‘They came over three months ago. Tony and Terry. Working as street cleaners for the council. They play for fun.’
‘Maybe they’ll make money from it sometime.’
Barclay shook his head.
‘Money and jazz, Dan. Don’t go well together. Never have.’
Out on Briggate he looked around as he walked to the car. Monday, Carter had said, but he wasn’t going to put his trust in a word. No one was waiting. No one had broken into the flat.
***
By eleven on Saturday he was parking in Ilkley. He’d dressed for the occasion in dark trousers and a tweed jacket, with a checked shirt and pale tie. Respectable but casual. He knocked on Ted Smith’s door and heard footsteps shuffling along the hall.
‘Hello, Dan.’ The man beamed. Maybe so few people visited him that anyone was welcome. ‘Come on in, I’ll put the kettle on.’
They settled in the kitchen, teapot and a pint bottle of milk between them, a fresh packet of digestive biscuits tipped on to a plate.
‘Right,’ Smith said. ‘I know you’re not here to pass an hour. Is everything over? Do you need more money?’ His voice was eager, his eyes shining and curious.
‘No more money,’ Markham told him. ‘I still have some of what you gave me before.’ He began to reach for his wallet but Smith reached out a hand to stop him.
‘You keep it, you might need it. Have you won?’
‘Not yet.’ He detailed everything that had happened, the pushes forwards, the steps back and the threats. Smith listened closely. When Markham finished, he asked,
‘What’s so special about this Ford place?’
‘I don’t know.’ He’d wondered about that himself, unable to find an answer. It was just a business. If Carter really wanted a motor car agency he was able to open one of his own. Everything perfectly legal.
‘Seems an odd thing to me. But how can I help you, Dan?’
‘I just wanted you aware of everything. In case something happens to me.’
‘You really think it will?’
‘I think he’s a man who does what he says. And he’s well-protected. He has friends in Whitehall.’
‘Is it worth it?’
‘Yes.’ Markham didn’t even have to think. ‘It is.’
‘Right. The Chief Constable’s a friend of mine. Owt happens, I’ll have a word with him. I can do it now, if you prefer?’
Markham shook his head.
‘No. But thank you.’
‘It’s your choice.’ Smith gave him a curious look. ‘But you look after yourself. I respect a man who’ll stand up for what he believes, but I don’t want to read about you in the Evening Post. I’m not sure anything’s worth that.’
‘I’m not sure it is, either,’ he answered with a wry smile. ‘But here I am.’
‘Make sure it’s not the last time.’ He poured another cup of tea, draining the pot, and taking one more biscuit. ‘You said that girl you like has gone away for a little while.’
‘I think so. She promised she would.’
‘I saw your face. You’re sweet on her, aren’t you?’
‘A bit.’ He didn’t want to say anything more. For all he knew, everything was over with Carla. If it was, he could hardly blame her. If she hadn’t been involved with him then her paintings, everything she’d created, would still be whole. Her art was who Carla was. It was everything that mattered to her. She might care about him, but he’d always play second fiddle to her work. He couldn’t afford to dwell on it now.
‘Think about what matters. You get to my age, the only regrets are the things you didn’t do.’
‘I will.’
***
The hard metal ringing of the alarm clock woke him at half past one. Outside the window the night was silent. No cars on the road, no stragglers on the pavement making their late way home.
He dressed in a dark suit and tie, topping if off with the overcoat and trilby. The effect was exactly what he’d hoped, an anonymous young businessman who might be a guest at an expensive hotel. In town he parked on Basinghall Street, away from the lights.
On the way home from Ilkley he’d stopped on King Street and walked through the ground floor of the Metropole Hotel. It was as grand as its name, an old Victorian building that kept the old standards of luxury and service.
There was no doorman in the small hours, but nothing to stop him walking in, either. He smiled at the desk clerk and passed quickly, walking with the assurance of a guest. The thick carpet muffled his footsteps. Down the corridor he waited ten minutes, long enough for his face to vanish from the man’s mind.
Then he reached up and pulled the fire alarm before slipping through a door and out of sight to hide among piles of towels and sheets. A cacophony of bells began to sound. Within a few seconds Markham could hear voices and footsteps on the stairs as people tumbled from their rooms and staff shouted questions and instructions.
He waited eight minutes. Time enough for everyone to be up and outside and the fire engine to arrive. At the second floor he listened carefully then put on a pair of leather gloves. At room 203 he brought a thin piece of plastic from his pocket and pushed on the door, enough to force a gap between wood and frame. Markham worked the perspex between them to force open the Yale lock, exactly the way the army had taught him. A quick turn of the handle and he was in.
The light was still on, the bedclothes were thrown back; there was still a dent in the pillow. Like a good guest, Carter had abandoned his room when the alarm sounded. Papers sat on the table. He took them without looking, then emptied the contents of each drawer into a pile onto the floor.
With a Stanley knife he slashed the mattress and pillows, then the twelve suits in the wardrobe, cutting a sleeve off each one. Finally he attacked the shirts and looked around at his handiwork.
Back in the corridor he closed the door gently, checking that the lock held. His footsteps echoed lightly on the concrete of the service stairs. Down on the ground floor he found a rear door that was unlocked and slipped out into the night. He walked to the car, forcing himself to stroll and not run, sucking the smoke of a cigarette deep into his lungs.
In the flat he undressed and glanced through the papers he’d taken. More letters relating to the businesses Carter owned. Several were from the council, violations and fines and threatening closure. Good, he thought with a smile. A couple of notes from friends awaiting replies.
The man would know who was responsible. He’d want his revenge. Markham was banking on that.
Part Three
ROUND ABOUT MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The car was waiting on Town Street, pulling into traffic directly behind the Anglia. The driver didn’t even try to disguise his actions, staying close on the drive into town. Markham turned off, cutting through back streets and bouncing over the cobbles, the car sticking close as he headed away from Leeds.
He knew the spot he wanted. Out in Shadwell, just beyond the suburbs. A lazy little stream where he’d gone fishing with his father, riding bicycles into the country. He’d been back several times since, when he wanted solitude close to home.
There was only one man in the vehicle behind him. Markham pressed down on the accelerator just after a corner and pulled ahead, keeping up the speed as the road snaked. Around a second bend, out of sight for a few seconds, he stamped on the brake and yanked on the wheel to turn onto a small track.
The other car dashed past, then stopped, reversing slowly. It gave him the time he wanted, to leave the Anglia and run down a path. He picked up a branch, weighing it in his hands. It hurt to grip with his injured fingers, but was worth the pain. The trees were thick; plenty of places to hide.
He heard the man, the crack of twigs on the ground. Markham tightened his grip on the wood, scarcely daring to breathe. The man was blundering along, confident and contemptuous. As he passed, Markham brought the branch down hard on his head.
He fell with a small sigh and lay still. Quickly, Markh
am felt for a pulse then emptied the man’s pockets – wallet, grubby handkerchief, change, keys. He took the thirty shillings in notes, the keys and most of the coins, leaving tuppence for a telephone call; there was a box a mile down the road.
He stripped the man naked, throwing clothes and possessions into the stream. It ran deep here; everything would sink. There was no need for more. With a final glance he walked back to the cars and put on his gloves.
The boot of the man’s car was empty but he found a gun wedged under the front seat, a Colt automatic with a full magazine, the safety catch on. He put it in his overcoat, locked the door and tossed the keys into a hedge before driving away.
Whoever he was, the man would wake in a while. Sooner or later he’d be able to raise some help, if he wasn’t arrested for exposure first. Either way, Markham had sent another message to Carter. Now it was time for one more.
***
Eleven on a Sunday morning and Joanna Hart was up and dressed. She showed him through to the living room, the sun through the window catching dust motes in the air.
She glanced at the grandfather clock.
‘I’m meeting some people in a little while,’ she announced.
‘Have you had that offer yet?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Tomorrow, he said.’
‘I want you to ring Carter and arrange to meet him in the morning.’
‘Why? I don’t have the offer yet.’
‘Tell him someone else is putting in a bid for the business and you’re giving him a chance to increase his offer.’
She looked at him with curiosity.
‘Is there any point?’
‘Make it early,’ he continued. ‘Nine o’clock. And tell him I’ll be with you.’ With the shops shut on Sunday Carter would have had no chance to buy new clothes.
‘I’ll ask again, Mr Markham,’ she said impatiently. ‘Why?’
‘He’ll try and put you off until later in the day. Insist on it being early.’
She sighed and lit a cigarette.
‘All right,’ she agreed finally. ‘Where?’
He thought quickly.
‘The Kardomah, up in the restaurant.’
‘What sort of game are you playing, Mr Markham?’
‘One that puts Carter at a disadvantage.’ He stood, feeling the weight of the gun pulling down his pocket. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘I trust this won’t end up being a wasted trip.’
He smiled.
‘Believe me, it won’t.’
***
Markham spent the rest of the day on edge, playing Ellington and Basie records, big bands to distract him. He tried to read but couldn’t settle long enough as he anticipated the meeting the following morning.
Wearing his best suit, he was in the office a little after eight. No one else had been there but why would they? Carter wanted his revenge on the man, not the place.
He smoked four cigarettes, grinding one out in the ashtray then immediately lighting another. Every few seconds his eyes flicked to the clock. The telephone rang and he jumped to it.
‘He said ten o’clock,’ Joanna Hart said. ‘He wouldn’t budge from that.’
Markham smiled. Carter needed time for new clothes to be delivered. Good. He’d be awkward and angry, wrong-footed. That was when men made mistakes.
‘Still at the Kardomah?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you come to the office? We’ll go down together.’
‘If you like,’ she agreed with reluctance. ‘Will you tell me what this is all about?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be there in an hour.’
***
He dialled Millgarth police station and asked for Detective Sergeant Baker.
‘Carter will be at Kardomah Tea Room at ten.’
‘So you kept yourself alive over the weekend. Why do I want to be there?’
‘Our man will have a new wardrobe.’
‘Oh?’ Markham heard the rustling of papers. ‘That wouldn’t have anything to do with a fire alarm going off at the Metropole on Saturday night, would it?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Or there’s this one. We received a complaint yesterday about a naked man out past Shadwell. They sent out a car to pick him up.’ Baker chuckled. ‘Turns out he works for Carter. Said someone had assaulted him and taken everything.’
‘I wish I’d seen that.’
‘So do I, lad.’
‘Did he say who did it? Or why?’
‘Never saw him, he claims. Record as long as your arm. He was out on probation. Banged him back inside. Can’t have people exposing themselves in public like that.’ He paused. ‘Looks like I might have underestimated you,’ he said with grudging admiration.
‘If I’d done anything.’
‘Aye, of course. So is something going to happen this morning?’
‘You never can tell.’
‘Maybe I’ll wander over for a cup of tea, then. Ten, you said?’
***
Joanna Hart was as good as her word, appearing on time and wearing a Chanel suit that cost more than Markham had made in his very best month. She wore it as casually as anything from a department store.
‘You didn’t ask about the other offer,’ she said as she settled on a chair and crossed her legs.
‘Has he rung?’
‘Just before I left. It’s less than I’d wanted but a lot more than Carter has bid.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘I suggested a higher figure. We’re haggling.’ She eyed him with curiosity. ‘You’ve never asked me who it is. You know, don’t you?’
His answer was a fleeting smile.
‘So why do you want me to meet Carter again, Mr Markham? You obviously have a reason.’
‘See if he’s willing to top the bid.’
‘Why would he?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t know what you’re planning, but unless you tell me I’m going home right now.’
‘Because he needs to squirm a little. His clothes were ruined on Saturday night and yesterday one of his men was humiliated.’
‘You did all that?’ she asked, impressed.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ She eyed him curiously. ‘This can’t all be to do with me.’
It was safe enough to tell her now; she knew he was on her side.
‘Carter wanted me to persuade you to sell.’
She glanced up sharply, surprised.
‘But you haven’t even tried.’
‘I know. I told him from the start that I wouldn’t.’
‘You never said anything.’
‘If I had, would you have trusted me?’
‘I … I don’t know. Maybe not,’ she accepted and looked at his fingers. ‘Did he do that?’
‘He wielded the hammer himself.’
She winced. ‘God.’
‘He’s also threatened to kill me.’
‘Kill you?’
‘Don’t worry. He’ll find it’s a difficult job.’
***
By five to ten they were sitting upstairs at the Kardomah, a table in the window that looked down on Briggate. People thronged by, some moving quickly, others ambling and window shopping.
‘That man over there, he’s the detective who kept asking me if I’d killed Freddie.’ Her hiss was full of outrage.
‘He’s here to keep an eye on things. Don’t worry, he’s as honest as they come.’
She looked doubtful and opened her mouth to speak just as Carter appeared at the top of the stairs. His shirt was a brilliant white, the tie dark blue silk. But the suit was an ill fit; he’d had no time to have it altered. The trouser legs were a little too long, light flashing briefly on the pins that hemmed them, and the cut of the jacket emphasised the bulge of his belly.
He crossed the floor quickly, fury on his face as he saw Markham.
‘Mrs Hart,’ he said. ‘A pleasure to s
ee you again.’ He waved Joyce the waitress away. She rolled her eyes at Markham. ‘You said you wanted to discuss my offer for the business.’
Joanna Hart gave a charming smile.
‘I wanted to give you a final chance to increase your offer. It’s only courtesy.’
‘You have my terms.’ His voice was grave. ‘I see no reason to change that.’
‘You should know that someone else has put in a bid. A serious one,’ she added. ‘And it’s rather higher than yours, I’m afraid.’
‘I see.’
Markham kept his eyes on Carter’s face. His eyes flickered between doubt and possibility.
‘Might I ask who’s been so generous?’ Carter asked eventually.
‘I couldn’t say,’ she told him. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
‘You’re hoping I’ll increase mine?’
‘I’m giving you the chance. After all, you were so eager. You approached Freddie, and you’ve been after me from the moment he died.’ The sweetness never left her voice but acid flowed beneath the surface.
‘How much is he offering?’
‘Mr Carter, you can’t expect me to reveal that. I’ve put the ball in your court. Whether you play it or leave is completely up to you now.’ She took a sip of her tea and raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’
‘I’d like until tomorrow.’
‘Fine,’ she agreed. ‘But not a moment longer. If I haven’t heard from you by ten o’clock tomorrow morning with a figure that beats his, that’ll be the end of our business.’ She paused for a heartbeat. ‘I must say, you’re looking very smart today. A new suit?’
Carter coloured but said nothing as he rose.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he promised.
‘How was that?’ she asked as the man disappeared.
‘Perfect,’ he told her. She’d played her part convincingly. The next twenty-four hours would be interesting.
***
They parted on Briggate and he watched her walk away, hips swinging under her coat. He was still standing there when Baker drifted out.
‘Looks like Carter called in at Burton’s on the way.’
‘Austin Reed. I saw the label in the jacket.’
The policeman shrugged. ‘Either way, they didn’t do him any favours with those clothes. What happened?’
Dark Briggate Blues Page 15
