‘I’d not argue with you on that. But maybe Hart Ford isn’t the right ground for your battle.’
‘What if Carter is the one spreading rumours that it’s in such a bad state?’ Markham asked.
‘I suppose that’s possible,’ Hatton allowed after a few seconds’ thought. ‘Plant the word here and there.’
‘It would explain why no one else is making a bid for the place.’
‘Happen it might be worth having a look at the books. See how bad it really is.’
‘Perhaps it would.’
Hatton gave a brief, thoughtful nod. ‘I knew there was a reason I came in here tonight. Besides not having to go home and see the missus.’
***
The phone rang a little after eleven the next morning. Markham answered, once again hearing the metal clunk of coins in the phone box.
‘You’re buying me my dinner, lad. Lyons at twelve.’ Baker replaced the receiver without waiting for an answer.
***
He was already there, sitting at one of the tables, chair pushed back to accommodate his belly, reading the menu as if it was a good book. Markham sat across from him, dark patches on his mac from the rain that had begun as he walked down Briggate. The restaurant smelt of warm, damp wool.
‘What’s so important, Sergeant?’
‘In a minute.’ Baker finished the list and waited until the waitress had taken their order. He dragged the pipe from his pocket and lit it, taking his time. ‘I pulled in those three who work for Carter,’ he said with a smile. ‘No shortage of prior offences on them.’
‘Still in custody?’
‘Had to let Dodge and White go, but Anderson’s in the cells. He was carrying a knife when the bobbies searched him. He’ll be going down.’ He said the words with satisfaction.
The food came and they began to eat.
‘It won’t stop Carter,’ Markham said.
‘I know. But it’s a start. And out of the three we took in, Anderson’s the only one who can think a bit. Carter’s going miss that.’
‘He’ll find someone else.’
‘Of course he will,’ Baker snapped as if it was obvious. ‘But at least the bastard knows he’s in my sights now. With any luck I’ll be able to get something on Graham, too. Have him bounced off the force and into a cell.’
‘Why? Why are you doing all this now?’ Markham asked.
‘It’s not because I’ve taken a sudden liking to you. Don’t worry about that, Danny boy.’ He pushed the empty plate away, took a sip of the tea and relit the pipe. ‘I’ve been on the force for a long time. You weren’t even thought about when I started out on the beat. I like this city and I’m buggered if I’m going to let someone come in and tear it all down just to make a bob or two. Simple as that.’
‘Carter’s a dangerous man to have as an enemy.’ Markham held up his bandaged fingers.
He snorted. ‘You said that before. You should have tried being a bobby here in the thirties if you wanted dangerous. Back before they knocked down all them slums where Quarry Hill flats are now. They only let us go there in pairs back then. He’s not going to hurt me.’
‘He’s killed people.’
‘Plenty of us have, lad.’ His voice turned harsh. ‘What the hell do you think we did in the war? And there’s more as never came home, too. It wasn’t like your generation, playing bloody games on your National Service.’
Markham didn’t try to reply; there was no point. They were unlikely allies, he knew that. But if they brought down Carter it would be worthwhile. After that things could return to the way they’d been.
‘What next?’
‘What do you have up your sleeve?’ Baker asked. ‘You’re the wonder boy.’
‘There might be some other interest coming on Hart Ford.’
‘Oh?’
Markham shrugged.
‘We’ll have to wait and see. But it would make things interesting.’
***
Joanna Hart sounded fresh and alert when she rang during the afternoon. She offered no apology for the way she’d been the day before. Most likely she didn’t even remember, he thought.
‘I wanted to tell you, I’ve had the very best news.’
‘Another offer on the business?’
‘How did you know?’ There was a trace of suspicion in her voice, then it vanished. ‘It’s not an offer, exactly. He wants to see the books first. But I’m sure he’ll make a bid.’
‘You’re right, that’s wonderful news.’
‘If he does, Carter will have to up his price if he wants to buy.’ For the first time since he’d met her, she sounded buoyant and hopeful.
‘Then let’s hope he likes what he sees.’
‘His accountant is examining things today. So I could hear something tomorrow.’
‘True.’
Hatton hadn’t wasted time. But he hadn’t seemed the type to miss an opportunity. It was out of Markham’s hands now. The figures would speak for themselves. If the potential was there, the man would make his bid.
He stayed in the office until five, pottering at this and that, filling the time in case some new client appeared. They’d been too thin on the ground lately; he could use the business. He’d just buttoned the mac and taken the keys from his pocket when the telephone rang.
‘Dan?’ It was Carla’s voice, close to tears.
‘What is it?’
‘Can you come up to the college, please? To the studio?’
‘Of course. But what–’
‘Please.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She was in the corridor, squatting, her back against the wall, head buried in her hands.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Markham asked, kneeling in front of her and holding her gently by the shoulders. She looked like a collapsed marionette, tears coursing down her cheeks. ‘What is it?’
Carla said nothing, just tilted her head towards the room. Slowly he rose, his heart still thumping in his chest. He’d run all the way from the office. He turned the handle and walked in.
Every canvas had been slashed. Some just three or four cuts, other in ribbons. Brutal light spilled through the windows. The painting she’d started based on Donatello’s statue was still on an easel, obliterated by razors. Everything she’d worked on for a year or more had been destroyed.
One picture lay in the middle of the floor. It had been placed there deliberately, a self-portrait, Carla caught in a pensive mood with hair falling across her face. A single cut crossed the neck. He picked up the painting and stacked it with the others. Everything damaged, everything beyond repair. All her work, all come to nothing.
He lifted Carla to her feet and took her in his arms. She clung tightly, pushing her head against his shoulder and letting the tears come again. He reached out and closed the door; no one else needed to see this.
She held him for a long time. He rubbed her back softly, feeling the small shocks of each thought making her quiver. They’d taken away everything she’d created. But the self-portrait had been directed at him.
‘Come on,’ he said gently when the crying had ended and she was still. He kept his arm around her, gathering up her bag and coat.
In her office she stared at him, her face empty. She lived for her painting. Teaching at the art college just gave her the money and the studio to do it. He took hold of her hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘You know who did it, don’t you?’
He nodded.
‘Why?’ Her voice was bleak and uncomprehending. She pawed at fresh tears, wiping them away with broad strokes. He thought about a simple answer but she deserved the truth.
‘It’s the man I’m after. He’s responsible for this.’
‘But why?’
‘He wants me to stop. He thinks doing this will help.’
She stayed silent for a long time looking into his eyes.
‘Dan …’
‘I’m sorry. I never thought …’ He shook his
head. He hadn’t imagined Carter would go after her. Carla had no part in their battle.
‘I’d been talking to the gallery in London about an exhibition. Maybe next spring.’
And now that was ruined. He let out a long, slow breath, not knowing what to say. In his mind he could see the self-portrait.
‘Would the college let you take a little time off?’
‘The term’s only just started,’ she answered automatically, then stopped herself. ‘Christ, Dan, what are you saying?’
‘That it would be safer if you were out of Leeds for a little while.’ He kept his voice steady.
‘Safer?’ She said the word as if she didn’t understand.
‘Yes.’ He didn’t want to have to explain, to make it into bare facts. This was enough, more than enough. He cared about her. But he knew he couldn’t protect her.
‘Tell me,’ she demanded.
‘Go and stay with someone for a little while. A week, maybe a fortnight. It’ll all be over by then.’
He didn’t know if it would, he could only hope.
‘And what then? I start everything all over again?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Would I be in danger if I stayed?’
‘I don’t know,’ he repeated.
Her eyes were hard as she stared at him.
‘Be honest, Dan. I’m not a bloody child.’
‘You might be.’
She squeezed his hand hard.
‘All because of what you’re doing?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t expect anything like this.’
Like an invalid, she let him help her into her coat and guide her down to the Victoria Hotel on Great George Street. It was close to college, somewhere they’d gone often enough. But all the old joy and laughter had flown from the place. He bought her a large brandy and watched her drink it. A blush of colour started to return to her cheeks as she smoked a cigarette.
‘Did you mean it? What you said about me leaving for a while?’
‘Yes.’
‘For God’s sake, Dan. What have you got yourself into?’
‘More than I wanted.’
A vendetta, a war. He owed her the truth and he gave it to her as she sipped the brandy, bringing her up to date on everything. All the twists and turns. When he’d finished she only had one question.
‘Do you think you’ll win?’
‘I hope so.’ It was the best he could offer.
She let the silence hang and gazed around the bar.
‘I’ll talk to my department head tomorrow.’ Her voice was quiet and reasonable. ‘In the circumstances I’m sure he’ll be fine with a fortnight away.’ He opened his mouth but she continued. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell him the truth. I have a friend I can stay with.’ A small, bitter smile crossed her lips. ‘Maybe I can do some painting. Try to have enough for that exhibition, if it’s any good.’
‘You know you have talent.’
Carla shook her head.
‘Right now I’m not sure what I have, Dan. I don’t even know what I’m feeling.’ She buttoned her coat. ‘I’m going to stay with Mary tonight and I’ll sort everything out in the morning.’ She leant across and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll ring you when I come back.’
He heard the sharp click of her heels on the floor. No goodbye, nothing. But he deserved that for what he’d caused her. Maybe he was saving her life, but would he ever see her again?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Friday arrived. Markham hoped Carla would ring before she left town but the telephone was silent all morning. When the bell finally shrilled in the afternoon he grabbed at the receiver. It was only a call from another enquiry agency in Birmingham offering him a little work in Leeds.
It meant money and he accepted gratefully, but he’d have given it up to hear her voice. Still, he understood. He’d brought all this down on her; of course she wouldn’t want any contact with him right now.
He’d made notes during the call and began rewriting them, translating his scrawl into legible writing whilst it was fresh in his mind. The door handle rattled then turned and he looked up. Joanna Hart burst in.
She wore a cream dress with black trim under a black coat, her hair was loose and a smile played on her lips.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘I was coming into town and I wanted to let you know. He’s going to make an offer!’
‘The mystery interest?’
‘Of course,’ she said with a touch of exasperation. ‘Who else?’
‘So you’re celebrating?’
‘I’m meeting someone for a drink and we might have a bite to eat.’
‘Mr Parker?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ she told him. ‘But no, if you must know. It’s an old chum. A girl.’
‘When will the offer come through?’
‘Tomorrow. He said he still needed to come up with an exact figure. He was just checking that I hadn’t already sold to anyone. So I can forget about our friend.’
He didn’t say anything. For some reason Carter had his sights on Hart Ford; he wouldn’t be happy at anything that stopped him buying it. And he wasn’t a man who liked to lose.
‘Have you heard from Carter again?’
‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘This morning he sent me a big bunch of flowers. The char had to dig out another vase to hold them all. But he won’t go a penny higher.’
***
In the end, the job for the Birmingham agency only took an hour. He was finished before five and was back in the office, writing out his report and dropping it in the post box on his way back to the motor car.
Sergeant Graham was leaning against the wall. The trilby shaded his eyes and his hands were pushed deep into overcoat pockets.
‘Looking for me?’ Markham asked.
‘I’m not here for my health.’ He moved close.
‘What do you want?’ He knew. Word would have passed about Hatton’s interest. Carter would have made a telephone call to send out his pet copper.
‘Someone wanted you to do something.’
‘I’ll tell you what I told him: I don’t work for Carter.’
‘He’s heard that the Hart woman might sell to someone else.’
‘If the money’s right, I’m sure she will.’ He had the car key in his hand, protruding between his index and middle fingers.
Graham shook his head.
‘Not good enough. He told you what he was going to do. To make an example of you.’
‘Then he hasn’t succeeded, has he? I’m still here.’
‘If Mrs Hart hasn’t signed over the business to him by Monday, you’ll be gone. Simple message, even for someone like you.’ He brought out one large hand and slapped Markham very lightly on the face. ‘He’s giving you one last chance. You’re a lucky lad.’
‘Since you’re playing messenger boy you can tell him something.’ He saw Graham bristle.
‘What’s that?’
‘To go fuck himself.’
The sergeant smiled.
‘You think having Baker on your side will help you? He’s on his way out. Coppers like him are the past. The pair of you, you’re amateurs.’
‘But we’re not bent.’
He wasn’t prepared for the fist. It sank into his belly and forced all the air from him. Markham sank to the ground and Graham casually brought up his knee to catch him on the jaw and send him sprawling.
By the time he could breathe and start to move, the policeman had gone. People walked around him as he crawled and gathered his keys from the pavement. Very slowly, the paralysis faded from his solar plexus. He spat blood from his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue.
He steadied himself on the car, pushing himself upright and wiping the dirt from his trousers. Finally he lit a cigarette, smoking the whole thing then grinding it out before driving home.
The blows had been Graham’s own touch. The hard man giving a taste of what he enjoyed. But the message had been clear. Monday. It w
as Friday now. A weekend of grace then it would all come to a climax.
***
Late in the evening he was back in town, casually dressed in cavalry twill trousers and an old jacket, his shirt collar unbuttoned, the tie in the drawer at home. The end of the week and people were out to enjoy themselves. Crowds spilled out from the pubs, scattering to the late buses. A few revellers remained, a knot here and there on street corners.
He parked and took the stairs down to Studio 20. The music was already roaring, a trumpeter letting his notes soar like Louis Armstrong over a rowdy, bumpy rhythm section. It hit him as he opened the door. Bass, drums, the piano punctuating with jagged chords, a tenor sax taking over the lead on ‘A Night in Tunisia’ as the crowd applauded.
The group was half West Indian, the trumpeter wiping his face with a handkerchief as he sat down, smiling and nodding his head in time with the beat. The sax spiralled higher, turning the melody inside out before dipping down an octave and starting to climb again on a subtly different route.
Markham nodded to Bob Barclay, in his usual place behind the partition, then sat. His stomach was still sore and a bruise was beginning to form on his chin. His fingers throbbed; he’d taken a couple of pills before coming out. But as the music grew around him, he forgot the pain.
The drummer propelled the group, pushing and nudging, but it was the front men who shone, feeding off each other, swapping phrases, eyes closed to listen then play, their skin wet with sweat. They batted around an idea, smiling as they resolved it into ‘A Foggy Day In London Town’ to finish their set. It had been ragged at times, but there was electricity in what they played and the audience knew it, clapping wildly.
Markham stood, ready to leave. Whoever else played tonight, they wouldn’t top that. Barclay waved him over, watching as two new reedmen set up to play.
‘What did you think?’ he asked, nodding at the players who’d just finished.
‘They’re good.’
‘Yes,’ Barclay agreed with a hint of doubt. ‘You know what, though, Dan? Three people in the crowd walked out as soon as they saw those two were coloured.’ He shook his head. ‘People, eh? Who do they think made jazz in the first place?’
‘So who are this pair?’
Dark Briggate Blues Page 14
