Dark Briggate Blues

by Chris Nickson

  ***

  Carla was standing outside the office when he returned from the market carrying a string bag with its brown paper parcels. Her mouth curved into a smile.

  ‘You’ll make someone a lovely wife one day, Dan.’

  ‘The perils of bachelor life.’

  She arched her brows. ‘If that’s a hint I’m going to pretend you never said it.’

  He shook his head and she laughed.

  ‘Where do you want to go to eat?’ Markham asked. ‘Delmor?’

  ‘Not in this weather.’ She pouted. ‘I want Italy to be all sunshine in my mind, not this bloody awful Leeds rain. Jacomelli’s?’

  ‘We could.’

  ‘Someone told me about a Chinese place on Bishopgate. Do you fancy it?’

  ‘Chinese?’ He’d never tasted it before, never even thought about what they’d eat. ‘Why not? I’d better warn you, I don’t have much cash. The bank’s been buggering with my account.’

  ‘I’m flush,’ she told him. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Let me put these in the car and we can find it.’

  ***

  The restaurant was a hundred yards from the railway station, with red paper lanterns over the tables and heavy, embossed Oriental wallpaper. Rain ran down the windows. They were the only customers in the place and the waiter hovered around them as they sat. Markham studied the menu.

  ‘What should we order?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘I’m going for the fried rice. Anne said the sweet and sour pork was good.’

  ‘When’s the film?’

  ‘Not until half seven. Don’t worry, we have plenty of time.’

  The food was better than he expected. Strange, but not so alien after all. Quite tasty once he grew used to it.

  ‘What do you think?’ Carla asked.

  ‘Not bad,’ he answered after a few mouthfuls. ‘How’s yours?’

  ‘Rather good. Different.’

  They settled into eating and talking. She told him more about Italy, all the dilapidated beauty of Rome and the waterways and churches in Venice. He was happy to listen, simply to hear her again, so vibrant and alive. They strolled arm-in-arm along Boar Lane, past all the business closed for the night, like any young couple out for the evening. The rain had turned to drizzle, puddles all over the pavement. The air smelt fresh and clean.

  With its plush seats, the Ritz always seemed like luxury to him. He folded his raincoat and lit a cigarette. The cinema was packed, barely room for another couple anywhere. People were rapt, caught in the action and tension. And it was good, he had to admit. He didn’t often bother with the pictures, but this was worthwhile. Brando seemed to seethe and burn in his role. He really could be a contender.

  ‘Would you really mind if I went off and worked?’ Carla asked as they stood outside, the rest of the audience flowing around them.

  ‘Now?’ he asked in surprise. ‘At this time of night?’

  She nodded. ‘I just feel inspired. That last scene, where Brando walked into the docks. It …’ Her eyes were shining. ‘I’m sorry. Would you mind terribly?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he answered. He’d hoped for another night with her, but by now he knew Carla. When she wanted to do something, she needed to do it now. And being away in Italy she’d had no chance to paint. They’d have other nights together. Plenty of them, he hoped. ‘I’ll walk you up there.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ She smiled at him and squeezed his arm gently. ‘But thank you, Sir Galahad. At least the men here don’t pinch your bum as they pass you.’

  They kissed, and he watched her walk away through the Grand Arcade. Hands in pockets, he ambled back to his car, senses alert for anyone behind him, but no one was there. The Tuesday night streets were empty. Only the pubs had life about them, and when he glanced through the windows they looked quiet. He considered turning back and going to Studio 20, but for once the idea of music didn’t appeal.

  No car tailed the Anglia along North Street and out of the city centre. But why would Carter need to? Where else would he be headed at this time of night but home?

  Ten o’clock. Still too early for bed. Markham looked through his records. Ella Fitzgerald, he decided. He’d let the warmth of her voice wrap around him and carry him off into the night.

  It had been a long day. The bank was bad enough, but that would be corrected in a day or two. The real worry came with everything Ged had told him.

  ***

  Tuesday’s rain became Wednesday’s sun. A clear day, according to the forecast on the Home Service, with temperatures into the sixties. He put on a plain, pale grey suit that a tailor had made up for him in Germany. He’d found the shop in a side street, one of three buildings still standing, the old man waiting in the doorway with a tape measure around his neck and an army of pins in his lapels, patient and hopeful of any custom.

  People were smiling as they walked through the city centre. The telephone was ringing as he unlocked the door.

  ‘It’s Joanna Hart.’ She spoke her name quickly. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for the last ten minutes.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Hart?’ He glanced at his wristwatch. It was still only twenty to nine.

  ‘He rang again last night.’

  ‘Carter? What did he want?’

  ‘The same thing.’ She sighed. ‘He told me he could make a slightly better offer, but I have to make a decision quickly. He understood my situation, but he wants to act and he has the money.’

  ‘I see. What did you tell him?’

  ‘That I wasn’t going to make any decisions before my husband was buried. The police haven’t even released his body yet.’

  ‘You did well.’

  ‘He said he was happy to make provisional arrangements for the sale. His solicitor could draw up the papers and we could sign them after the funeral. He’d put down a deposit right away. Cash.’

  ‘That sounds unusual.’ Carter must be desperate for the business, he thought. Why?

  ‘He was polite enough, quite charming, I suppose. But he was pressing me all the time. Every time I said no to something he had another suggestion.’

  ‘I told you he would,’ Markham said.

  ‘He wants to meet me again. Without you there.’

  ‘I’m sure he does.’

  ‘I told him I’d make up my mind today. He’s going to ring back later.’

  ‘Don’t do it. Keep him waiting.’

  ‘I need the money. I told you that.’

  Would Carter know? Probably. The man was thorough and he had a long reach.

  ‘I’ve given you my advice, Mrs Hart.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I just wanted you to know.’

  ***

  Markham stood on Wellington Street, close enough to the station to be able to smell and hear the trains. He was surrounded by Victorian grandeur, tall and solid, all of it ruined by generations of the soot of factory chimneys.

  He was watching a building that was faced with terracotta tiles. Half a century before it would have been the height of fashion. Now, like an aged aunt, it seemed to have faded into the background. A gaudy sign, colourful against the grubby old street, was attached to railings in front of a basement. The Kit Kat Club, it read, with an arrow pointing down a set of steps.

  He glanced at his watch. Half past two. Someone would be there to take care of deliveries and the things that could only be managed during normal working hours. Finally he crossed the road and hammered on the door.

  The man who pulled back the locks stood in his shirtsleeves. He’d been working, his face flushed, but he still looked smooth and sleek. A trace of annoyance flickered in his eyes for a moment.

  ‘Can I help you?’ It was the voice of a man who already had too many things to do.

  ‘I’m looking for the manager.’

  The man sized him up carefully.

  ‘I’m Mr Dawson. But if you’re a musician or a singer, we go through an agency.’

  ‘
My name’s Dan Markham.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ He hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Come in.’

  He was an inch or two shorter than Markham and probably close to thirty-five. His body was still trim, but the face was just beginning to turn pasty and stale. He led the way through the club, tables waiting to be set for the evening, the bandstand empty, and through a door to a corridor of old brick and linoleum. The office stood at the end. Dawson sat behind a desk stacked with papers and invoices and gestured to an armchair on the other side of the small room.

  ‘You’re the one Jo hired,’ Dawson said. ‘It’s terrible what happened to Freddie. He was a good chap. Have the police found his killer yet?’

  ‘I don’t know. They don’t confide in me,’ he answered.

  ‘Oh. I just thought …’ Dawson said.

  ‘We’re not close friends.’ He paused for a heartbeat. ‘Do you know Mrs Hart well?’

  ‘Not that well. But she’s been pals with my wife forever.’

  ‘You recommended me to her.’

  ‘She was looking for an enquiry agent. I asked around and someone mentioned you. I passed on the name.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Do you remember who told you about me?’

  Dawson shook his head.

  ‘I don’t. It was just one of those things that came up in conversation, you know?’ He’d only been seated for a minute. Now he stood again. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m rather busy. I’m expecting a delivery and the bloody help hasn’t shown up for work.’

  ‘Of course.’ Markham rose.

  ‘Stop in at the club one evening. Good dancing, a very lively crowd.’

  ‘Who knows,’ Markham answered, ‘maybe I will.’

  Outside, the sky was a clear, brilliant blue. Maybe they’d have an Indian summer after all. People sweated as they walked, raincoats folded over their arms. In the Kardomah the windows were open wide. He stirred his coffee and lit a cigarette.

  He knew full well who’d given Dawson his name. But why him? He was just a man scraping a living. His work was perfectly legal. He’d never put the strong arm on anyone, he wouldn’t even know how. And now Carter had tried to frame him for murder, tried to bankrupt him by clearing out his bank account and broken two of his fingers. He held up his left hand to look at the mangled digits.

  Why?

  ***

  Detective Sergeant Baker was waiting out on the street, leaning his bulk against a lamppost and smoking his pipe.

  ‘Waiting for me?’

  ‘I knew you’d be out sooner or later. And the chat I want is better in private.’

  ‘Oh?’ Markham raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Let’s take a little stroll down to Millgarth. I know you’re not daft enough to run so I’ll spare you the cuffs.’

  ‘I thought we’d settled everything.’

  ‘Nothing’s settled until there’s a conviction. Everything legal and the judge putting on the black cap.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  They headed down George Street towards the police station, side by side, for all the world like two colleagues out for a walk.

  The building had stood in the same spot for the best part of a century, bits and pieces tacked on over the years, but still looking more like an old school than a nick. Inside, the desk sergeant stood behind the counter, watching him as he passed. Baker took hold of Markham’s elbow and led him through a door then up an old set of steps.

  ‘In there,’ he said.

  The interview room was small. The barred window looked down on the area behind the station and over to the outdoor market, no more than thirty yards and a lifetime away.

  ‘Sit down,’ Baker ordered.

  Markham sat on the plain wooden chair and lit a cigarette. The room smelt of hopelessness and fear, as if they’d seeped into the plaster.

  The detective lowered himself onto the other seat and placed his elbows on the table.

  ‘Freddie Hart,’ he began.

  Markham sighed. ‘We’ve been over this. I told you where I was.’

  ‘This time it’s official.’ He gestured around the walls. ‘I told you before that I had someone who saw you at Hart’s after the place closed.’

  ‘I wasn’t there.’

  Baker gave a slow smile.

  ‘You said you’d gone into a shop in Meanwood. But the lass there couldn’t definitely identify you.’

  ‘She knew someone had been there buying Craven As.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the bus conductor might remember me. Coming back into town it was running late.’ His head came up quickly as he recalled something.

  Baker continued to smile.

  ‘We’ve got a gun. It’s being tested.’

  Markham kept his face impassive.

  ‘Any prints?’

  ‘A few,’ Baker allowed. ‘Happen yours are among them.’

  ‘No,’ he replied with certainly. His gun was safe at the bottom of the river. ‘Whoever told you I was at Hart’s that day was lying.’

  ‘We’ll see. I want to fingerprint you to check.’

  Markham held out his good right hand.

  ‘Whenever you like.’

  ‘You’re a clever little bastard.’ All the warmth had gone from Baker’s voice. ‘Let’s see how smart you are when you feel the noose around your neck for murder.’

  ‘If that happens it’ll be because you’ve rigged the evidence. You and I both know that.’ Baker started to rise as Markham stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘And you’re not that kind of copper. Bring in the ink and the paper. Then you can see I’ve been telling the truth.’

  By the time the constable had been and gone, another hour had passed. Markham tried to clean off the ink but the dark stains remained. Baker had vanished but a bobby stood silently inside the room.

  Finally the detective returned with a face like fury.

  ‘You can go,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Is it the murder weapon?’

  ‘No,’ Baker answered dully.

  ‘And no prints of mine on there.’

  ‘No.’ The man said again as he sat down heavily. ‘What do you know about Billy Harper?’

  ‘He’s a burglar.’

  ‘He probably won’t be again. He took a very bad thumping the other night.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Markham said. ‘Or are you trying to pin that on me, too?’

  ‘Just wondering if you knew him. Maybe he’d worked for you.’

  ‘Can’t he say who did it?’

  ‘His jaw’s wired shut and his fingers were broken so badly he probably won’t be able to use them properly ever again.’ Baker glanced at Markham’s hand. ‘What did you say happened to yours?’

  ‘An accident.’

  ‘Not someone breaking your fingers? Very painful, I hear.’

  ‘An accident,’ he repeated.

  ‘Have it your own way,’ Baker sighed. ‘But if I find you taking the law into your own hands, I’ll be on you like a ton of bricks. You’re right, Markham, I don’t like you. If it was up to me I wouldn’t let you operate in Leeds.’

  ‘What I do is legal.’

  ‘Doesn’t make it any better. But you know more about this Hart murder than you’re saying. I know it in my water. I want whoever pulled that trigger. You hold back on me and I’ll see your life here’s not worth living. I saw that body. It was done in cold blood. I’m after a killer. I’m not playing fucking games, lad.’

  ‘There’s a fellow called David Carter. He wanted to buy Hart Ford.’

  Baker gave him a withering look.

  ‘Do you think I’m daft or something? Clean as a whistle. I’ve looked into him. A solid alibi with two councillors.’ Of course. Who’d doubt a councillor? ‘And before you say a bloody word, I looked at Hart’s wife, too. If you know something, better tell me, son.’

  ‘I’ve told you what I know.’ He glanced at the sergeant. ‘Tell me, Mr. Baker, why do you hate me so much?’

  ‘You
?’ Baker looked at him with contempt. ‘It’s your profession. I’ve told you that. Taking advantage of people’s misery.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not honest.’

  ‘I do my best for every client,’ Markham told him. ‘It’s not my fault I wasn’t old enough for the war, you know.’

  ‘Go on, get out of here,’ the sergeant said wearily. ‘But if you hear anything, come and tell me.’

  ***

  Outside, the air was warm and heavy against his skin. But after Millgarth it felt fresh and clean. He breathed deeply as he walked back to the office, thoughts jangling like electricity in his head. He stopped on Albion Place, turned and went to his car. It was time to ask a favour from someone who wielded power.

  In the Anglia he joined the procession of traffic leaving the city. Out along the Otley Road and finally into the country, beyond the Chevin and to the quiet gentility of Ilkley. He parked on a side street of tall Edwardian terraces, walked through a tidy garden, heavy with roses, and let the knocker fall on a glossy black door.

  The man who answered peered at him, cloudy blue eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. What hair remained was white and thin, carefully combed down across his scalp. A few grey bristles showed on his chin where he’d missed them with the razor. He wore a threadbare cardigan over a checked shirt and tie. Slippers peeked out from under a pair of baggy corduroy trousers.

  ‘Daniel Markham?’ he asked in a hoarse voice.

  ‘Hello, Mr Smith,’ he answered with a smile.

  It was still the easiest case he’d ever had. The man had shuffled into his office one Friday afternoon, heavily wrapped up in an overcoat, scarf and flat cap. He’d introduced himself as Mr Smith; he believed his wife was having an affair. There was nothing unusual about that, except he had to be close to seventy and she was half his age.

  It only took Markham four days to gather the evidence. Mrs Smith came into Leeds every day to spend time with a butcher in Bramley. Straight from the bus stop to the shop. It wasn’t glamorous deception; it wasn’t anything much at all. He took the pictures and presented them quietly to his client.

  Mr Smith really was Smith. Ted Smith. He had a small fortune; he’d designed and patented something for aeroplanes then built it in his small factory. The RAF had bought the device during the war, then the commercial airlines had been clamouring once the fighting was over. When he told his wife he wanted a divorce she’d threatened to take him for everything he was worth. Then he produced the photographs. She went off to Bramley without a penny.