hamburg for the better part of two years. He was there while the Berlin crisis played out and everyone waited for the tanks that never rolled.

  He’d seen a city of rubble where the men and women came out every day to clear stone and metal. A country of spies. He’d worked with the Americans, vetting Germans for their Nazi pasts. He’d picked up Russian misinformation from safe drops and passed on plenty of his own. A game. And once his time was up he’d happily walked away from it all. Some, like Ged Jones, had stayed on made a career, but it wasn’t for him. Now he needed to remember it all.

  The Monk record finished and he replaced it with Charlie Parker. It was exciting, exhausting music. He played like a desperate man, the sax breathlessly chasing up and down the scales, seeming to leave the rest of the band behind. And it was fruitless. Whatever was in his mind, fuelling the frantic rush, he’d never manage to catch it. He’d never be satisfied. It was the sound of a man finely balanced on the edge, always in danger of toppling over into the abyss. There was nothing that could follow a disc like that, nothing that could keep his mind jangling.

  ***

  He’d never been in the Eldon. It sat across from the university, but it wasn’t the kind of place likely to draw students. The paint had worn away to grey wood and the plasterwork was crumbling. It was dying on its feet, just like the rest of the area. A warren of cobblestoned streets lay a short way beyond it, decrepit back-to-back houses cascading down the hillside, still standing, still lived-in.

  He pushed open the door to the public bar. Glum men consumed their lunchtime pints as they glanced at newspapers. A pair long past retirement age were playing dominos, too focused on their game to even glance up as he walked in.

  He ordered an orange squash and asked the barman for Billy Harper.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Do I look like a copper?’

  The man glanced over at a corner, waiting until he received a nod.

  ‘There.’

  Harper folded his Express and studied Markham as he crossed the old, bare boards and sat down.

  ‘I don’t know you.’ He was a small man, built like a jockey, dark hair Brylcreemed down flat. In his middle forties, Markham guessed, years of nicotine stains colouring his fingers. A Park Drive burned down in the ashtray and he picked another from the packet, lighting it from the nub.

  ‘Dan Markham.’ He extended his hand. Harper didn’t take it, sitting back. He had a sour face with thin, miserly features and hard eyes.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I might have some work for you.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ He took a slow draw on the cigarette and gazed at th
e tip. ‘We’ve never met but you know my line of work? Right bloody know-it-all, aren’t you?’

  ‘It depends if Harry Dalton was telling me the truth.’

  Dalton knew people, and the ones he knew lived on the edge of the law or beyond it. That was his real business. Markham had rung him the day before at the second-hand shop the man kept on Hunslet Lane. He’d described the job and Dalton had answered without a moment’s hesitation,

  ‘You want Billy Harper. He doesn’t look like much but he’s the best. Never been pinched. He won’t bugger you around.’

  ‘Where do I find him?’

  ‘In the Eldon. Regular as clockwork every lunchtime. That’s going to cost you a pound, Mr Markham.’

  Harry’s assistant would come calling at the end of the week, just like a tally man, marking off payment in a little notebook.

  ‘Wait here,’ Harper said, standing and digging change from his pocket. In two minutes he returned, jingling coins as he sat.

  ‘Enquiry agent, eh?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What do you want nicked?’

  ‘I want you go to through someone’s hotel room.’

  The man rubbed his chin. ‘Which hotel?’

  ‘Metropole.’

  Harper ran his tongue over his teeth.

  ‘What would I be looking for?’

  ‘A gun, if it’s there. And whatever papers you can find.’

  ‘I don’t like shooters. Didn’t even like ’em in the war.’

  ‘I just need you to find it and bring it to me.’

  ‘What papers do you want?’ he asked. ‘I won’t have hours to go through everything.’

  ‘Anything you find.’

  ‘Whose room?’

  ‘A man called David Carter.’ He wondered if Harper would know the name, but he gave no indication.

  Harper rubbed a stubbly chin. ‘How soon?’

  ‘When can you do it?’

  ‘I haven’t said I will yet.’ He finished the cigarette and lit another, leaning back on the chair and considering. ‘How much?’

  ‘Tenner?’

  Harper gave a croaking laugh.

  ‘For the Metropole? Don’t be so bloody stupid. Twenty, and that’s if there’s no problems. And I keep anything else I take.’

  Twenty pounds: plenty of money. But Harry had insisted the man was the best. Finally Markham nodded his agreement.

  ‘How long will it take you?’

  ‘Come back here in two days. And not a word to anyone, right?’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I hear you’ve been talking to people in the meantime and you can go whistle.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’ He stood.

  ‘Are you forgetting something, Mr Markham?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘My money,’ he replied. ‘I’m not doing owt unless I’m paid in advance.’

  He had to dig through his wallet and his pockets to come close. Nineteen pounds, eighteen shillings and elevenpence, and Harper staring at him as he counted it all out, the contempt of the professional for the inept amateur.

  ‘You can owe me the shilling,’ he said finally with a dismissive shake of his head.

  ‘What happens if you’re caught?’

  Harper snorted. ‘Didn’t Harry tell you anything? I don’t get caught. Never have been and I’m not going to let it happen now.’ There was pride in his voice, the sound of a craftsman who enjoyed his work. ‘You understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good lad. You come back the day after tomorrow.’

  ***

  He’d thought long and hard. It was a gamble. There was no guarantee that the Webley would be in Carter’s hotel room. But if it was on him, he’d keep it close and safe where no one else might accidentally find it. If Billy Harper was as good as his reputation, it would be worth twenty pounds or more to have the weapon back.

  And papers. Every scrap of information was useful. It was power.

  ***

  He hadn’t expected to see her again, but Joanna Hart was standing meekly by the office door, waiting for him to invite her inside. She wore black well, a tailored suit, the skirt just below her knees and a white blouse with a cameo of black jet at the throat, her perfume faint and subtle. Her eyes widened as she approached, a mix of fear and beseeching.

  She sat on the edge of the chair, with the small hiss of nylon as she crossed her legs. He offered her a cigarette and she bit her lip, looking for all the world like a helpless young girl. Her eyes were red from tears she’d cried and even expensive make-up couldn’t hide the paleness of her face. He let the silence build around them, in no hurry to begin.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was short with you on the telephone.’

  ‘I daresay you have other things on your mind. My condolences again.’

  She gave a brief, polite smile.

  ‘I had a letter in the post this morning.’ She reached into her handbag and held out an envelope. He didn’t take it and she placed it on the desk.

  ‘I thought you were staying with your parents in Harrogate.’

  ‘I am,’ she said. ‘It came there.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Hart?’

  ‘The person who wrote that wants to discuss buying Freddie’s motor car dealership.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ he told her. ‘Do you want to run it yourself?’

  ‘No, not really,’ she admitted. ‘I know this chap talked to Freddie when he was still alive about a partnership. The amount he offered then was an insult. Freddie just laughed him off.’

  ‘Did he mention a figure in his letter?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Just that he’d be interested in the place if the price was right. You can read it.’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ he said. ‘It was sent by David Carter, wasn’t it?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Yes. How did …?’

  ‘Call it a good guess.’

  ‘He wants to meet to discuss figures.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you want from me.’ Markham asked. ‘I’m no expert on business.’

  ‘Freddie said this Carter had been putting pressure on him.’

  ‘Pressure?’

  ‘Ringing him all the time, turning up at the showroom.’

  ‘Then you should tell the police about him, Mrs Hart.’ He weighed his words. ‘That could make him a suspect in your husband’s murder.’

  She hesitated and drew something else from her bag, letting it flutter down on top of the letter. It was a photograph of a man, the one he saw her meet after she’d hired him to find out about her husband’s infidelity.

  ‘That’s the other reason I’ve come to you, Mr Markham.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Jamie Parker. His brother was an old army friend of Freddie’s. I met him at a cocktail party about six months ago.’

  ‘Did your husband know you were having an affair?’

  ‘No.’ She paused. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then why are you telling me about him?’

  The woman took a deep breath.

  ‘Freddie had started talking about divorce. We … we hadn’t been happy for a while, I suppose. I thought if I had ammunition, I could stop him.’

  ‘Tell me, did you love your husband?’

  ‘I …’ she began, then stopped. It was enough of an answer.

  ‘Do you love …’ he tapped the picture, ‘Mr Parker?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘But he’s mad about me.’

  ‘You think he killed Mr Hart?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She looked up at him. ‘He was a commando in the war. He killed people back then, he told me that.’

  ‘You should tell the police about him. And about Carter,’ he repeated. It would set Detective Sergeant Baker sniffing elsewhere.

  She gave a small nod.

  ‘I still don’t understand why you’re here.’

  ‘I want you to be with me when I meet Davi
d Carter.’

  ‘Why me?’ It didn’t make sense.

  ‘Because I don’t trust him.’

  ‘You could take Mr Parker.’

  ‘No,’ she replied with firmness. ‘I don’t want him knowing about Jamie.’

  He was willing to bet that the man already knew everything about him.

  She stared at him. ‘Freddie made out that business was booming.’ He nodded. It was what the man had told him, too. ‘It wasn’t quite the truth. He was spending far more than he was taking in. He’s left me bills but no money. I’m stoney. I need a good price for the business.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s the truth, Mr Markham. You know it all now. I hope you’ll come with me. I paid you five pounds before.’

  ‘And I offered to return it,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Do this and we’ll call it even then,’ she offered.

  He thought quickly; maybe he could use her as a lever to bring Carter down.

  ‘When and where?’

  ‘I have to telephone him and arrange things.’

  ‘Do that and let me know. But don’t tell him I’ll be with you.’

  ‘All right,’ she agreed quickly.

  ‘Sometimes a surprise can be a good thing.’

  ***

  There was little he could do except wait. Carter would ring when he was ready, expecting Markham to be at his beck and call. Joanna Hart would be in touch when the meeting had been arranged. He wasn’t seeing Billy Harper until Saturday.

  Waiting. He’d always hated it. His life had been full of it. All through the war he waited, ready to be done with school, to join up and do his part. Then it was over and his National Service began. Once he was at home again there was all the time spent in queues until rationing ended. Hurry up and wait.

  At least by now he knew how to do it.

  ***

  The door to the flat was open. Someone had sprung the lock. He entered cautiously, ready for anything except the man sitting in his armchair.

  ‘Decent little place,’ Carter said. He nodded at the records in the corner. ‘Queer taste in music, though.’