Dark Briggate Blues

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘I don’t know who that man is but he’s a messy eater.’ She looked down at the crumbs on the tablecloth.

  ‘He tries,’ Markham told her. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ***

  The fingers. He’d barely thought about them for a couple of days until Baker mentioned them. The pain had turned to a faint ache at the back of his mind, always there but easy to ignore. He gazed down at his hand and saw how dirty the dressing had become. It needed changing and he knew the damage should be inspected to see how it was healing. First, though, he’d finish his tax return.

  He could pay an accountant. But in his first year he’d made so little that it had been impossible. Now he’d acquired the habit of doing it himself. He could be creative and he hadn’t been caught. So far.

  He was adding a column of figures to claim as expenses when there was a knock on the door and he saw a shadow through the glass.

  ‘Come in.’

  The man was probably forty, but he could have passed for fifty, face weighed down by the heavy bags under his eyes. A fifty-shilling suit, shiny at the elbows, the tie knotted at his throat, a moustache bristling above his upper lip.

  ‘Are you Mr Markham?’ he asked.

  ‘I am. Have a seat.’

  The man looked around the room as if he wasn’t sure what to expect.

  ‘You’re an enquiry agent?’

  Markham smiled.

  ‘That’s right.’ He kept a small advert in the Yorkshire Evening Post classifieds. It didn’t cost much and it brought in trade. The man had it in his hand. ‘How can I help you, Mr …?’

  ‘Jenkins. Roger Jenkins.’

  ‘Mr Jenkins. What can I do for you?’

  It was divorce, he was sure of it. The man had that diffident manner, putting off the words as long as possible, eyes darting everywhere.

  ‘It’s my wife,’ Jenkins answered finally. ‘I think she’s seeing someone.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ he asked, pen poised over a notepad.

  ‘She’s … I don’t know.’ Jenkins pursed his lips. ‘She’s just different. Colder at home.’

  ‘What’s your wife’s name?’

  ‘Laura.’

  ‘Do you have any children?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid we were never blessed that way.’

  It took another quarter of an hour to draw it all out. Laura Jenkins rarely went out in the evening, but the man suspected she might be seeing someone during the day. He had no idea who it might be. He seemed baffled by it all. Their friends were all good, upright, hard-working people. He wanted Markham to keep an eye on her, to see if she was having an affair.

  ‘And if she is?’ It was the question he always asked. Divorce was a messy business, one that ruined lives. Co-respondents would be cited, it would be dirty and ugly and it would all be out in public in the courtroom.

  ‘I’ll make my decision then,’ Jenkins said calmly. ‘We’ve been married fourteen years. Right before I went off to fight. You don’t throw that away like tea leaves.’

  ‘No,’ Markham agreed.

  He had the address, in the Carr Manors. Comfortable semi-detached houses from the ’thirties. Jenkins might not look much but he had some money. Or far too many bills.

  ‘How much do you charge?’

  ‘A five-pound retainer. The fee’s dependent on what I need to do. And expenses, of course.’

  The man pulled the wallet from his suit jacket and took out a note, rubbing it carefully to be sure there was only one. Markham began to write out a receipt but Jenkins refused.

  ‘What if Laura found it?’ he asked with a horrified look. ‘How would I explain that?’

  ‘What’s your line of work?’ Markham asked.

  ‘I’m a manufacturer’s agent.’ Jenkins reached back into the wallet for a business card. ‘Knitwear,’ he explained. ‘I sell it to wholesalers around here and up in the Northeast. I’m gone one week in four – Newcastle, Sunderland, around there.’

  ‘And you think Laura’s unfaithful when you’re away?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was quiet defeat in the word.

  ‘And you’ve no idea at all who she might be seeing?’

  ‘None,’ Jenkins answered after a small hesitation.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I …’ He shook his head. ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Does she have a job?’

  ‘Of course not. She’s a housewife.’ He said it with a kind of pride, that he earned enough to support his family.

  ‘Do you have a photograph of her?’

  ‘No.’ He seemed surprised by the idea. ‘Why?’

  ‘So I can recognise her.’ He said it with a gentle smile.

  ‘She’s the only woman who lives there. You’ll be able to follow her. That’s what you do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Does she drive?’

  ‘No. I can take her wherever she needs and she walks to the shops. When can you start?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘That would be good. The sooner, the better.’

  ‘Leave it with me, Mr Jenkins. How do you want me to contact you with my reports?’

  ‘I’ll be in touch with you.’

  ‘Of course.’ It was often the way. They didn’t want someone ringing at work or to receive anything at home. ‘Give me a few days and I’ll see what I can find.’

  ***

  He drove by the Jenkins’ house, a semi with a bay window and a small front lawn tucked behind a privet hedge. There was a place towards the end of the road where he could park and watch. Tomorrow.

  On the way home he stopped by the doctor’s surgery, spending half an hour in the waiting room before the physician could see him.

  ‘You look like you’ve been in the wars,’ he said as he snipped off the bandages and put on fresh ones.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Yes.’ The man pronounced the word slowly. ‘It’s nasty but it’s healing, Mr Markham, but you need to be patient.’ He pushed his lips together. ‘I’ll be honest with you, though. I’m not sure how well those fingers will work after this.’

  ‘I understand.’ Another reason to make Carter pay.

  ***

  The next morning he was parked on Carr Manor Parade, slumped down in the seat of the Anglia, eyes on the Jenkins’ house. He’d made a sandwich, wrapped in greaseproof paper on the passenger seat, and a thermos flask of tea.

  The man had left promptly at half past eight, driving off in a Ford Popular. Laura Jenkins emerged a little after nine. There was nothing glamorous about her. Flat-heeled shoes on thin legs, a dark woollen coat, scarf over her hair and a shopping bag in her hand. As ordinary as she could be.

  He could have walked down to the parade behind her. But at this time of day a man on his own would have stood out. Mornings were when the women went out to the grocer, the greengrocer, the baker, while the men were at their work. A chance to gossip and see someone else, to decide what to make for tea.

  This was the stuff of his life, tracking all this, making quick notes on a pad. All too often suspicions turned out to be nothing more than groundless fears. Inside, he felt sure that Laura Jenkins was a faithful wife. Ground down and unhappy with the routine perhaps, but not about to do anything about it. He parked by the parade and saw her arrive, moving quickly from shop to shop before starting the short trek home.

  He was there, down the street again, to see her arrive and unlock the door. By afternoon nothing more had happened. She hadn’t gone out again. The coal man delivered his load along the road, hoisting the hundredweight sacks easily on his shoulder. Later it was the soft drink man with his bottles of lemonade. Neither of them stopped at the Jenkins’ house.

  At four he turned the key in the ignition and drove away. Nothing. He’d return tomorrow and do it all again. But he doubted that he’d discover anything.

  ***

  As soon as he walked into the office he knew somethi
ng was wrong. The chair was pulled away from the desk; he always pushed it in before he left. The blotter sat left of centre; he kept it squarely in the middle. Someone had been here. He breathed slowly and looked around, taking in everything.

  He’d decided to come back and finish his damned tax return. It wouldn’t take more than an hour at most, then the evening was his own. But now his heart was beating faster and his mouth felt dry. Carter. He searched quickly through the desk drawers and the filing cabinet. Nothing was missing. What did the man want? The papers that had been stolen with the gun? No. If they’d been so important he’d have had someone in the office before. And they weren’t even here.

  If nothing had been taken, then something must have been left.

  A chill prickle of sweat rolled down his back as he hunted. At first he was methodical, exactly the way they’d taught him in military intelligence, under and behind desk drawers, checking the lino for a loose corner where something could be hidden. Not a thing. All the files in the cabinet were exactly as they should have been. No papers or packets added.

  As the minutes passed he became more frantic, looking anywhere and everywhere. Think, he told himself. Bloody think. Finally he dragged out the filing cabinet, grunting with effort. There was only wall behind it. On his knees he reached under the bottom drawer. Then he felt it. Slowly, cautiously, he tried to grip with his fingertips, pulling it out into the open.

  A bulky brown envelope he knew he’d never seen before. Carefully, he broke the seal with his thumbnail as he shouldered the cabinet back into place.

  Money.

  He counted quickly, then again, scarcely able to believe his eyes. Five hundred pounds in white five-pound notes. A fortune. Almost two years’ salary. He flicked through the notes once more.

  He smoked a cigarette, the money spread out across the desk. It was here for a reason and it wasn’t generosity. Markham licked the glue and sealed the envelope again, then hurried down the stairs to the floor below. Miss Jacobs’ secretarial agency did work for many small businesses; he used her whenever he needed a letter typing. He was barely in time; she was just locking up, the girls who worked for her leaving in a rapid shower of heels on the steps.

  ‘Mr Markham,’ she said. ‘If you need a letter it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.’ She was always immaculately turned out, grey hair set in neat waves around a bony, disapproving face. She wore an engagement ring, the memento of a fiancé who never returned from Ypres all those years before. A photograph of him in uniform, trapped in time, sat on her desk.

  ‘It’s nothing like that,’ he told her, trying to put some charm into his smile. ‘I was hoping you could keep this for me until tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I suppose I could,’ she agreed with a prim sniff. After so many years she was used to strange requests from men.

  ‘I’d be very grateful.’

  She put it securely in her handbag, wished him goodnight and left. He returned to his office, lit another cigarette and ran a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of what he’d just found.

  ***

  He heard the footsteps clambering up to the third floor and sat behind the desk, straightening his tie as he waited. The door flew open and Detective Sergeant Graham marched in, a pair of uniformed constables behind him.

  ‘Here you go, lads,’ Graham said, eyes already hungrily scanning the room. ‘Meet an enquiry agent. Likes to think he’s one of those private detectives from the films.’ One of the coppers smirked. The other, younger, a glimmer of intelligence in his eyes, looked embarrassed. ‘A little bird told me you have some dodgy money here.’

  ‘That little bird again? He’s busy, isn’t he?’ Markham took the wallet from his pocket and produced the money Jenkins had given him, flattening it out on the desk. ‘This looks fine to me.’

  ‘Not that,’ Graham said. A flush of anger rose on his cheeks. ‘Don’t get clever with me, lad.’

  ‘That’s all the money I have here.’

  ‘Aye, and I was born yesterday. Never done a thing wrong in your life, have you?’

  ‘I suppose you want to search.’

  ‘That’s why I’ve come.’

  ‘Do you have a warrant?’ Markham asked.

  Graham leaned forwards, palms on the desk, until his face was close enough for Markham to smell the decay on his breath.

  ‘Do I need one?’ he asked threateningly.

  Markham shrugged. ‘Be my guest. There’s nothing here, I already told you that.’

  ‘We’ll see, lad. We’ll see.’ He stood and looked around, as if he was considering where to start. ‘Pull out that filing cabinet,’ he told the officers.

  Markham kept his face impassive, watching them work, then Graham kneeling, reaching and searching for the envelope.

  ‘Found anything, Sergeant?’

  Graham rose slowly. He didn’t even try to hide the hatred in his eyes.

  ‘Search everywhere,’ he shouted. ‘Take the place apart.’

  They were thorough, pulling open every file, removing every drawer. Ten minutes later they stood by the door, empty-handed.

  ‘It looks like that little bird of yours isn’t too reliable, Sergeant.’

  ‘You’d better watch your mouth,’ Graham warned and stormed off, the uniforms trooping behind him.

  He waited until the footsteps had receded and let out a long, slow breath. Dodgy money. Counterfeit. That explained a lot. It would have been a few years in jail if they’d found it.

  He’d been lucky. He was surviving by the skin of his teeth. But survival wasn’t going to be enough.

  ***

  When he turned the corner he saw Graham leaning against the car and sighed. He should have guessed. He’d made the man look like a fool; now there’d be a price to pay.

  ‘I thought our business was done, Sergeant.’ He had the key tight in his hand.

  ‘You think, lad?’ He pushed himself upright, making his large hands into fists. ‘I don’t know what you did, but that money was there.’

  ‘Was it? Your boys were thorough. They didn’t find it.’

  ‘Next time,’ he warned. ‘Meanwhile, you and me are going to have a little talk.’ He nodded at a ginnel that led to the back of a building. ‘Down there. Five minutes. That’s all I need and you’ll be crying for your mummy and telling me everything.’

  ‘Leave it, Ronnie.’ Baker’s voice was low and even as he emerged from the shadows, hands pushed deep in the pockets of his raincoat. ‘You had your chance.’

  Graham kept his gaze firmly on Markham.

  ‘This one thinks he’s a bright boy. We can’t let him get away with that.’

  ‘He’s smarter than you. The best thing you can do is let it go.’

  Graham was still for a few moments then spat and walked away.

  ‘Good job I was passing by,’ Baker said quietly.

  ‘Were you?’ Markham asked and saw the man shrug.

  ‘Maybe. I told you, I don’t like bent coppers.’ He snorted and gave a grim smile. ‘I like them even less than enquiry agents. Be grateful for that.’

  Markham nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on but watch yourself. Graham doesn’t like to lose. Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘Have it your own way. Having him after you makes me think you might just have something about you, after all. Just don’t be a bloody fool. I don’t want to be the person who has to sweep up the pieces. And believe me, Danny boy, you don’t want me angry at you.’

  Markham unlocked the car door and Baker began to stroll away.

  ‘Remember, though, if you leave the straight and narrow it won’t just be Sergeant Graham you need to worry about.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  By ten on Thursday morning no one had come out of the Jenkins’ house. He poured more tea from the flask and waited.

  A pair of women strolled along, pausing for a moment outside the place. One shook he
r head before they moved on. Odd, he thought.

  Markham waited a few more minutes then opened the latch on the gate and walked down the gravel drive to knock on the front door. Nothing. He tried again. No answer.

  The grass of the square front garden was neatly trimmed, the rose beds dug and weeded. He peered through the front windows. The curtains were open. Not a stick of furniture inside, just bare floorboards. He darted round to the back of the house. Exactly the same in the living room. Empty.

  ‘They flitted last night.’

  The woman leaned against the fence between the drives, puffing on a cigarette and watching him with amusement. She had a pleasant, plump face with smile lines around her mouth and eyes, an apron tied around her waist.

  ‘A flit?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘After dark. It’s not quite what one expects around here,’ she said with a brief grin. ‘A van came and they put in what they had. Not that they had much,’ she added with pleasure. ‘They’d only been here three days, too.’

  ‘They were here yesterday,’ he said. It was a pointless remark, more to himself than to her.

  ‘How do you know?’ She jumped on the remark. ‘Were you watching the house? What’s going on? Are they criminals? I thought he looked a bit shifty. Are you a policeman?’

  ‘No. Mr Jenkins wanted me to keep an eye on things.’

  ‘Who’s Mr Jenkins?’ she asked. ‘The landlord?’

  ‘He’s the husband,’ Markham said.

  She shook her head.

  ‘No. I had her round for a cup of tea. She said they were called Thompson.’

  ‘I see.’

  He saw all too well. He’d been conned. A job to keep him out of the office whilst they hid the counterfeit money. And once they were done they’d pulled down the tent and vanished.

  ‘Why were you watching her?’ the woman asked. She ground out the cigarette and picked up the butt. ‘Did he think she had a fancy man?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well,’ she said slowly and glanced over her shoulder. ‘Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea? I’d love to hear about it.’

  ***

  In the office he tried the telephone number on the card. A dead line, of course.

  It had taken time and effort to set everything up, to find the couple and make the arrangements. If he dug a little he’d probably discover that Carter owned the house.