‘Making yourself at home?’ Markham asked. There were three cigarette ends in the ashtray. Carter had been here a while.
‘You need a telephone here.’
‘I have one at the office.’
‘I told you I’d have something I wanted you to do.’
‘You know my number.’
‘I’m a man who likes the personal touch, Mr Markham.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m looking at buying a certain business.’
‘Hart Ford, perhaps?’
Carter’s smile was cold.
‘Very good. Give yourself a gold star. It belongs to his widow now. You know her, I believe?’
‘She hired me for a job.’
‘Then perhaps she’ll listen when you advise her to sell the business to me. I’ll pay a fair price.’
‘Fair?’
‘What I consider fair.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t care how you do it, as long as she accepts my offer and signs of her own free will. I don’t want any comebacks later.’ He rose and buttoned his jacket. ‘One last thing. I expect quick results. And I don’t take no for an answer.’ He put a hand on the doorknob. ‘You need a better lock if you want to keep people out.’
He’d been hungry when he climbed the stairs. Now he couldn’t eat a thing. He filled the kettle and made a pot of tea, standing at the window to gaze down at the Harrogate Road. The shops had closed for the day, only a few people still walking along the pavements. Buses passed, crowded with people on their way home from work. A delivery van rattled by on its way back to the depot.
Of course Carter already knew about his connection with Joanna Hart. The man was thorough. The only thing he didn’t seem to know was that the woman had visited again and wanted him on her side. But he couldn’t tell her that Carter expected him to work on her, to persuade her to sell. She’d never trust him. Both sides against the middle, he thought. And he was dead centre.
Markham searched through his records for something to take away the oppressive silence. Basie. Something by the Count would always lift the mood, a roar through ‘One O’ Clock Jump,’ full of life and verve. But by the time the needle clicked in the end groove he’d hardly heard the tune.
He was trapped in the middle of a bloody mess. Carter wanted him as a pawn, something to be moved around and sacrificed. Joanna Hart wanted him as her protector. And he … he didn’t want to end up in court for murder.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘I told Carter I’d meet him at seven on Saturday,’ Joanna Hart said. Her voice sounded different on the line. Brittle, more metallic.
‘Where?’
‘The Chained Bull. There’s a decent room where we can talk privately.’
He’d driven past the place, but he’d never been inside. It had that pre-war look, full of a future that was starting to show its age all too quickly.
‘I’ll be there,’ he promised.
‘Thank you,’ she said, as if he’d taken a weight off her mind. ‘I need a good price for the business.’
‘We’ll hear what he has to say, then.’
‘Tomorrow evening, then?’ she asked. It could have been a social engagement.
***
He was restless. The hands of the clock barely seemed to move. He tried to read and threw the book aside after a few minutes. Finally he walked up and down Briggate, staring in shop windows without remembering a single item. By three he’d given up, climbing into the Anglia and driving home.
Women were finishing their shopping, arms weighed down by bags. A few pushed prams, stopping outside the butcher, the baker and the post office. He stood in the flat, looking down at the road and smoking Friday away.
***
He parked on Woodhouse Lane and walked into the Eldon at exactly noon on Saturday. The public bar was quiet, just a few people at the wooden tables, men with nowhere better to go or nowhere they’d rather be.
Harper was there, as good as his word. In the same chair, wearing the same clothes, he looked as if he hadn’t moved in the last two days.
‘All done?’ Markham asked as he sat. He could feel his heart pounding and the breathless feeling in his chest.
‘In there.’ He nudged a shopping bag with his leg.
‘The gun?’
‘Daft bugger had it in a drawer with his underpants.’
Markham gave a long sigh of relief. He was free.
‘What else did you find?’
‘Papers, just like you wanted.’ Harper paused. ‘I’ll tell you something, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Whoever your friend is, he’s not too careful. He had a hundred nicker just sitting there. That’s a bloody fortune.’ A smile crossed his grim face. ‘He used to have it, anyway.’
‘No one saw you? You didn’t leave any prints?’
Harper shook his head scornfully. ‘I’m a professional, sonny. I was doing this before you were born. You got what you wanted.’
‘Thank you.’ He stood and picked up the bag, feeling the weight of the Webley inside.
‘I’d get rid of that shooter if I were you,’ Harper told him quietly. ‘They’re nowt but trouble.’
***
There were no pedestrians crossing Crown Point Bridge, only the occasional vehicle heading in or out of Leeds. He pulled the gun from the bag and sniffed the barrel. It had been fired. He held it for a moment, then let the weapon drop into the water. No one noticed. There was a small splash, the ripples spread for a few seconds and then it was over. Gone. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
In the flat he looked through the papers Harper had taken. Carbon copies of letters and documents, all of them relating to the businesses Carter owned in the city. Ten, by his count. Two night clubs, a pair of drinking clubs, four shops and two garages dotted around Leeds. By the figures they were all good earners, enough to fill Carter’s bank account. But beyond profit, he couldn’t see any pattern between them. And now he wanted a Ford motor agency.
By three he felt drained. He’d spent the last few days living on his nerves. Now the threat had gone, and he was running down.
It had turned six by the time he woke. Markham washed his face before changing into his best suit, the dark grey worsted that cost seven pounds and worth every penny. If clothes really did make the man, these changed him into someone of substance.
There was still one thing to do before he left. He bundled the papers into an old arch folder and took them down to the cellar, a set of pokey, brick-lined rooms behind an anonymous door. No one came down here. Probably none of the other tenants even knew it existed. Everything would stay safe and hidden.
It was little more than a mile to Moortown. The shops on the parade were all closed for the night. The only place with any life was the Chained Bull. He ordered a shandy, lit a cigarette and leant against the bar. He’d arrived early; there was no sign of Joanna Hart or Carter yet.
She came five minutes later, hair up in a chignon to show off her long neck and a simple square-neck black dress that flared out from the waist. It was sombre, elegant and effective. It suited her perfectly. Several men watched her cross the floor.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm.
‘I told you I would. Get you a drink?’
‘G and T, please.’
She led him to a quiet corner at the back, set apart from the main bars and furnished with a low table and comfortable club chairs.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.
‘I hope you being here will be enough,’ she told him with a smile.
‘Carter can be persuasive,’ he warned.
‘That’s why you’re with me. I know exactly how much I need. I can’t settle for a penny less.’
Time to change the subject, he thought.
‘Have the police said more about your husband’s murder?’ The story was still on the front page of the Post, but it had moved below the fold. And B
aker hadn’t been back to see him.
‘No,’ she answered slowly. ‘Not that they’ve said to me. That fat detective came to ask me more questions. I’ve told him everything I know.’
‘About Carter and your friend?’
‘Yes. Even Jamie.’
He nodded and brought up the topic that had been worrying at him for a few days. ‘That’s him. Tell me, Mrs Hart. You said the husband of a friend recommended me?’
‘That’s right. Celia’s husband, Will.’
‘It’s odd. I’ve never heard of him. What does he do?
‘He manages the Kit Kat Club on Wellington Street. Why?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I was just curious.’
The Kit Kat. The very first business that Carter had bought at a knock-down price in Leeds.
There was no time for more. David Carter bustled in, as if the thought had been his cue, a glass of Scotch in his hand. He wore a sports jacket and cavalry twill trousers, a cravat at his neck, looking every inch the businessman dressed down for the weekend.
‘Mrs Hart,’ he said extending an arm. ‘Thank you for seeing me. I know this must be a trying time for you.’ She shook his hand and gestured him to the empty chair. As he sat he glared at Markham, a look that was eager to kill.
She nodded her head graciously.
He sat forward, elbows on his knees, looking at her.
‘As I explained in my letter, I’d talked to your husband about buying his business. I’m very sorry about your loss, but I want you to know that I’m still eager to purchase Hart Ford.’
‘Freddie told me about your offer, Mr Carter. And the answer he gave you.’
‘We’d barely begun negotiations.’ He gave a smile that showed white, even teeth and looked at Markham. ‘Is this gentleman your representative?’
She shook her head.
‘Just a friend I asked along.’
‘I’m sure he’ll tell you that running a business isn’t easy. I know your husband had built the Ford agency into something worthwhile, but do you really want all the day-to-day responsibility to make it even better?’
She took a long, thoughtful drink of the gin.
‘What I want is a fair price for the business.’
‘Of course,’ Carter said politely, dipping his head as he drank.
‘That means I need a great deal more than you offered Freddie.’
‘Mrs Hart–’ he began, but she cut him off.
‘That’s not negotiable,’ she said firmly, her voice rising so that people turned to watch. ‘And I’ll tell you something I don’t appreciate, Mr Carter. I don’t like someone pursuing me this way before Freddie’s even been buried. The only reason I agreed to meet you was to see what a ghoul looked like. I’m sure you feel that preying on widows is a perfectly legitimate tactic, but I’m afraid I don’t. If you want to make a realistic offer after the funeral, I’ll listen. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’
She stood quickly and gathered up her handbag. The men rose with her, and Markham followed her from the room. He glanced back, seeing Carter’s face set with fury.
He found her leaning against the Humber, holding a cigarette. Her hand was shaking slightly. He struck a match and watched her pull smoke down to her lungs.
‘I hadn’t expected that,’ he told her.
‘Oh, I did, Mr Markham.’ Her eyes were strangely bright, her lipstick bloody in the evening light. ‘What an odious man.’
‘He doesn’t give up easily.’
‘I don’t imagine he does. But maybe it’ll make him think and come back with a higher offer. I’ve given him some food for thought. He’s not the only one who can play a game. Next time he’ll be serious.’ She dropped the cigarette and ground it out under her shoe. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Markham. I appreciate the moral support.’
Then she was gone, her car moving away, just the vague scent of her perfume lingering for a few seconds.
In the Anglia he looked at his watch. Barely half past seven: the encounter had only lasted a few minutes. His stomach rumbled and realised he’d barely eaten all day. At the flat he fried up bacon and eggs and sat at the table. Carla’s letter from Italy still lay there. Tomorrow she’d be back, arriving on the five-fifteen from London. And he’d be waiting on the platform, glad to have her home.
Carter would come calling again soon. He was sure of that. Not only his anger at being rebuffed by Joanna Hart. All too soon he’d realise the gun and the papers were missing. The man would want his revenge.
***
A little after ten he drove into town. There was hardly any Saturday night traffic on the roads, no more than a few buses and cars and the flashing tangerine lights of the Belisha beacons. He parked on New Briggate, close to the Wrens Hotel, and walked the few yards back to Studio 20.
The music began just as he walked down the stairs, piano, bass, drums and a young tenor player he’d never seen before. He barely looked old enough to shave and dressed awkwardly in something that could have been his father’s demob suit. But he could play, twisting a world of ache and pain through the melody of ‘Someone To Watch Over Me’ with a heartbreak that went beyond his years. Markham waited in the doorway until the tune ended in a slow flurry of notes that rose like smoke.
It was a small crowd so far, no more than a dozen, but they applauded wildly. Everyone knew they’d just heard something special. The young man blushed, and Markham eased into the back room where Bob Barclay, the club’s owner, sat watching everything through a hatch in the wall where he dispensed the tea, coffee and squash.
‘Who is he?’
‘Good, isn’t he?’ Barclay said as the piano took a long introduction to ‘Stormy Monday Blues’, the sax player replicating the tone of Billy Eckstine’s smooth voice over the chords. ‘Just showed up with his instrument this evening. Lives in Huddersfield, would you credit it?’ He nodded his head in time with the beat.
‘He’s going places,’ Markham said. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Michael Goodman. He’s off to London tomorrow to audition for Dankworth’s band.’
‘He’ll get the gig.’
‘Be a crime if he didn’t.’ He beamed as Goodman caught a solo, a series of short, anguished phrases that built in intensity. ‘I tell you what, Dan, we’re seeing the birth of a new star here.’
‘I think you’re right.’
He stayed for the rest of the set. It was pure joy to hear. The lad played his heart out, tearing through ‘Donna’, some Ellington and more Gershwin before closing with a take on ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow’ that trembled with hope.
When the lad took the reed from his instrument, Markham left. There was nothing else he could hear tonight that could come close to that. He felt warm, happy in the glow of the music, replaying it in his mind as he walked to the car, just the sounds of the night around him.
They came out of the shadows. Two men, both big. One strayed into the light of a street lamp, showing a boxer’s face with a broken nose and a long scar down his cheek. Rob Anderson. Carter’s man.
The other held up a knife.
‘You’re coming with us,’ Anderson said. He had a voice that sounded as if it had been dragged over gravel. Markham weighed his chances. ‘Don’t,’ the man advised, making his hand into a large first. ‘Right?’
He was pushed into the back of a Vauxhall Velox parked a few yards along the street. The man with the knife sat next to him, the tip of the blade pushed hard against his stomach. Anderson started the engine and pulled away.
‘You’d best hope we don’t need any sudden stops else you’ll be pulling that out your belly.’ It was all he said as he cut through the centre of town, over Leeds bridge and left onto Dock Street, going slow over the cobbles as they passed the old wharf and turned into a small road that ended in the brick wall of a factory.
The street was lined with small workshops and garages. The door to one opened and Carter came out.
‘Bring him in here.’
The knife po
int pricked the back of his neck, just enough pressure for him to feel the sharpness without breaking the skin. The room was bare brick walls, an old table and two wooden chairs in the middle of the floor. A single bulb cast a harsh light into all the corners.
‘Sit down,’ Carter ordered as he paced around slowly.
Markham sat. He was in for a beating, he knew that. A lesson. He’d expected it. He could take it. But Carter wouldn’t dare kill him. Another murder in Leeds would bring too much unwanted attention. He’d started to reach for his cigarettes when a fist landed on the side of his skull, hard enough to send him sprawling on to the concrete.
He shook his head, trying to clear it as he slowly pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the table. This next blow caught him in the gut and sent him back to the ground, gasping for air.
This time he stayed down, waiting until he could breathe again before he stood. His stomach burned and he could taste the bile in his throat. A heavy throb beat in his head as he moved. Someone had righted the chair and he sat once more.
Carter took the other seat.
‘You think you’re a clever little fucker, don’t you?’
‘Do I?’ His voice surprised him. It seemed to come from miles away, something faint and half heard.
‘Think getting the gun lets you off the hook, do you?’
He didn’t reply. Anything he said would mean another blow.
Carter shook his head. ‘You just think it does, sonny boy. Stupid. Don’t you worry, I’ll find out who he was.’
Markham kept his silence, blinking and trying to keep his gaze from slipping out of focus.
Carter paced again and said, ‘Do you know what’s painful?’
‘What?’ The word was a croak.
‘Broken fingers. It’s a funny thing, they never heal quite properly. It’s a shame you don’t play an instrument. You’d really notice it then.’ He nodded. Anderson darted forward, holding Markham’s arm in a tight grip, left hand forced flat on the table, palm-down. He tried to struggle, to pull back, then the knife was at his throat, the blade cold against his skin. ‘People don’t cross me, Mr Markham. You’re going to learn that. You can scream all you like, there’s no one around to hear.’
Dark Briggate Blues Page 5
