The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

‘No. And if they started, the manager would sack me. They want something unobtrusive. Something easy.’

  A few times she’d broached the idea of moving to London, to try her hand there. He knew it was what her musical career needed. But he’d miss her. She was undemanding, easy. Passionate when they both needed that.

  ‘There are trains,’ she told him. ‘It’s only a few hours away. And there’s plenty of jazz to listen to down there.’ Georgina raised her eyebrows as she looked at him.

  Everything she said was true. Still, he knew the likely outcome. Life and distance would take over. She’d develop new friends, a new career. The visits would dwindle, becoming fewer until they vanished altogether.

  ***

  ‘Why don’t you put on some Sarah Vaughan?’ he suggested as the stylus clicked in the end groove. They were curled up together, his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘You do it,’ Georgina said sleepily. ‘I don’t want to move.’

  He chose the album with Clifford Brown on trumpet. It was the singer at her best, making each song her own as the horn glided around and about her.

  ‘This thing you’re working on,’ she said. ‘It all sounds very mysterious.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ he replied, and realised he hadn’t thought about Dieter de Vries all evening.

  CHAPTER THREE

  He parked the Anglia on Albion Place, kissing Georgina as she headed off for another day behind the shop counter. She had her shoulders hunched against the winter cold, heels clicking swiftly on the pavement.

  Baker was already in the office. The newspaper lay unopened in front of him on the card table. The air was thick with the fog of shag tobacco.

  ‘About time you made it in,’ he said. ‘I’ve been here for half an hour.’

  Markham looked at his watch. Not even quarter to nine yet. Still early. He lit a Craven A.

  ‘Why so early?’

  ‘This de Vries thing’s been bothering me all night,’ Baker said. ‘Made me dyspeptic. I keep wondering what’s so special about him that someone would go through his room? How would they even know he was gone?’

  ‘I still think we should give this back to the police,’ Markham told him.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything they can do that we can’t.’ But there was a satisfied look on his face. He’d found something to worry at, something to claim his time and his knowledge. ‘Not at the moment, anyway.’

  ‘Then what do you reckon we ought to do? We’ve got nothing.’

  Baker stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘Take a look at what we do have and try to pick up the trail from there. It’s what I’d have done on the force.’

  Markham unbuttoned his jacket and sat behind his desk. For once, the radiator was working well, churning out heat.

  ‘So what exactly is there?’ He pulled a pad and pencil towards him.

  ‘He came here two years ago,’ Baker began.

  ‘To Leeds,’ Markham pointed out. ‘We don’t know how long he’s been in England.’

  ‘Right enough. I did wonder something, though. Vanishing men and rooms being searched, it’s all very cloak and dagger.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That got me thinking he might not even be who he claims,’ Baker continued. ‘Doesn’t work where he said. Perhaps he wasn’t even Dutch, I don’t know. I’ll go and ask her if he ever received any post. He worked somewhere. He had money to live on.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And from his clothes we know he wasn’t a manual labourer.’

  Markham added a note to the page.

  ‘So he probably had a bank account, you mean.’

  ‘You’re catching on,’ Baker said approvingly. ‘We took a look and didn’t see anything. So either he took all the papers with him, which meant he wasn’t planning on coming back for some reason …’

  ‘Or whoever searched the place grabbed them.’

  ‘Exactly. Which means they know he’s not coming back and there’s some covering up going on.’

  Markham frowned.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Spies. The whole thing stinks of them. Like that friend of yours who died.’

  He hadn’t thought about Ged in a long time, he realised guiltily. He’d died, shot in the chair where Markham was sitting now.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s not,’ he said, not trusting his voice to form more words.

  ‘You tell me what’s going on, then?’ Baker pulled out a box of Swan Vestas, struck one, and started puffing on his pipe. ‘That’s what we’ve got to find out.’

  The bell of the telephone seemed too loud in the room. Markham waited a moment, lifted the receiver and answered with the number.

  ‘Is that Dan Markham?’ A woman’s voice. A hint of education in the pronunciation, but it was played down into smokiness.

  ‘That’s right. How can I help you, Miss–’

  ‘Fox,’ she replied. ‘Mrs Fox. And I hope you can help us.’ She placed a gentle emphasis on the final word.

  ‘That depends what you need.’

  ‘I work with my husband. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Mark Fox.’

  Of course he had. Fox was the competition, the only other enquiry agent in Leeds. He had an office in Woodhouse Square, a step up from Markham’s, a gently moneyed place.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never met him, though.’

  ‘He’s out of the country at the moment. But there’s something come up where you might be able to assist us. I can offer you some fair money for your time. Unless you’re too busy, of course.’

  ‘I’m happy to talk about it, Mrs Fox.’ It seemed odd. Who would ever give business away? Fox had opened his office in ’55, coming to Leeds from somewhere down south. Yet in two years their paths had never crossed.

  ‘Good.’ He sensed her smile. ‘How about over luncheon? Let’s keep it civilised.’

  ‘Fine,’ he agreed. She picked somewhere on East Parade, a restaurant favoured by local bankers and businessmen.

  ‘We’ll make it at noon,’ she finished. ‘I’ll book a table and see you then.’

  ‘You look pleased,’ Baker said when the call ended. ‘On a promise, are you?’

  ‘Maybe some work. That was Mark Fox’s wife. They might have a job for us.’

  ‘Him?’ He snorted. ‘There were all sorts of rumours about him when he first appeared up here. I’d trust him as far as you can throw him.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing the wife,’ Markham said. ‘Evidently he’s out of the country. Can’t hurt to hear what she says.’

  ‘As long as she’s picking up the bill.’

  ‘Always. Still, I’m glad I wore a decent suit.’

  ‘While you’re eating I’ll go back up to Headingley and ask a few more questions. Maybe have another look in that room de Vries had. See if we can find an answer or two.’

  ‘Two days. We’ll give de Vries that long. Then it goes back to the police. Sooner if you discover anything nasty.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Baker said amiably.

  Yes, Markham thought. He was. And he wasn’t going to be sucked into anything bad again. Once had been too much. Too deadly.

  ***

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said breathlessly as the waiter pulled out a chair for her. There was a shhh of nylon as she sat. ‘Have you been waiting long?’ The woman held out a hand and he shook it lightly.

  ‘Not really, Mrs Fox.’

  ‘Amanda,’ she told him. ‘Please.’

  ‘Amanda,’ he echoed as she pulled a cigarette from her handbag and he flicked his lighter. ‘Now, what’s all this about?’

  She’d arrived late, escorted over by the waiter. In her early thirties, he judged, and wearing a close-fitting grey jersey dress that reached to her knees. It flattered her and she knew it, moving easily on high heels. Dark hair in an Italian cut, subtle makeup and a graceful, Audrey Hepburn face.

  He’d had time to sit, staring around the restaurant and smoking. The place was new, fitted out in leath
er and oak, wanting to appear expensive, solid and timeless. The year before it had been different. Another couple of years it would be something else again.

  ‘Let’s wait a few minutes for that.’ Her eyes were bright, a deep, mysterious blue. ‘We’ll eat first. I always like pleasure before business, don’t you?’ It was a gentle tease. ‘I’m surprised we’ve never met before.’

  ‘It’s just how things are, I suppose.’

  She carried an air of sophistication, assured, in control. Next to her he felt juvenile, provincial. She ordered quickly, as if she knew the menu by heart. He decided on steak and kidney pie. Very English. Very filling and plain.

  ‘Then I’m glad to finally change that.’ She flashed a brilliant smile, very white teeth and blood-red lips.

  ‘You said your husband’s abroad?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Germany. We do quite a bit of business over there, he’s gone a few times each year. Bonn, West Berlin.’ She shrugged. He tried to place her accent. Somewhere in the Home Counties, a good education. But grammar school, not private he decided. Then plenty of polish.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought there was much for an enquiry agent over there.’

  ‘Oh.’ She lit a cigarette and waved the words away in a thick plume of smoke. ‘Still the fallout from the war. Tell me about yourself, Mr Markham.’

  ‘Dan.’

  Amanda Fox nodded her acknowledgement, staring at him coolly.

  ‘You must have started in this game when you were young.’

  ‘Seven years ago. I was twenty-one.’

  ‘Are you good at what you do?’

  ‘I like to think so,’ he replied with a soft smile.

  ‘There was some business a while ago, wasn’t there?’ She tapped her cigarette in the crystal ashtray. ‘Before we moved here.’

  ‘Yes.’ He wasn’t about to say more. If she knew, she’d already read the newspaper clippings and heard the gossip.

  The food arrived and they made small talk – the weather, the way traffic grew worse each month – until the plates had been cleared and coffee sat in front of them.

  ‘Do you know Germany at all?’ Amanda Fox asked as she lit another cigarette and blew smoke towards the ceiling. He tried to read her face but she was giving nothing away.

  ‘I did my National Service there.’

  ‘Really?’ Her eyes smiled for a moment. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Hamburg, mostly. Some time in West Berlin. I was military intelligence.’

  ‘Mark was there after the fighting ended. Stayed there for a couple of years, then Vienna. He made some good contacts. Maybe you met him?’

  ‘Was he an officer?’

  ‘A captain. Why?’

  ‘We didn’t mix too much with them.’

  ‘Of course, sorry. Do you speak the lingo?’

  ‘A little.’ He’d learned enough to get by. ‘What about you?’ Markham asked. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Oh, I just help around the office.’ She said it dismissively, as if she was just a secretary or receptionist. He didn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘What does your husband do in Germany?’

  ‘Background stuff, mostly. Checking on people that companies want to bring over. The whole denazification process wasn’t always thorough, shall we say?’ She flashed him another white smile. ‘Mark goes into more depth.’

  ‘I thought that would be government business.’

  ‘They farm some of it out. As I said, Mark has contacts.’

  He nodded. The old boys’ network in action. The way everything was done in this country.

  ‘And what would you want from me?’

  ‘Let me ask you something, Dan. You were in intelligence. Did you have to sign the Official Secrets Act?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good,’ she said with a smile. ‘That makes everything much easier.’

  ‘Why?’ Suddenly Markham was very suspicious. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s nothing much. Just keeping an occasional eye on people who end up around here.’

  ‘People?’ he asked sharply. ‘What people?’

  Amanda Fox glanced around the restaurant before she answered and spoke very quietly, ‘Germans who would be useful to our defence industry.’

  ‘From the West or East?’ That was important.

  ‘East, of course,’ she replied coolly. ‘We work with the Gehlen people in West Berlin, bring them out, give them new names and backgrounds. I’m sure you can understand why.’

  Of course. No one in this country would be happy to have a German around. Not with the war still so close in memory.

  ‘The government knows?’ He wanted to be certain.

  ‘It’s their idea, Dan. These men all have good skills.’

  ‘I don’t understand, why can’t you do it yourselves?’ he wondered.

  ‘Mark is gone so often. We’re pretty much a one-man band. As I said, I just look after the office. What we need is someone who has the skills and background.’ Now he was certain she knew all about him; this wasn’t lucky dip and hope for the best on her part. ‘We pay generously,’ she added, ‘and it won’t take a great deal of your time.’ She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Does it sound interesting?’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll need to talk to my partner. He’s ex-police.’

  ‘All right,’ she agreed, but he saw he’d sprung something unexpected on her.

  ‘We’ll talk about it and I’ll be in touch.’ He shook her hand as he rose. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll have had to sign the Act, too. I’ll give you a ring on Monday, Mrs Fox.’

  ‘Amanda,’ she corrected him.

  ‘Of course. Amanda.’

  ***

  He strolled thoughtfully back through town. There was a weekend eagerness in the Friday afternoon crowds. Women squeezed past the top-hatted doorman to spend their wages at Marshall & Snelgrove’s department store. An older generation sat upstairs in Fuller’s and sipped tea.

  He wondered exactly what Amanda Fox and her mysterious husband wanted. More than the job she’d promised, he was certain of that.

  Baker hadn’t returned yet. He spent a while cleaning up some of the paperwork, filing notes and pictures and cleaning off his desk. The card table sat there accusingly, a paperback book under one of the legs to keep it steady. They needed something more professional if people were going to take them seriously.

  By four he was still on his own, desk clean, everything put away. No rain yet, but the skies were as heavy as slate. Should he wait, or simply call it a day and beat the traffic out on Harrogate Road?

  He was just emerging on to the street when he heard a shout and saw Baker turning the corner from Lands Lane.

  ‘Let’s go and get a cuppa,’ he said as he lumbered close, hands deep in his raincoat pockets, eyes serious.

  Upstairs at the Kardomah, Markham ordered coffee from Joyce, the waitress he’d known for years. Tea and a slice of Dundee cake for Baker. He waited until the man had poured sugar into his drink.

  ‘You don’t look too happy.’

  ‘Well …’ he began, taking his pipe from a bulging suit pocket and lighting it. ‘I am and I’m not. That Miss Harding was about as helpful as she was yesterday. But I finally got her to let me look at the post that had arrived for our friend in the last few days. She had it locked away in a bureau.’

  ‘And?’

  He pulled out an onionskin aerogramme and let it fall on the table.

  ‘Just some “Dear Occupant” bumf and this. She didn’t notice me take it. I had a look inside.’

  He opened it slowly and carefully. Dutch stamps and a Rotterdam postmark. Markham began to read then glanced up quickly.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Baker asked. ‘That’s Kraut, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ Markham answered.

  ‘Why would a Dutchman be writing in German?’

  Markham let the question hang as he scanned the words. Either his German was rustier than he thought, or half of this didn’t
make sense. He looked again, taking his time, trying to put a meaning to it all. He could follow a few sentences here and there. The rest was gibberish. ‘Did you speak it?’ he asked.

  ‘Never learnt. Why? What does it say?’

  ‘That’s the problem. It doesn’t.’

  Baker look confused.

  ‘It’s got to say summat.’

  ‘A few sentences do. “Took the train to Magdeburg.” Then there’s “Across by Salzwedel.” They’re both in East Germany. A couple more like that, place names in the DDR. The rest is just nonsense.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s not just you?’

  ‘Positive.’ He folded the letter. ‘I tell you what, Stephen, we’re in over our heads with this one.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘You’re the one who’s done all this spy malarkey,’ Baker said glumly.

  ‘A long time ago.’ Markham rubbed his chin. ‘It’s funny, though …’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The meal I had with Fox’s wife.’

  ‘What about it? I’ve seen her once. She has that look about her.’

  ‘A vamp?’ He shrugged. Whatever charm she had was wasted on him. ‘Seems her husband spends a lot of time in West Germany. Sometimes he brings people over from the East.’

  ‘What sort of people?’ Baker asked sharply.

  ‘She didn’t say exactly,’ Markham replied. ‘But professionals, probably. People companies here need. Scientists. Engineers.’ He let the word hang.

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘They want us to follow up on whichever of them settles locally. Check up on them and make sure they’re behaving themselves.’ He tapped a nail against the aerogramme. ‘Odd timing, isn’t it? Right as one of them vanishes.’

  ‘Sounds a little dubious to me,’ Baker said.

  ‘Official Secrets Act stuff.’

  ‘I don’t know that I like it.’

  ‘We follow up, write a report. That’s the limit of our involvement. No skin off our nose if they disappear. The money’s good.’

  Baker was silent, thoughtful.

  ‘So do you think this de Vries or whoever he really is might be one of them?’

  Markham finished the last of his coffee.

  ‘Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘There’s no such beast. You ought to know that by know.’ He paused, wiping cake crumbs from his mouth with a serviette. ‘That changes the whole complexion, doesn’t it?’