The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

  ‘I might take a wander over to Holbeck and have a word at that company he works for. They should be able to tell me something.’

  ‘If they’ll talk to you. Remember, you’re not on the force now.’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Baker told him. ‘They’ll talk to me.’

  ***

  He was in and out of court in under half an hour. Called to the stand he said his piece, identified the photographs and the husband, then walked back to the office on Albion Place, cutting down Lands Lane by the afternoon bustle of Schofield’s department store. The air smelt fresher, less of the thick, endless smog that used to always choke autumn and winter. It looked as if the new Clean Air Act was doing some good.

  When he opened the door, Baker was pacing around, his heavy face set, the pipe clamped in his jaw.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Markham asked.

  ‘You could say that.’ He stopped and tapped the bowl out into an ashtray. ‘I went down to Mortimer’s. You know, where de Vries works.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘They looked at me like I was stark raving mad. No one called Dieter de Vries has ever been employed there.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘What?’ Markham said in disbelief. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

  ‘I wish I bloody well was.’

  ‘Then there has to be a mistake.’

  ‘I was in their personnel department. They should know who works there, and there’s not a trace of any Dieter de Vries. Not now, not in the past.’ He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets.

  ‘Maybe Miss Harding had the wrong place.’

  ‘Did she strike you as the type to make mistakes like that?’

  No, he had to admit it. She was exact. Thorough, scrupulous.

  ‘We’d better go and take a look.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I can’t take too long, though. I’m meeting someone at six.’

  ‘One of your fancy women?’ Baker snorted.

  ‘The only one I have.’

  He’d promised to take her out. Nothing special. Something to eat, then down to Studio 20, the jazz club in Leeds. There was a rumour that George Melly might be performing. The man was a bit too traditional for his taste, but he always put on a good, entertaining show. And Georgina was eager to go and perhaps pick up a few tips by watching a real professional at work.

  He’d met her one empty Friday evening. Restless, unable to settle, he’d gone to a party. As soon as he arrived it felt like a bad idea. The house was full of people who were too bright, too loud, as if they could will themselves into having a good time.

  He sat in the front room, letting the conversations and flirtations ebb and flow around him. A baby grand piano sat by the window. But the only music was skiffle and pop from a record player in the other room. Another ten minutes and he’d go, he decided.

  When someone called out, ‘George. Come on, give us a song,’ he groaned inside and stood by the door to leave without a fuss. The woman who settled on the piano stool and lifted the lid looked uneasy, reluctant, taking a sip of gin and putting the glass down before running her hands over the keys. Then she closed her eyes for a moment and started to play.

  At first he couldn’t pick out a tune, listening through the haze of voices. But the room quietened as she continued and he understood that she was lulling them, drawing in their attention. The melody began to take shape in the chords of the left hand as the right improvised like George Shearing, hinting and nudging here and there before finally settling so that faces began to smile as they recognised it. ‘A Foggy Day In London Town.’ The woman opened her mouth, her singing low and languorous, as if it was emerging from a distant dream.

  She had something. Not a Billie or a Sarah. But there was a velvet sensuality in her tone, hinting at intimacy and soft memories. Then she let her hands take over again, pushing down on the sustain pedal to let chords hang and fade until it all drifted off into the distance.

  The applause was polite. People returned to their talk. She took another drink, looking around and blinking, emerging from somewhere else. As she stood he walked over.

  ‘You’re very good,’ he told her. She didn’t blush, just looked him in the eye.

  ‘It’s what I do. At night, anyway.’

  ‘You play well, too. A lot of Shearing in there.’

  That made her smile.

  ‘I’m Georgina Taylor.’ She extended a thin, pale arm.

  ‘Dan Markham,’ he said as they shook.

  ‘And I only sound like Shearing because I’m not good enough to be Monk or Tatum.’ She spoke the words like a challenge: did he know what he was talking about or was it all bluff?

  ‘No one else can ever sound like Thelonious,’ he answered. ‘And Tatum …’ He shook his head. ‘You’d need two more hands. Are you a professional?’

  The woman looked embarrassed.

  ‘Trying,’ she admitted. ‘I do nightclubs when I can. It’s hard to get a gig. Working behind the counter at Boots pays the bills. For now, anyway,’ she added with determination.

  He tried to imagine her in the nylon overall, selling medicines and make-up, but he couldn’t reconcile it with the woman he’d just heard performing.

  ‘How about you?’ she asked. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m an enquiry agent,’ he said and her eyes widened.

  ***

  The next night they met for a meal and wandered through town to Studio 20. As they walked she told him a little about herself, short sentences with long pauses. She’d grown up in Malton, married young, a couple of years after the war. The decree nisi had come through in July. Leeds had been a fresh start, a chance for her to do more with her music.

  ‘I’ve never been here before,’ she admitted as they went down the stairs to the club. ‘I don’t know anyone who really likes jazz.’

  ‘You do now.’

  The place was packed, hardly room to stand among the young men and women. In the corner a quintet was playing. Three guitars, bass, and a ragged washboard offering rhythm. Skiffle. Markham glanced at Bob Barclay, the club’s owner, sitting in his booth. He gave an eloquent shrug.

  ‘The Vipers,’ he said. ‘They’re up from London, had a big hit. Brings in the money. You can see for yourself, Dan. I’ve never had the place so full. Still, it lets me put on other things. There’s not the market for jazz there was a few years back.’

  Disappointed, they left. She tucked her arm through his.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Hardly your fault.’ She tried to smile, but it was a weak effort. ‘It’s the same all over. Everyone wants pop music now.’

  He saw her again on Wednesday and the following weekend. Soon she was spending some nights at his flat, or he’d stay over in her bedsit in Hyde Park. Six months later and they were still meeting up a couple of times a week. Going out, his mother would have said. Nothing too serious; more than friends but never likely to end up engaged.

  Whenever she performed Markham would be there, sitting in the corner of a club with endless cups of coffee, applauding every song. She had talent, but Leeds wasn’t a place where it could ever have the chance to flower.

  ***

  The house was a sturdy Edwardian villa with a postage-stamp front garden and lace curtains on the windows, no more than a stone’s throw from the Cottage Road cinema.

  ‘Just what you’d expect,’ Baker said as he eased himself out of the Ford Anglia. The rain had started again, a half-hearted, chilly shower. Markham patted the hat down on his head as they approached the door.

  At home, Miss Harding seemed more sure of herself, ushering them into a dusty front room before offering tea, perching herself on the edge of an easy chair that had been in fashion half a century before. A faded picture of a young soldier stood in a silver frame on the mantelpiece.

  Baker went over the details again, confirming where de Vries worked.

  ‘Do you know what kind of position he held?’

  ‘An engineer of some kind. That’s
what he told me. He tried to explain it once, but it didn’t make much sense. It was a technical job, I know that.’

  Baker made another note, then said, ‘Right, we’d better take a look at his room.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ She made a face as if a bad smell had wafted through the room.

  ‘If you want us to find him, luv,’ he said easily and she nodded agreement after a long pause. ‘You’re hiring us for what we can do, but we need all the background we can find.’

  Miss Harding marched over to the polished oak sideboard and removed a key from the top drawer.

  ‘The second door on the right upstairs. I’d be grateful if you didn’t make a mess.’

  ***

  It was nondescript. A cast-iron bedstead, the sheets and blankets tucked in place with tight hospital corners. Bright rag rugs on the floorboards. A dressing table and a wardrobe with ornate carved legs. An easy chair sat by the light of the window, a small table next to it. A filled, waist-high bookcase. Baker stood just inside the doorway for a little while, looking around slowly.

  ‘Something’s wrong here,’ he said finally.

  ‘It seems ordinary enough.’

  ‘Too ordinary, that’s the thing. Do you smell something?’

  Markham sniffed.

  ‘Brylcreem?’ He thought quickly. ‘Didn’t she say he was bald?’

  ‘Easy enough to check. Take a dekko in the bathroom.’

  It was the closed door at the end of the hall. One shelf held a man’s toiletries – safety razor, shaving brush, a half-empty tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush. Fixative for false teeth.

  ‘No Brylcreem,’ he reported when he returned.

  ‘I reckon someone’s been in here having a look around when the landlady wasn’t at home.’

  ‘Too neat?’

  ‘Too exact. And don’t tell me your place is tidy. I’ve seen that tip you call home.’

  He’d searched the flat once, three years before, when Markham had been a murder suspect and Baker the detective investigating the crime.

  ‘Nothing to find, you think?’

  The older man shook his head.

  ‘I doubt it. Not if a professional’s been over the place. Still, we’ll have a look.’

  He was right. Half an hour of going through everything turned up no photographs of the man. Nothing to indicate he might not be who he claimed. No passport or driving licence. A couple of suits hung in the wardrobe, along with some shirts, ties, a sports jacket and slacks. Thirty-eight-inch chest, probably about five feet six tall, size nine shoes. The books were paperbacks, all in English. Standard fiction fare, everything from Ian Fleming to Graham Greene. He flipped through each one quickly; nothing hidden inside.

  It wasn’t much.

  ‘Are you going to tell her?’ Markham asked quietly.

  ‘Tell her what, lad?’

  ‘About where he was supposed to have worked.’

  ‘Not yet.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Never show your hand too early. Always a good rule, especially when there’s something fishy going on.’

  Baker returned the key to Miss Harding. She stood by the front door like a mother hen guarding her brood.

  ‘Did you find anything?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Baker told her. ‘Has anyone been in there since he left?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she answered. ‘Mr de Vries always does his own cleaning, every Sunday. I have no reason to enter his private room.’

  ‘Can you remind me what he was wearing the last time you saw him?’ The question seemed casual but he was listening intently.

  ‘His overcoat. I remember that, because it was cold out. And a hat; he always wore a hat.’

  ‘What colour was the coat?’

  ‘Navy blue,’ Miss Harding said, as if no decent coat would be any other shade.

  ‘Thank you.’ Baker stroked his chin. ‘We’ll have a report for you in a day or so. If he gets in touch …’

  ‘I’ll let you know immediately. Of course. What do you think’s happened to him?’

  ‘Early days yet.’ He gave her a reassuring smile and patted her hand. ‘Don’t you worry.’

  They stood by the Anglia. Baker brought out a pouch and filled his pipe, lighting it with a match and puffing until he was satisfied.

  ‘So we have three questions about him now,’ Markham said. ‘Where he’s gone, why someone would search his room, and where the hell he works.’

  ‘Four,’ Baker corrected him. ‘Who is he really?’

  ‘We should give it back to the police.’

  ‘What for? He might not be who he claims to be to his landlady, but that’s not an offence. He hasn’t tried to profit from it that we know of. Don’t you want to know what’s going on?’

  ‘Not really.’ The last time he’d got involved in dirty business, two fingers on his left hand had been broken. Twice. He still couldn’t use them, and probably never would. They were like claws, bent, a reminder to carry for the rest of his life.

  ‘I’m curious, any road. This is the best fun I’ve had since I left the force. And we don’t have anything better to do, do we?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Markham agreed reluctantly. ‘But the first sign of it becoming dangerous and we stop.’ The man who’d crippled his fingers had also shot Baker.

  ‘Right enough.’ He checked his watch. ‘You’d better get a move on. Won’t do to keep her waiting.’

  ‘Do you want a lift home?’

  ‘No thanks, lad. It’ll do me good to stretch my legs.’ He knew what that meant – stopping at the Skyrack for a pint before making his way back to Burley. ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning. Maybe a good night’s sleep will bring some ideas.’

  ***

  She was waiting under the Ball-Dyson clock on Lower Briggate, clutching her handbag in front of her. Georgina had changed clothes at work, wearing a knitted top and a slim skirt with seamed stockings and patent high heels, a heavy wool coat over her shoulders.

  ‘Busy day?’ he asked as he kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘So-so.’ There was never much to say about shop work, unless she had a particularly amusing or awful customer. ‘How about you? Things fine with Mr Baker?’ She gave an impish grin that reached all the way to her eyes.

  ‘It’s getting interesting,’ he told her. ‘Let’s put it like that.’

  ‘Good interesting or bad?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ he said after a moment. Tomorrow would tell. ‘Where do you fancy eating?’

  They settled on Jacomelli’s. It was close and always reliable. A chilly wind blew from the river as they strolled up Briggate after the meal. Georgina slipped her arm through his. It was comfortable, companionable. Loving.

  The notice on the door of Studio 20 announced that Melly had cancelled due to illness. It was disappointing, but hardly the end of the world.

  ‘Do you want to go in anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really,’ she decided, looking up at him. ‘Do you mind if we just go home?’

  He set the choke before the started the Anglia. The motor caught after a second, wheezed, then fired. It was growing old. Maybe the time had come to replace it. A Ford Popular, maybe; he didn’t need something that would break the sound barrier. Just a car that would stop and go when he wanted and not cost him a fortune.

  ‘Whose home?’ he asked.

  ‘Yours?’ She kicked off the shoes and waggled her toes. ‘God, that’s better. They’ve been killing me all day.’

  There was hardly any traffic on Harrogate Road. The November night was too cold to tempt many people out. A few places showed Christmas decorations in the windows, one tree neatly lit up. He didn’t want to think about it. When he was young Christmas had been fun, waking early to check the pillowcase at the end of his bed for presents. But the war had changed all that. The magic vanished. There were more important things than gifts on one day of the year. And there’d been precious little joy for years afterwards, just the bleakness of rationin
g for so long. Grey lives.

  He pulled in behind the house and led the way up the stairs. Inside, the flat was cold. He switched on both bars of the electric fire to heat the place. Georgina began to leaf through his records, still wearing her coat.

  ‘Who was that man you played me the other week?’ she asked.

  He tried to recall who she meant. It seemed as if half his spare money went on the records he ordered from Dobell’s in London. It was the only place in England that stocked American jazz. He’d developed a taste for it during his National Service in Germany, working in military intelligence with an American soldier who’d introduced him to the music.

  ‘You mean Herbie Nichols?’ Markham remembered suddenly.

  ‘That’s the one.’ Her fingers moved quickly and she drew out an LP, reverently placing the disc on the turntable. The Prophetic Herbie Nichols, Volume 1. An apt title.

  The spare sound of piano, bass and drums filled the flat. It wasn’t warm or intimate. Everything was angular, awkward, as if the corners would never fit snugly. She was listening intently; trying to work out just what Nichols was doing, what he was thinking.

  He handed her a glass of wine. A mug of coffee for him. Real coffee, not Camp. He’d been given a proper Italian coffee pot and used it every day. Each time, he thought of the woman who’d brought it back from her travels, long gone from his life now. He still saw her name here and there in the papers, one of an upcoming generation of artists.

  The second track ended and Georgina shook her head.

  ‘It’s lovely, but …’

  ‘But it’s not you?’ he asked.

  She smiled.

  ‘Never in a million years.’

  She liked songs, something with definite form and feeling. And she had the voice to do them justice. All she needed was a chance. A couple of clubs aiming for sophistication had offered her early evening slots. Background music for the drinkers who came in after work.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ she told Markham after she’d turned them down. ‘I can’t just … be there, like a soundtrack. I want people to listen.’

  ‘Maybe they will,’ he suggested.

  She just shook her head, dark hair flailing around her shoulders.