The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

  Quickly, he looked through the other four names. All of them had come out through the Iron Curtain. That made it clear what Mark Fox did in Germany. Still working behind enemy lines.

  De Vries – Vreiten – was employed at Cokely’s. Not the company in Holbeck he’d told his landlady. Why had he lied about it? Funny, he knew he’d heard that name lately, but couldn’t remember where.

  He was still going through everything when the telephone rang. He answered with the number.

  ‘Is Stephen Baker there?’ A man’s voice, weary.

  ‘He’s out. This is his partner. Can I take a message for him?’

  ‘Dan, that’s it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s George Wills, Leeds CID. I just wanted to let you know something odd.’ He hesitated. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a record of that chappie we found coming into England.’

  There was an air of defeat in the words.

  ‘Definitely a suicide, though?’

  ‘It look that way,’ Wills replied. ‘I was talking to the doctor who did the post-mortem. He’s convinced.’

  ‘Does it really matter, then? It’s not your problem.’

  ‘No.’ He seemed to brighten a little. ‘I suppose it doesn’t. Can you let Stephen know?’

  ‘Glad to.’

  He’d glossed the truth a little. But the Detective Inspector would have been worried if he knew what Markham had just learned. In this case at least, ignorance was bliss.

  He was still going through everything when Baker returned, clutching a sandwich in a brown paper bag.

  ‘Any luck on de Vries?’ Markham asked.

  ‘Not a dicky bird.’ He hung up his hat and coat and settled at the card table.

  ‘Take a look at this.’ He handed over Vreiten’s paperwork.

  ‘A Jerry, eh?’ Baker said after a few moments. ‘That makes sense. How did you get this?’

  ‘The same place I got these.’ Markham held up the folder. ‘Amanda Fox. These are the men they want us to check. Dieter was from East Germany. They all are.’

  ‘Well, well, well.’ He started to eat and the office smelt of potted meat. ‘Sounds like they don’t know yet.’

  ‘Your friend George rang. No record of anyone named Dieter de Vries entering the country. But everyone’s satisfied that it’s suicide by drowning.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him …?’

  Markham shook his head.

  ‘This is just for us. For now, anyway. He worked at Cokely’s.’

  Baker snorted, his mouth full.

  ‘Yeadon.’

  Now it clicked into place. The factory where Clever Trevor Peel worked.

  ‘Two of the others work there, too. Fancy a run out when you’ve finished?’ Markham asked.

  ‘As long as we stop for a cuppa first. I’m parched.’

  ***

  The road was empty on a Monday afternoon. Through Headingley and Cookridge. Past the newly built semis that lined Otley Road. Then the houses abruptly thinned out, replaced by farms with drystone walls, like skimming back through time.

  ‘Turn left up here,’ Baker said. He’d been quiet since they left, his face looking thoughtful and heavy. Markham signalled and headed towards Pool on a quiet country lane. The only traffic was a slow-moving tractor, easily passed.

  He didn’t know the area well. He’d been to Yeadon Airport a couple of times, but that was all.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘That’s it.’ Baker pointed off down a road.

  ‘Cokely’s?’

  ‘That Avro factory I was telling you about earlier. The secret one. Pull off on the verge.’

  Markham found a stretch of level ground and came to a halt. He followed the other man’s gaze. It was difficult to make out a building. Grass seemed to rise in a short, steep hill to a plateau.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I am.’ The older man turned his face and gave a withering look. ‘I might be knocking on but I’m not bloody doddering yet. That grass slope is how they disguised it. It’s all covered on the top, too. See it from the air and you’d think it was flat.’

  Markham was still looking, trying to take in just how vast it was. It seemed to run on forever. About the length of fifteen football pitches, he thought, but that was no more than a guess.

  ‘God,’ he said finally, amazed by it all. It seemed impossible that people could build anything so huge. And then to hide it …

  ‘Remarkable, isn’t it?’ Baker was all business again. ‘Best as I see it, Cokely’s should be down on the right. About a hundred yards.’

  The car park was half empty. Plenty of bicycles and motorbikes, though. Idly he wondered which one belonged to Trevor Peel.

  The receptionist handed them off to the personnel department. A fussy little manager in a cheap Burton’s suit listened as Baker talked. It made sense for him to take the lead. He had the age, the copper’s manner that made people help. But this time it didn’t seem to work. The manager gave a firm shake of his head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s terrible news about Mr de Vries, of course. We’ll miss him. He was well liked in his department.’ The words sounded empty, as if he’d read them from a card. Probably he barely knew who the man was. Then he continued, ‘But I can’t just go giving out details to every Tom, Dick and Harry. I’m sure you see that.’

  ‘We’re working for his landlady,’ Baker explained. ‘She’s the closest person to him in this country.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But she’s not family, is she? Even then I could only give details to a relative or someone with written authorisation. There are policies to follow.’ He smiled, enjoying the chance to exercise a little power. ‘I’m sure you understand.’ His eyes glittered triumphantly. He wasn’t going to give an inch; he had his authority and he was determined to stand on it.

  Outside, hands deep in the pockets of his mackintosh, Baker turned and looked at the factory.

  ‘Bloody little Hitler. Wouldn’t have been any skin off his nose to let us see de Vries’ file.’

  ‘We never had much chance, really.’ It had been worth a try. Something to note when he handed everything back to the Foxes. Subject committed suicide by drowning in the River Aire. Employment file not available.

  He wouldn’t have a chance to see the information on the other two from the list who worked here, either. That was fine. He expected it. He’d talk to landladies, local shopkeepers. All told it probably wasn’t even a full day’s work.

  Baker stayed quiet as they drove back into Leeds. Markham pulled over outside the Original Oak in Headingley. The remains of a dead tree rose from the pavement, the slabs pushed up around it at awkward angles.

  ‘We might as well call it a day for now.’

  ‘True. Four of them left to look at, aren’t there?’

  ‘We’ll take two each,’ Markham said. ‘We’ve nothing else on, anyway. Split them up in the morning. And we’re getting paid.’

  Quite handsomely, too. Twenty pounds for each follow-up, Amanda Fox had promised. The bills taken care of by Her Majesty’s government.

  ‘I’ll dig around a bit more on this de Vries,’ Baker said.

  ‘Vreiten.’ He wanted to give the dead man his real identity.

  The man shrugged.

  ‘I’ll give Miss Harding her money’s worth. She deserves that.’

  ***

  He overslept. The alarm didn’t go off. He dashed through shaving and dressing, ignored breakfast, and made it to the office by half past nine.

  Baker was sitting, reading the Yorkshire Post and puffing on his pipe.

  ‘Decided to get out of your pit, did you?’ He grinned.

  ‘Don’t,’ Markham warned. ‘Anything more on Vreiten?’

  ‘A couple of the shopkeepers knew him. Not well, mind, he didn’t seem to talk a lot, but you can hardly blame him, I suppose. Everyone’s sad that he’s dead. Shocked at the suicide, of course.’

  The way people always were. Death inevitably came
as a shock or a blessed relief, he’d found.

  He opened the buff folder that Amanda Fox had given him, took out the two top stacks of paper and passed them over.

  ‘We can probably get these out of the way today.’

  Baker checked through the first, then started on the second. He’d barely begun when he put it aside and began thumbing through the newspaper.

  ‘What is it?’ Markham asked.

  ‘That name. Maxim Mertens. Or Marius Martin, according to what’s in here.’ He found the article, folded the page and tossed it on the desk. ‘Take a look.’

  The man killed in a car crash on Thursday night has been named by police as Maxim Mertens, a Belgian national residing in Leeds. The accident happened in the early hours of Thursday morning on the road between Pannal and Harewood. Investigators believe Mertens, who was driving, skidded to avoid an animal and ran into a tree. He was the only occupant of the vehicle. The police are attempting to locate his family in Belgium.

  Markham lowered the paper slowly.

  ‘You already know how I feel about coincidences,’ Baker said.

  ‘I think I’d better go and have another word with Amanda Fox.’

  ‘I’ll get started on these other names.’ He sighed. ‘While they’re still alive.’

  ***

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Amanda Fox told him. She was seated behind her desk, her face showing her disbelief.

  Markham sat opposite her and hitched up the knees on his trousers.

  ‘It’s happened,’ he said. ‘That’s the problem. My partner’s checking on the others. But I think I need to know what’s going on here.’ He lit a Craven A and blew smoke towards the high ceiling.

  She stared at him.

  ‘I’ve told you what I can. I’d need to talk to Mark before I can say anything more.’

  ‘Then you’d better have a word with him soon. Whatever it is, things are getting out of control.’

  She was silent for a few moments, biting her bottom lip.

  ‘I’ll get him back here,’ she said.

  ‘How well does he know the men he’s brought over?’

  ‘Well enough,’ Mrs Fox said. It was an ambiguous, neutral answer. He wasn’t going to pursue it for now. And he wasn’t going to ask who might want these men dead. Not yet. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to know. With a quick nod of his head he said goodbye.

  ***

  Baker was checking into all three remaining names. That would keep him busy for the day. Markham returned to the office and sat reading the Manchester Guardian. There was a picture of the Prime Minister, Harold Macmillan, on the front page, with his long, basset face. Never had it so good, the man had said earlier that year. Perhaps he was right. There were plenty of signs of prosperity. More motor cars on the roads. People crowded into the shops to buy washing machines and televisions on hire purchase.

  The days of rationing and all the deprivation seemed like a bad memory now. Leeds had certainly recovered from the war and the austere years that followed. The new affluence was here. Advertisements for everything under the sun.

  At noon he strolled over to the Milkmaid on Commercial Street. A cheese sandwich and a cup of milky tea. It was bland, but it would fill him for now.

  By the time he returned, a couple was waiting outside the door. As soon as they saw him they looked embarrassed, as if they’d been caught doing something wrong. Divorce, he decided immediately.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘I had to pop out for a moment. I’m Dan Markham.’

  He ushered them in and sat them down. In their late thirties, he guessed. The woman seemed uncomfortable, gazing down and playing with her wedding ring, turning it round and round on her finger.

  ‘I’m John Duncan,’ the man began hesitantly. He wore his suit and tie easily, crossing one leg over the other. The first signs of grey in his hair and a carefully clipped moustache. ‘This is my wife, Diana. We’ve …’ The words seemed to fail him.

  ‘Divorce?’

  ‘Yes,’ Duncan agreed sombrely. ‘That’s it. We married very young, before the war. The children are grown now and, well …’

  He’d heard the story so often he could have told it himself. Marriage had become a stale habit, without joy. Maybe one of them had met someone else – from the blush on Diana Duncan’s face, it could have been her. So now they were doing the civilised thing. No rows, no fury. Just letting it all die quietly and legally.

  ‘I understand,’ Markham said. ‘It’s actually quite simple.’

  He explained how it worked. Tawdry, but it was a way around the law, and the courts accepted it.

  ‘It does come down to some proof of adultery. But it only has to look that way,’ he added to assure the man.

  ‘We’ve discussed it,’ Duncan told him. ‘I’d be willing to, you know …’

  ‘Have you seen a solicitor yet?’

  ‘Yes.’ Diana Duncan raised her head and spoke for the first time. She sounded nervous. ‘We’ve put in the papers.’

  ‘Good.’ Markham smiled at them. ‘Then we can get cracking.’

  He took all their details and two five-pound notes as a down payment.

  ‘I’ll make all the arrangements and give you as much notice as I can. But it shouldn’t be more than a few days. After that I’ll give your solicitor my statement and the photographs.’

  There was a bed and breakfast place off Harehills Lane, close to Potternewton Park, that appreciated the extra business. And a prostitute who liked a few quid without having to perform. Money for old rope, she called it, but she still didn’t lower her rates.

  Half an hour later he saw them out, hearing their footsteps clatter down the linoleum on the stairs. They seemed a little happier. Or perhaps it was relief. It was still a long road to a decree absolute but they’d taken the first steps.

  He made two telephone calls, setting everything up for Friday afternoon, then wrote a quick note to Mr Duncan.

  Markham was putting on his coat, ready to go to the post box, when the phone rang.

  ‘Are you in the middle of something?’ Baker asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I’m up in Moortown, on the parade. Could you come up?’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Another mysterious summons. He hoped it didn’t mean another body.

  ‘Nothing too bad. Maybe just something you should see, that’s all.’

  ‘All right,’ he agreed slowly. ‘I’ll be there in a little while.’

  ***

  The Anglia stalled twice on the journey, once at the top of Chapeltown Road, the next time outside the Kingsway cinema. He needed to take it in. Maybe the garage had something he could use in the meantime.

  He spotted Baker leaning against the phone box, reading his newspaper. A north wind bit down from Harrogate and the Dales.

  ‘So what do you want me to see?’ he asked.

  ‘We might as well get in your motor. It’s along Street Lane.’

  A good mile along Street Lane, as it turned out, down in the Romans, on a street of neat three-storey terraced houses that had probably been villas at the beginning of the century. They still had an air of solidity and permanence.

  He turned off the engine, hearing the soft clicks as it began to cool.

  ‘Right,’ Markham said, ‘what do you want me to see?’

  ‘Second house from the end.’ He pointed with a stubby finger. ‘Morten Blum’s lodgings. He’s supposed to have come from Denmark.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We know he’s from East Germany,’ Baker continued. ‘His real name’s Manfred Blum; close enough, isn’t it? I had a chat with his landlady. She let me have a look around his room.’ He opened the door of the Anglia. ‘Come on, I’ll show you. Let me do the talking, all right?’

  The woman smiled when she opened the door, happy to see Baker once more.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you again, luv,’ he said, ‘but this is my colleague. I was thinking a bit and I�
�d like to have him see everything, too. Is that fine?’

  ‘Of course it is.’ She was a thin woman, like a tall stick covered with a heavy cardigan. Her dark hair was gathered in a bun, her eyes hidden behind a pair of thick glasses. She took a key off the table in the hall. ‘You know where it is.’

  Baker leaned close to her.

  ‘Like before, not a word.’ He tapped the side of his nose with a finger.

  ‘Don’t you worry.’ She seemed to simper.

  ***

  The room was upstairs, at the end of the hall. The key turned soundlessly in the lock. It was a large room containing a double bed covered with a burgundy candlewick, a small dressing table, easy chair, table and bookcase without seeming crowded.

  ‘What did you tell her?’ Markham asked.

  ‘I might have mentioned the police.’ Baker’s eyes were twinkling. ‘Didn’t say I was one, mind. She just chose to think so. Very happy to help the boys in blue, is Mrs Thompson. That’s why I said you should let me talk.’

  He went over to the bookcase and picked out a book. Roget’s Thesaurus. Common in so many English households. He had a copy in the flat.

  ‘Take a glance through that and tell me what you see,’ the man continued.

  He looked, paying attention as he leafed slowly through the pages. After about twenty seconds he began to notice something. Tiny pinpricks under letters. As soon as he knew what to look for, he kept opening the book at random. Some pages had nothing, others had two or three. It wasn’t an accident. There was some method behind it.

  ‘You did well to spot this,’ Markham said.

  ‘It was an accident, really, but I thought there was something to it. Any idea what it means?’

  ‘It’s a code pad of some sort, from the look of things. They taught us a little bit about it in military intelligence. All beyond me, though.’

  ‘The question is why an engineer who’s been brought out of West Germany would have something like this,’ Baker said.