Dark Briggate Blues

by Chris Nickson

  Markham had just put the papers away when something metallic dropped on his empty plate. The office key. He looked up to see Baker standing there.

  ‘Your office is clean.’

  ‘I told you it was.’

  ‘You could have ditched the shooter.’

  ‘I could, but I didn’t.’ A lie, he thought, but it was also true. He hadn’t used the gun to murder anyone.

  ‘Or it could be in your flat.’

  ‘Come and take a look, Sergeant.’

  ‘All right,’ Baker agreed. ‘I want to see how someone like you lives.’

  ***

  The man was thorough. He went through all the drawers and cupboards, checked the mattress for rips, felt every pillow. On top of the high cistern in the toilet, the back of the dressing table. Baker looked distastefully at Carla’s clothes thrown all across the floor and the records stacked against the wall.

  ‘You think you’ve been clever, don’t you, Markham?’

  ‘I’ve been honest with you.’ He’d even made a cup of tea for them both as the policeman searched.

  ‘I still think you’re behind this.’

  ‘And I know I’m not. So do you, really. If I were you I’d take a closer look at this witness you have.’

  ‘You would, would you?’ Baker’s tone oozed sarcasm. ‘I suppose you’d teach your granny to suck eggs, too. I don’t need lessons from a kid on how to do my job, Markham.’

  He paused at the door. ‘You should teach your slut to pick up her clothes. This place is a bloody tip.’

  ***

  Carla arrived in the late afternoon, looking worn and despondent.

  ‘I’d forgotten how dirty this bloody city is. I’ve only been back a day and I feel grubby already.’

  ‘It’s Leeds,’ was all he could say.

  By seven they’d moved the luggage back to her flat in Headingley. It was a garden flat – a cellar in everything but name – with front windows that looked out to the lawn and a bathtub that backed up whenever it rained heavily. She opened the windows to air it and he kissed her goodbye.

  At home he put Sarah Vaughan on the gramophone as he worked through more of Carter’s papers. He had the information. Now, how could he use it?

  Midnight came and he still didn’t have an answer. All around him the city had gone to sleep.

  ***

  The morning brought a chilling rain that was too heavy for the windscreen wipers. He dashed the few yards from car to office and was still soaked. Inside, he smoked and stared out of the window, watching runnels of water glide down the glass.

  He picked up the telephone on the first ring.

  ‘It’s Joanna Hart.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Hart? Have you heard from Carter?’

  ‘He rang me yesterday,’ she said. She sounded drawn. ‘I tried you but you were out.’

  ‘Has he made another offer?’

  She told him the figure. To Markham it seemed a fortune, but she treated it as an insult.

  ‘He wants to meet again to discuss it.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I’m trying to arrange Freddie’s funeral.’

  ‘Then don’t let him bully you.’

  ‘He was very insistent.’

  Markham stared at his bandaged fingers. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Men like that can be.’

  ‘What should I do?’ she asked

  ‘Let him stew. He might raise his price.’

  ‘OK,’ she agreed after a while.

  He’d no sooner set the receiver down than it rang again.

  ‘Have you heard about Billy Harper?’ Harry Dalton asked. He was the man who’d put Markham in touch with the burglar.

  ‘Billy Harper? No.’

  ‘He did a job for you last week, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’ And he’d done it well, recovering the gun and taking the papers from Carter’s hotel room. ‘But I haven’t seen him since Saturday.’

  ‘Someone gave him a hell of a beating last night. He’s in the Infirmary. Broke his jaw and messed up his hands. He’ll survive but he’s in a bad way.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t know if he’ll ever work again. Do you know who did it, Dan? The last thing he did was for you.’

  ‘I’ll try to find out.’

  ‘You do that. Billy has plenty of friends who’ll be looking for revenge.’

  He lit another cigarette and stared out at the rain again. It was beginning to seem like war.

  The post plopped onto the mat. Just bills. Never anything worthwhile.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Markham walked into the hush of the bank. People talked in whispers, as if they were in church. The woodwork and brass all gleamed. He waited in the queue, mackintosh dripping rain on the parquet floor.

  The cashier took his cheque and walked away. Two minutes later she returned.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t honour this.’

  ‘What?’ He was loud enough for people to turn. ‘It’s only twenty pounds. There’s plenty in my account.’

  She glanced down, embarrassed.

  ‘Would you like to see the manager, sir?’

  ***

  He had to wait half an hour. Finally the manager invited him into the office. Mr Atkinson, the nameplate on the desk read. A spare, ascetic man, almost bald, eyes hidden behind heavy glasses. He opened a file and looked at the papers inside.

  ‘I believe you’re an enquiry agent, Mr Markham.’ Atkinson said finally. He pronounced the words as if they were something distasteful.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Aren’t you a little young for that?’

  ‘What does that have to do with anything?’ he asked angrily. ‘I want to know why there isn’t enough in my account to cash a cheque.’

  Atkinson held up his hand.

  ‘I merely mentioned it because my experience has shown that the young tend to be rather irresponsible with money.’

  ‘My account’s in the black.’

  Atkinson tapped the folder

  ‘No, it isn’t, Mrs Markham. You have three pounds and ten shillings in it.’

  He started to rise.

  ‘What?’ That wasn’t possible.

  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 MI5. 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 w
as 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.