The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

‘There’s only one reason anyone would need it.’

  Baker took it from his hands and replaced it carefully in the bookcase.

  ‘That’s what I thought, too. Something for you to pass on to that Fox woman. You understand why I wanted you to see it?’

  Morten Blum, or whatever his real name might be, was spying for the East Germans. That meant the Russians. What the hell were they getting mixed up with? Two dead men and now this.

  ‘Have you been to any of the others?’ He was driving along Princes Avenue, through the broad expanse of Soldiers Field.

  ‘One. He seemed clean enough. One more to go.’

  ‘Where’s he?’

  ‘Down by Potternewton Park.’

  ‘I’ll drop you off.’

  ***

  Back in town Markham wandered over to the Kardomah for a coffee and a chance to think. He’d write up the report for Amanda Fox, put the cheque in the bank, and that would be the end of it. Baker could poke around more into Vreiten’s life if he wanted. There wasn’t going to be much for him to discover about it in Leeds, that was certain.

  As he came back out on to Briggate he heard the sound. Trumpet, trombone and more, playing some Dixieland. He had to stop to be certain he hadn’t imagined it. Then he walked up the street, moving between people, following the noise. What the hell was it?

  ***

  Standing at the corner of the Headrow everything became clearer. A procession, like the New Orleans funerals he’d read about. The jazz funerals, they were called, music sombre and dark on the way to the graveyard, joyful as the musicians made their way home.

  He waited as they passed. A group of students, looking like this was the most fun they’d had in their lives. The young man out in front had a stick like a regimental sergeant major leading a parade. Behind him, a cornet and a saxophone, someone with a trombone, a banjo player, and finally a man playing a tuba, feet splaying from a pram as someone pushed him along. A girl walking beside them was handing out sheets of paper. Markham took one as she passed. It was badly mimeographed, faint and blurred, the music and lyrics for a song. The New Eastgate Swing, the title read. He smiled and pushed it down into his pocket.

  The whole spectacle was unlikely. It was impossible. But it was there. Traffic had stopped, people were gawping in disbelief. There’d certainly been nothing like it in Leeds before. A beautiful, strange joke. The music was ragtag, the players struggling, but that didn’t matter. He followed them down the Headrow and on to Eastgate. The leader moved his stick faster, like a baton, and the tune sped up to double-time, turning into a raucous, enthusiastic version of ‘When The Saints Go Marchin’ In’.

  If he hadn’t seen it, Markham wouldn’t have believed it. He wished he’d had a camera to capture it all. Eastgate swung. For the first time and very likely the last.

  It had brightened his day. The wonderful unexpected. He made his way back to the office with a smile on his face; all the worries about dead Germans vanished from his mind for a few minutes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Baker arrived a little after five, shrugging off his mackintosh and hanging up his hat with a long sigh.

  ‘Did you find anything on the last one?’ Markham asked.

  ‘Nothing in his room. He’s the other one who works at Cokely’s. He feels clean enough to me.’

  A copper’s hunch. It was probably good enough.

  ‘Just write a few lines. I’ll take it over to Fox before I go home.’

  ‘I had a word with a couple of neighbours and the local shops. Nothing unusual.’

  ‘We’ll pass that on.’

  ***

  Amanda Fox read the reports, staring briefly at him before she looked at the sheet on Morten Blum again, going slowly over everything.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked after a long silence. ‘He’s a spy?’

  ‘I think it’s very likely.’ Markham chose his words carefully. ‘That’s two dead and one spy. The other two seem clean. It’s all in there.’

  ‘I’ll have to ring people in London,’ she said.

  ‘You haven’t before?’

  ‘When I talked to Mark he said to leave it until he was back. But with this … if Blum’s a spy …’

  ‘When do you expect your husband?’

  ‘He’ll be back here tomorrow. The day after at the latest.’ She crossed her legs and the soft, crackling sound of nylon filled the air for a moment. ‘He’s going to ring you as soon as he’s here.’ She reached into a drawer and took out a chequebook. ‘One hundred pounds. That’s what we agreed.’

  He waited quietly. For a woman who looked so seductive – lemon yellow silk today, with just the hint of cleavage, hair held down by an Alice band – she was precise in her actions. Carefully blotting the ink, tearing out the cheque with small, intent moves.

  Markham folded it and placed it in his wallet without even checking the amount.

  ‘I look forward to meeting Mr Fox.’

  Six. The banks had been closed for over two hours; he’d deposit the money in the morning. As he made his way back to Albion Place, Leeds seemed empty, only the people heading for a meal or the cinema out and about.

  Baker had left. The undercurrent of typing from the secretarial agency downstairs had vanished. He had the building to himself.

  The whole Fox business was a mess. Good pay, but it all nagged at him. As soon as he’d mentioned the two deaths she should have been talking to MI5. Anyone could see that the pieces didn’t add up properly. Never mind, he told himself as he locked the door. They were out of it now and he was glad. He’d never wanted to be part of the cloak and dagger set.

  ***

  ‘Leave it?’ Baker said in surprise. He was surrounded by a fog of pipe smoke, the raw smell of shag from the tobacconist’s in County Arcade.

  ‘Yes. As soon as this Fox bloke shows his face. We’ll bring him up to speed and that’s it.’ He paused. ‘It’s what they’ve paid us for. The whole thing’s gone out of our league.’

  ‘We’ve done the spadework. The landladies know us.’

  ‘Fine,’ Markham said. ‘Do your bit for Miss Harding and call it a day. We’ll let the people with the right clearances and authority take care of the rest. Divorce, frauds – that’s our speed. Just forget about it.’

  ‘You sound like you got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning,’ Baker told him.

  ‘No. I just had time to think it all through last night.’

  He’d smoked cigarette after cigarette, considering every avenue they’d begun to explore on this. None of them looked appealing. And every single one seemed to have danger at the end of it.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Baker agreed finally and turned the pages of the newspaper. ‘There’s something here. Sounds right up your street, jazz, happened on the Headrow.’

  ‘I know,’ Markham said with a smile. ‘I saw it. Bloody wonderful.’

  ***

  They were about to leave for dinner when the telephone rang.

  ‘Is this Dan Markham?’ A man’s voice, easy and cultured.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hello, this is Mark Fox. I just arrived in Leeds a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fox.’ He looked at Baker, his eyebrows raised, signalling the man to wait. ‘I think we need to have a chat, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I believe you’re right. The Victoria Hotel on Great George Street?’

  ‘That’s fine. A quarter of an hour?’

  ***

  The Victoria had probably really been a hotel when it was built; there were enough storeys rising up from the street to offer rooms. These days most of the pub’s trade came from workers at the Town Hall. It was a big barn of a place, still with the original etched glass, wood, and brass. But it was uncared-for, the carpets threadbare, no polish on anything, all the old beauty hidden under an air of neglect that hung heavily on the place.

  The main bar was busy, men drinking their pints and talking. But no one on his own. Markham found him in the room
labelled Bridget’s Bar, off the main hall. He was the only one in there, sitting at a small round table, a glass of whisky and a small jug of water in front of him.

  It had to be Mark Fox. The suit was bespoke, beautifully tailored to fall around his body. He looked to be around forty, and the haircut that trimmed his thick, dark hair hadn’t come from the barber on New York Street.

  ‘I’ll get them in,’ Baker muttered and disappeared.

  ‘Mr Fox?’ Markham extended his hand. ‘Dan Markham.’

  The man smiled, showing white, even teeth.

  ‘Good to meet you finally. Have a seat. Can I get you something?’

  ‘My partner’s buying. He’ll be through in a second. He’s the one who’s been dealing with most of this.’

  ‘Very good.’ He picked up the glass. Manicured fingernails, Markham noticed. What man in Leeds ever had those?

  Baker returned with a pint of bitter, the head thick and white, and a tall glass of ginger ale.

  ‘You two appear to have run into a few snags,’ Fox began. There was concern in his voice, but far too little worry.

  ‘Two dead, one very likely a spy,’ Baker answered flatly. ‘I’d call that more than a few snags.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Fox allowed with an easy smile. ‘The information’s been passed on to the appropriate people.’

  Fox wasn’t local, Markham decided. He had the long vowels of a Southerner. That seemed curious. Why had he ended up in Leeds?

  ‘There are still two dead men,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I had a word with the police before I came out. In both cases there’s no hint of anything suspicious,’ Fox countered.

  ‘So it’s just an unfortunate coincidence?’

  ‘They happen.’ Fox shrugged. ‘I wanted to set your minds at rest.’

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ Baker told him. ‘I spent a long time on the force. I don’t believe in coincidence.’

  ‘That’s your choice, of course.’ Fox looked at him, speaking slowly and calmly. ‘But whichever way you look at it, they’ve gone, and we’ll be keeping a closer eye on those who are still in the country.’

  ‘How many are there?’ Markham asked. ‘Just the names you’ve given us?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that,’ Fox answered. ‘You spent time in military intelligence. You know the score.’

  ‘Always worth asking.’

  ‘Of course. And I can assure you we’ll take the appropriate steps with Mr Blum. That was good work on your part.’ Quite elaborately he looked at his watch, showing a pair of gold cufflinks. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have too many things to do. I hope my answers have helped.’ He took an expensive overcoat with an astrakhan collar from the seat and shrugged himself into it with neat, economical movements. ‘I’m sure we’ll be sending more business your way.’

  Then he was gone.

  ‘Ever feel you’ve been handed a load of flannel?’ Baker asked into the silence.

  ***

  The days passed quietly. The police passed on another missing person case, a genuine one this time. That kept Baker busy and out of the office.

  ‘You’d do better if you bought a motor car,’ Markham told him.

  ‘It’s in hand,’ he answered cryptically. ‘By the weekend, all being well.’

  It was sooner. On Friday morning Baker walked into the office jangling some keys.

  ‘Come on downstairs and take a look.’

  It was parked outside, just behind the Anglia. A black Wolseley, two years old, neatly cleaned and waxed. The leather seats were cracked, the walnut of the dashboard a little scarred, but those were minor quibbles.

  ‘Ex-police?’ Markham guessed.

  ‘Got it for a good price,’ he nodded in triumph. ‘Mate of mine down at the police garage. The motor’s fine, he says. Souped up, too, do a ton in no time.’

  It was a large vehicle. But Baker was a large man. Even at a glance it looked like a police vehicle – the colour and power. Still, Stephen Baker would always look like a copper.

  ‘It’ll get you around fast enough.’

  ‘The wife says we can use it for a run out into the Dales and the coast on the weekends. Maybe go and see the children and grandkids.’ He sighed.

  ‘How’s your case coming along? Found him yet?’

  ‘Got a lead over in York. I’m heading there this afternoon.’ He raised his glance to the grey sky. ‘Could have asked for better weather. But with a little luck I’ll have it wrapped up today, then spend the weekend putting the allotment to bed for the winter.’

  ‘I’ve got the adultery job on the Duncan divorce later.’ He smiled. ‘Some jazz tonight.’

  ‘I don’t know what you hear in that racket. Give me a good dance band any day. Billy Cotton or Ted Heath, that’s the ticket.’ He patted the bonnet of the Wolseley. ‘Still, this means we can take on more work.’

  ‘Nothing involving Germans, though.’

  ‘I didn’t know that when we started,’ Baker protested.

  They hadn’t even discussed it since seeing Mark Fox. There was nothing to talk about, anyway. It was over, out of their hands. The cheque had cleared. Forget about it.

  He watched Baker drive proudly away and climbed back up the stairs. He had a few hours before going out to Harehills.

  ***

  Buslingthorpe Lane was quiet. Too many of the factories in the area stood empty now, weeds growing from the gutters and the windows smashed. The era of manufacturing was drawing to a close, no matter what the politicians claimed.

  Day’s Garage was busy, though. The sound of spanners and grunts from inside, a row of motor cars standing outside. He parked and searched for the owner. Martin Day had set up the business after a war spent in the military motor pool. Since then he’d done well for himself, moving to this bigger place five years before. Four mechanics worked for him. He was cheap, good, and quick.

  ‘Can you give it a going over?’ Markham asked.

  Day took a packet of Woodbine from his overalls and lit one.

  ‘Probably just needs new sparking plugs,’ he said, picking a shred of tobacco off his lip.

  ‘You said you could let me have something in the meantime.’

  ‘That one there.’ He pointed at an Escort Estate. ‘I know it doesn’t look much, but it’s solid.’ He chuckled. ‘Won’t do much for your image, but …’

  ‘As long as it gets me there and back.’

  ‘It’ll do that, right enough. I’ll have yours ready by dinnertime on Monday.’ In the office he hunted through a drawer and tossed a set of keys across the room. ‘Just try not to prang it, Dan.’

  He was cautious at first, driving slowly as he got the feel of the vehicle. Up Scott Hall Road, Potternewton Lane, then down Harehills Lane to park a few streets from the small hotel.

  Plenty of time to eat. He found a cafe along the parade on Roundhay Road. Eggs and chips with a few slices of bread and butter and a cup of hot, sweet tea. The yolks properly runny, sopped up by the bread.

  Mr Duncan was waiting on the corner, perfectly punctual. He looked uncomfortable, but so many of the men did when it came to this.

  ‘Do you still want to go through with it?’ Markham asked. A few seconds of silence, then a quick nod.

  ‘I don’t have to … you know?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ Markham said, reassuring him. ‘You’ll just be in the same bed for a few minutes, that’s all. You don’t even need to touch her.’

  Relief seemed to flood through the man’s face. He probably had a pair of pyjamas in his briefcase, Markham thought. That was so often the way.

  Julie was waiting at the hotel. This was routine for her. Already she looked bored, sitting wrapped in her coat, smoking a cigarette and leafing through a magazine. She barely gave Duncan a glance, smiling at Markham.

  ‘It’s not going to take long, is it, love?’ she asked. ‘Only I have to be in town before five.’

  ‘Just the usual,’ he replied. She was a tired-
looking bottle blonde in her early thirties. Married during the war and left pregnant when her husband went off to die at D-Day. Now she did what she could to make ends meet and bring up a child, living in a council flat in Belle Isle. She was honest and she knew the drill well enough by now.

  The hotel owner signed them in as Mr and Mrs Smith and handed Julie the key.

  ‘Right,’ she told Duncan, ‘you come with me. We’ll be done before you can say Jack Robinson.’ His gaze turned to Markham. ‘Five minutes, all right?’

  A quick cup of weak tea and Markham climbed the stairs, not bothering to knock on the door. The couple were in bed. Julie had the sheet pulled up over her breasts. Duncan appeared awkward and embarrassed, but that would come out just right in the photographs. Caught in the act.

  He took ten pictures, six with the flash and four without, before he gave a thumbs up and left. Not even ten past the hour. Another five minutes, paying the owner for the use of the room, and he heard the couple come down again. Ten pounds for Julie, and a quick word with Duncan.

  ‘I’ll develop these and get them to your solicitor,’ he explained. ‘That’s it, apart from the court appearances.’

  ‘No one else will see them, will they?’

  More than half the men asked that. They needed the appearance of adultery for their divorces but they were embarrassed by it; an odd paradox. The rest of the clients swaggered as if they’d just made a great conquest.

  ‘No,’ Markham promised. The negatives and unused images would simply disappear into the file. Down at the corner he asked, ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘I’ll take the bus,’ Duncan muttered and strode quickly away.

  ***

  He’d set up a darkroom of sorts in one of the cellars below his flat. None of the other tenants used the space. Cleaning it out he’d found a strange assortment of items – cigarette cards from the 1920s and ’30s, covered in mould, a rotting gasmask from the war, a pair of women’s shoes that had probably been fashionable not long after Queen Victoria died.

  Developing the film didn’t take long. These weren’t art shots. All he needed was to be able to see the faces clearly. Three of the photographs worked well, enough for any lawyer. He hung them on a line to dry and took the negatives back upstairs.