Finally she was done, crushing out her cigarette in the ashtray.
‘Shall we go and listen to this jazz of yours, then?’ She glanced in the handbag. ‘Can you be a love and pay? I don’t seem to have any money on me.’
He looked at the bill and drew out his wallet. After paying he had a pound left, along with the change in his pocket. Hardly a fortune. The woman was costing him far more than she’d ever given him. Outside, in the dark, she tucked her arm through his.
‘Are we going to walk?’
‘No.’ He guided her back to the car and drove up to New Briggate, taking his time before opening her door and escorting her down the stairs into the club. The music had barely begun as they sat at a table.
It was an ordinary room, linoleum floor, cheap wallpaper, a collection of signatures in one corner from the stars who played there, and Bob Barclay on his chair behind the plywood partition.
They sat through the first number: a short, ragged version of ‘A Night in Tunisia’ that only brought polite applause. She leant towards him.
‘Can we get a drink?’
‘There’s no licence,’ he told her quietly and she pouted. With luck, that would be enough for her to leave. ‘They have squash. Or there’s tea or coffee.’
Her mouth moved into a determined line.
‘I’ll have a coffee, then.’ It came in a cracked white mug, a slur of milk at the top. She spooned in sugar, took a drink and frowned. ‘God, that’s awful.’
‘People don’t come here for the drinks.’
She nodded at the musicians. ‘For that?’
‘When it’s good.’
‘Are these good?’
Markham shook his head.
‘Bloody awful,’ he whispered. ‘Do you want to leave?’
Her eyes blazed for a moment.
‘No.’ She was firm. ‘I told you, I came out for fun and I’m going to have it.’ She grabbed his hand. ‘Come on, let’s dance.’
It sounded like a dance band tune, and they could at least keep the rhythm. She pulled him close and began to shuffle around the dance floor. He tried to move with her but he’d always been a listener, not a dancer. He felt embarrassed to be on show this way.
‘You could try to look like you’re enjoying yourself!’ she hissed in his ear.
‘I’m not.’
‘Then you’re bloody well going to.’
She was light on her feet, happy to lead until the music ended, when he returned to his chair. A few of the musicians changed, adding a couple of horns, the guitarist and cornet player packing up their instruments.
Markham glanced at his watch. Quarter past eleven. He wanted to leave before midnight, to have her safe again. Joanna Hart opened her handbag, searching for cigarettes. The light caught her silver hip flask.
‘You brought that?’ he asked.
‘Of course. I filled it before we left. I told you that bloody woman at the house wouldn’t get in any gin and you didn’t bring any.’ She pulled out the flask and took a nip. ‘Want one?’
‘No.’
‘You’re a bit of a prig, aren’t you, Mr Markham? I should call you Dan, shouldn’t I?’
‘I told you, I want to be alert. And call me Dan if you like.’
She took another nip from the flask. Christ. That was all he needed, to have her drunk and in a strop. The music started again, a piece by Gershwin, and once more she wanted to dance, pressing herself close against him. Her hair tickled against his cheek and her perfume filled his senses. He tried to relax into the music, to simply feel it and move, but he couldn’t do it. Barclay smirked at him from beyond the partition. They were the only couple on the floor. The other people stared ahead, watching the musicians and nodding their heads in time.
By quarter to twelve he’d danced three more times. She’d taken a few more quick drinks. Her eyes shone brightly. He made a comment; she threw back her head and gave a full-throated laugh that made people turn to look at her.
‘Have you had enough yet?’
‘Of what?’ she asked sharply.
‘Everything.’ If Markham had come here alone, he’d have left long before: there was much better music on his gramophone. He just wanted to deliver her, to have the day over, to push Carter from his mind for a few hours. He glanced at his bandaged fingers. All he wanted was for this to be over, for the man to be caught. For Carla to come home and life to return to the way it had been before.
‘Another few minutes.’ She pouted. ‘Please?’
He nodded. They’d leave at midnight. He’d insist on it. Whisk her out like Cinderella before the clock struck twelve. He was grateful when the musicians changed again to tenor and alto saxes, bass, drums and piano. The kicked up an Ellington piece and Joanna Hart glanced at him for one last dance.
At least it was short, no more than three minutes until he was back in his seat. He checked his watch again.
‘Now,’ he told her.
‘I want to stay.’
‘It’s late. I’m tired. And I need to get you back to the house.’
‘All right,’ she agreed with a reluctant sigh. She lit a cigarette, puffing quickly and moving a spoon in the cup of scummy coffee. He waited patiently as she snapped the handbag shut and gathered her coat before crushing the butt in an ashtray.
Markham shrugged into the overcoat, giving a small wave to Barclay as they left. He closed the door, muting the music. She began to climb the stairs but he put his hand on her arm.
‘I’ll go first,’ he said. ‘Just in case.’
The wind had turned cold, whipping rubbish along the street. Somewhere in the distance a drunk was trying to remember the lines of a song. The lamps glowed yellow. Not a soul to be seen on New Briggate. He kept his hand on the Colt in his pocket.
‘It’s fine,’ he told her. ‘Come on.’
He held the car door, closing it once she was seated, then settling in the driver’s seat. He placed the key in the ignition. Before he could start the engine he heard a click from the back seat. In the mirror he saw a shape rise from the back seat and the black shape of a gun barrel.
‘Well, well, both of you together,’ David Carter said. ‘It’s my lucky night, isn’t it?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘Drive, Mr Markham,’ he ordered, waiting until the engine caught. ‘Go north, out past Alwoodley. I trust you’re well, Mrs Hart. Recovered from your ordeal?’
She kept her lips pushed together, turning her head to look out of the window. The only sound was the motor and the tyres on the road.
‘Keep it under the speed limit,’ Carter said. ‘I don’t want to attract any attention.’ After a moment he added, ‘Reach into your pocket and take out the gun, Markham. I know it’s in there. Pass it back to me.’
‘While I’m driving?’
‘It’ll make you think. And please, put any ideas out of your mind. Not unless you want to drive with Mrs Hart’s brains on the inside of the windscreen.’
Markham saw her shiver and try to move down in her seat. Carter laughed.
‘You’re going to kill us anyway,’ he said. He tried to sound offhand but inside he wanted to yell. Sweat trickled down his back. ‘That’s the point of all this, isn’t it?’
‘Of course,’ Carter acknowledged. ‘But in the right place at the right time. The gun, please.’
He eased it out of his pocket and placed it on his lap then picked it up with his other hand before passing it over.
‘A Colt. Lovely weapon,’ Carter said with admiration. ‘And how are the fingers? Healing well?’
A few minutes later they were out in the country. Just darkness to surround them. The headlamps picked out the few yards of road ahead of them. No other traffic, only emptiness.
He needed to concentrate. At the corner he geared down, the lights picking out the eyes of a rabbit on the verge. Then he pressed the accelerator and moved back into third as the car climbed the hill. Carter was silent for a while. Markham glanced over at Joanna Hart a
nd squeezed her knee lightly. She didn’t turn to look at him.
‘About another mile and you’ll see a road that goes off to the left,’ Carter instructed. ‘Just past a sharp corner. Turn there.’
As he braked for the corner he considered simply driving on. But then the man would do exactly what he’d threatened. She’d be dead. If he did what he was told there was a faint chance they’d survive. Right now that seemed better than nothing.
‘Here,’ Carter ordered. He was down in first, poking his way along gravel between two overgrown hedges. ‘A quarter of a mile along there’s a track to the right. Follow that.’
Markham felt the barrel push against the back of his neck. He swallowed and took a deep breath before making the turn.
It wasn’t a road, only hard-packed dirt and gravel, rutted with potholes. He parked next to the faint outline of a building.
‘Here?’ he asked.
‘That’s it. Welcome to my country house. It’s nothing much, but …’ He let the sentence trail away. ‘Hand me the keys.’ Markham took them out and passed them to a gloved hand. ‘Now, out you get. The pair of you. Chop chop.’
It was colder out here. That was the first thing he noticed. The wind was blowing. The leaves rattled, although he couldn’t see the trees. The only light came from the headlamps, shining on a small piece of ground. Around them, the darkness was complete.
He heard Carter’s footsteps behind him on the gravel.
‘What now?’ he asked, hearing the fear in his own voice.
‘Into the cottage.’ A set of keys landed at his feet. ‘You go first, open the door. It’s the large key. So you know, I have hold of Mrs Hart.’
He did exactly what Carter wanted. His hand was shaking; it took three attempts to work the key into the lock. He took two tentative steps inside, sensing the others behind him.
‘There’s a candle on the table right in front of you. Be a good chap and light it.’ After a second the flame caught on the wick. Light and shadows flickered in the room. ‘On the sofa. Both of you.’
They sat side by side, facing Carter. Markham squeezed Joanna’s hand. Her eyes were firmly on the man in front of them, the handbag on her lap.
‘The police know about this place,’ Markham said.
‘I heard about it. That policeman friend of yours searched it, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘And all they saw was that I hadn’t been here for a little while. Is he going to survive, by the way? I saw them cart him off to hospital.’ Markham didn’t respond. ‘Well, it was a bad shot. I was aiming for you.’
Carter stood, nonchalant. He wore a new suit, beautifully cut, the creases sharp on his trousers, brogues shining, a pleasant, easy smile on his face.
‘Still,’ he continued, ‘since they know it exists, it means they’ll come out here again. So they’ll find you in the next day or so.’
‘And you?’
‘I’ll be on the Continent. New name, of course.’ He shrugged. ‘I have enough of them. Take your car, ferry from Hull and I’ll have vanished. Plenty of opportunities for an enterprising man over there. Germany’s starting to boom and I speak the lingo. Austria. Too late for you two, of course.’
Markham stared. His hands were shaking but he felt a curious, odd calm inside. He was going to die. This was it. There was nothing he could do about it.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Why?’ Carter rolled the word around in his mouth. ‘Because Freddie Hart decided he wanted to keep his business. He should have been doing well but he wasn’t.’ He nodded at Joanna. ‘I’m sure you’ve learnt that by now, my dear. I could have sold that block and made a great deal of money. But he refused my offer.’
‘So you killed him.’
‘I gave him his chances to sell. He turned them all down. What else could I do? People really need to learn not to say no.’ A memory came and the man’s eyes clouded. ‘Lie down on the floor, Markham.’ He pointed the gun. ‘Now, if you please. Arms out in front of you.’ He obeyed. He didn’t have a choice. He stretched out on the stone floor. The cold penetrated his shirt and sucked the breath from his chest. This was how it was going to be. Shot through the back of the head. ‘I’m sure you recall the night you ruined my clothes,’ Carter continued. ‘Very clever, I’ll grant you that. But I’m sure you realise, everything comes with a price. Close your eyes.’
He squeezed them shut, ready for the end. At least it would be quick. The moment stretched out. The pounding of blood was the only sound in his head. He waited, ready. Then pain jolted through him. He yelled, a raw cry, and tried to draw back his left hand. His broken fingers were on fire, crushed under Carter’s heel, the full weight of the man’s body grinding down.
He shouted until his voice was hoarse, until he could barely breathe. Carter stepped away. Markham pulled the hand back. The bandages were soaked with blood, bright, terrible red. A trail of it ran down his palm. Tears poured down his cheeks, unbidden and blurring his vision.
‘Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?’ The voice was faint. It seemed miles away. ‘Jerry did it to me once. If you were going to live you’d never use them properly again.’
Markham shifted on to his side. Each small movement was agony, a shock that made him gasp. All he could feel was pain. Slowly, he blinked until he could see. Carter stood, the gun steady in his hand, staring down at him.
‘You’ll remember me as you die, Markham.’ He turned to look at Joanna Hart. ‘He’s hardly your knight in shining armour now, is he? Not going to save you, is he?’
She didn’t respond.
Gradually, an inch at a time, Markham shuffled until he was sitting. It hurt to breathe. He cradled his hand. Blood dripped on his suit but it didn’t matter anymore. He wasn’t going to leave this place. He’d given up; he couldn’t beat Carter. The fingers sent waves of agony through his body. Another minute, once the first sense of shock passed, he’d begin to shiver.
‘Be a man, Markham. Stand up. Take a seat next to your client.’
He didn’t move. He couldn’t. The effort of standing seemed impossible. Carter was doing it to humiliate him. The thought roared through his brain. He bit his lip and forced himself up, feeling as heavy as the world.
Standing, he was dizzy. Each breath was quick and shallow as he tried to steady himself. He stared at Carter. There was satisfaction on the man’s face. Pleasure. He waved the gun lazily.
‘Very good. Now sit down properly.’
He felt Joanna’s hand against his back, guiding and supporting him. He glanced at the floor, spots of blood dark against the stone. The muscles in his legs ached. Time seemed to slow, every heartbeat lasting a year until he was next to her.
He gazed at the hand. Useless, broken.
‘You’ve won,’ he said. The words scraped out, a croak.
‘No,’ Carter said slowly, shaking his head. ‘Not this time. A pity, really. I could have enjoyed Leeds. But life doesn’t always do what one wishes. The Continent has its appeal, though.’
‘I’d like a drink and a cigarette,’ Joanna Hart interrupted.
‘There’s nothing here, I’m afraid, my dear. The cupboard is rather bare.’
‘I have a flask in my bag.’
‘Always prepared? Very good.’ Carter smiled. ‘Help yourself. It looks as if your friend could use one, too.’
Light reflected off the silver hip flask. She unscrewed it and drank, then held it to Markham’s lips. The gin burned in his throat but it helped. Then she took out her cigarette case, flicked the lighter and the smell of tobacco filled the air.
Carter watched her for a moment then turned his gaze back to Markham.
‘Which of you should go first, do you think? The gentleman or the lady?’
‘Does it matter?’
The man pursed his lips for a moment.
‘In the end I suppose it doesn’t. Two quick shots, perhaps? Luck of the draw.’ He raised the gun, finger tight around the trigger.
Before he
could fire, a roaring sound filled the room. Joanna Hart was holding the Webley, her mouth wide in a silent O. Smoke curled up from the barrel. Carter clutched his belly. A flower of blood was blooming on his shirt.
He pulled the trigger and there was a second explosion as he fell. She jerked back, one eye gone, a small clatter of noise as she dropped the gun.
Carter tried to raise his pistol again as he slumped but he had no strength. His mouth turned into a tight, twisted grin as he crumpled on the floor.
Markham turned slowly. He tried to form words to say to her but she was already dead. He spoke but he couldn’t hear his own voice. What remained of her face was empty. Brains and blood were spattered over the cushion. All her beauty had turned to nothing in a moment. He forced himself back to his feet, pushing himself up with his good hand, and kicked the weapon away from Carter. There was still the faint glint of life in the man’s eyes, fading quickly as he took his keys from the man’s suit.
The candle guttered and died as he forced the door open, the cold air a shock against his face. Stars were up there, a sliver of moon, the sky as dark as the Bible. He stumbled to the car, keeping hold of his left wrist.
The motor caught and he switched on the lights, then yelled in pain as he touched the gearstick and set off down the track. He winced with each bump and bit his lip until his mouth was filled with blood.
He’d left the Webley on the landing in her house. Trying to get her out of there, he’d forgotten it. She must have picked it up and put it in her handbag.
He was sweating although the night was bitter. The smell of cordite was heavy on his clothes. The old bandage around his fingers was sodden. The car rattled through potholes. Christ, how far from the main road had they been?
Finally he reached it, signalling by habit, then turned, speeding up and seeing no traffic until he reached Harewood and the single, welcome light of the telephone box. He forced his finger into the hole in the dial and dragged it round three times. Nine, nine, nine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Dark Briggate Blues Page 21
