The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

  ‘That’s great news,’ he said, and meant it. ‘Are you going to take it?’

  She nodded her head, thick hair falling around her shoulders.

  ‘I think so. Decent money. I like Durham, the cathedral and the university and the river are beautiful, but I don’t know … there’s something about Leeds, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes,’ Markham agreed. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. The city inhabited him.

  ‘It’s not just me, is it?’ Carla asked, and he knew she wasn’t referring to the place.

  ‘No.’ He sighed. For a long time he’d imagined a scene like this. But it had never happened. And now …

  He paid the bill and they left. Across New Briggate the Gothic turrets of the Grand Theatre rose up.

  ‘We could go down to Studio 20 if you want,’ she suggested.

  ‘Not tonight.’ There was the possibility Georgina might be there.

  ‘You know,’ she began, voice husky, ‘my parents aren’t expecting me until tomorrow morning.’

  Markham closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, feeling the dampness of the fog on the bricks.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better surprise them,’ he said eventually. ‘I told you I was going out with someone.’ If his parents had given him one thing, it was a sense of honour.

  ‘I’m glad you said that,’ she told him. ‘I like you even more for it.’ She gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘But I need to ask you again. This thing with her, are you telling the truth that it’s not serious?’

  ‘No, it’s not. Really. But it wouldn’t be fair. Not without me ending things with her first.’ He took a deep breath. ‘If you come back, would you want us to start going out again?’

  ‘Only if you’re free.’ She took his hand and squeezed it gently. ‘The real question is what you want, Dan.’

  ‘You already know the answer to that.’

  ‘I should tell you, the job’s settled. I start in January.’ Carla picked up the suitcase and put her free arm through his. ‘You don’t mind walking me back to the station, do you?’

  ‘Not at all.’ He smiled.

  ‘I rather think the ball’s in your court now,’ she told him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was a weekend on his own. Georgina was working on Saturday then meeting some friends in the evening. Probably for the best, Markham decided; it gave him time to wrestle with the problem.

  But it wasn’t a problem. Not really. Deep inside he already knew the answer. The only difficult thing was how to let Georgina down gently and carefully. She deserved that, at the very least. They were friends who happened to also be lovers, he told himself again. Even so …

  He pottered around the flat, listening to music and reading, only to discover himself staring absently into space, not convinced he hadn’t dreamt the fact that Carla still wanted him.

  ***

  ‘You look like a cat that ate the cream and can’t decide if it’s gone bad.’ Markham laughed.

  ‘I didn’t know I was that obvious.’

  ‘CID,’ Baker told him with a nod. ‘Trained observer.’

  Rain on Sunday had washed away the last of the fog. There’d been a frost overnight; he’d needed to scrape it off the car windscreen before he could drive to the office.

  The office radiator hissed and steamed, and condensation trickled down the window. He’d go back to work on the frauds.

  ‘How are you getting on with that woman?’ he asked. ‘The one who’s being bilked by her son.’

  ‘She just lets things out in dribs and drabs.’ Baker sighed. ‘I think half of it is that she likes the company.’

  ‘But it’s real?’

  ‘Oh aye. I’ve seen the statements from the bank. I just need a little more from her then I’ll go and see him. If he doesn’t repay it all then I’ll take the information to the police. It’s virtually done. Over in a couple of hours.’

  ‘I should have those frauds finished today or tomorrow.’

  ‘This is what it’s like, then? Feast and famine?’

  ‘More or less.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I’ve got my pension.’

  They were still talking when the telephone rang. Markham listened for a moment then handed over the receiver.

  ‘For you.’ He shrugged. ‘Sergeant Anderson.’

  He heard Baker’s end of the conversation, the one-word replies and frowns.

  ‘You’d better talk to him,’ he said finally and passed the handset back. ‘About your friend Amanda.’

  ‘When did you last see Mrs Fox?’ Anderson asked. He sounded worried.

  ‘Wednesday,’ Markham replied. ‘She stopped by with folders on three cases she was passing on. Why?’

  ‘Do you know if she was planning on leaving Leeds?’

  ‘No,’ Markham replied, feeling a prickle of fear up his spine. ‘She said she was staying to sort things out. Why?’

  ‘She’s vanished,’ Anderson replied with embarrassment.

  ‘Didn’t you have someone watching her?’

  ‘Not all the time,’ he admitted after a moment. ‘We don’t have the manpower. No one seems to have seen her since Friday.’

  ‘Are you sure Special Branch hasn’t nabbed her again?’

  ‘We made dead certain of that,’ he replied darkly.

  ‘What about her car?’

  ‘It’s not in her garage or by the office. That’s why we think she’s gone. I’ve been in touch with Scotland Yard. She won’t get far.’ Anderson sounded more hopeful than certain.

  If she’d been gone since Friday, she’d had time to leave the country. Maybe they’d all been wrong about Amanda Fox. Perhaps she was cleverer than he’d imagined.

  Or maybe someone else had taken her.

  ‘Let me know when you find her, please,’ he said. ‘Did she take her passport?’

  ‘We found it in her house,’ the sergeant said. ‘In a drawer in the lounge.’

  ‘What about clothes? Suitcase?’

  ‘Hard to tell, but it doesn’t look like she’s taken anything. But she wouldn’t, it would be too obvious.’

  The line went dead.

  It was possible. She could have been good enough to fool them all. She could have run. If she really was involved in spying for the Russians she’d almost certainly have a false passport. If no one was following her she could have vanished quite easily.

  ‘She could be in Moscow by now,’ Baker said.

  It was true. But he wasn’t so certain. If she really was working for the Russians she’d have vanished with her husband. When they’d talked she’d seemed completely honest with her feelings and doubts. So uncertain about everything that he’d believed her. She genuinely didn’t seem to understand what her husband had done, shocked and taken aback by it. If she’d been acting then she deserved an Oscar.

  ‘Maybe she just needed to get away for a few days.’

  ‘Where? A weekend in Scarborough in November?’ Baker snorted. ‘Would you?’

  ‘No, but I haven’t had everything I know fall apart around me.’

  ‘She fooled us both, that’s all there is too it. She’s probably in the Kremlin now laughing at everyone here.’

  Markham lit a Craven A, drew the smoke deep into his lungs and tried to weigh it all in his mind.

  ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t buy it. Not if her clothes and her passport are still there. Someone could have her. That Russian assassin you were talking about.’

  ‘It’s not our problem, anyway, is it?’ Baker said. ‘You’re the one who’s spent the last week or so saying that. We’re better out of it. Remember?’

  ‘That was before this,’ he said. ‘If everyone believes she’s gone and she hasn’t …’

  Maybe he felt he owed her a little something. Some trust. Or perhaps he simply needed to know she hadn’t played him for a complete idiot.

  ‘And how do we find out?’ Baker objected. ‘Do you even know where to start? Friends
? Family?’

  ‘She said her parents were dead and her brother lives in the States.’

  ‘You don’t have any bloody idea where to begin then, do you?’

  ‘I’ll give it today,’ Markham said. ‘If I don’t turn anything up I’ll let it go.’

  ***

  George Grout. If anyone could point him in the right direction it would be George. He’d be where he always was, sitting in the Market Tavern from opening time onwards, fading away to a house somewhere only when they called time and put the towels over the pumps.

  He dressed in bespoke suits, shoes highly polished, hair expensively barbered. George always looked out of place in the den of thieves. It was a rundown pub, at least twenty years past its prime, about fifty yards from Millgarth police station. And filled with more crooks per square foot than anywhere else in Leeds. Odd, with the coppers so close, but there was often no reason to things.

  Markham ordered a shandy and a small measure of Teacher’s scotch and carried them to a table under a dusty window. Grout was like any number of men he’d met since he became an enquiry agent; his currency was information. From his appearance he did well from it, still with a suntan in the English November. A crisp, folded handkerchief peeked from the breast pocket of his jacket. Dapper, Markham’s mother would have called him. On the verge of flash.

  ‘Hello George,’ he said as he sat down, pushing the whisky across the table. Grout raised his gaze.

  ‘Morning, Mr Markham.’ It was a Leeds voice, but with the roughest edges rubbed away. He raised the glass in a toast. ‘Your very good health.’ He sipped and gave an approving nod. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Mark and Amanda Fox.’

  Grout chuckled and said, ‘I’ve heard you’ve had dealings with them. Before he skipped across the Iron Curtain. And you’ve done a bit of business with her.’

  ‘True enough,’ he admitted with a smile. George always knew what was going on, but he’d say nothing until his palm was crossed with pound notes. ‘But I want to know about them before that time.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Who knew them, the kind of dealings they had, things like that.’ He thought for a moment. ‘And whether there might be any Russians in Leeds.’

  ‘Russians?’ Grout asked with a worried frown. ‘Not heard of any of them.’

  ‘Germans?’

  ‘Always a few.’ He shrugged. ‘Fox brought some here, but I’m sure you know that. If they’ve any sense they don’t admit they’re Jerries, though. Not since the war. I can ask around.’

  ‘Any who’ve arrived in the last month or so.’

  Grout raised an eyebrow, his mind working on connections.

  ‘I’ll try to find out. So you need to know about the Foxes. How much do you want to spend?’

  ‘Ten quid?’ It was a fair bit of money, but he needed the information.

  ‘That’ll get you the basics. Going deep is twenty.’

  Markham reached for his wallet, taking out four fivers, and placing them on the table. Grout made no move to pick them up; that would be crass. Later would do.

  ‘You know the enquiry agent stuff they do is just a front,’ he said. ‘They carry out a few jobs, but it’s not enough to keep body and soul together.’

  ‘I know that much.’

  ‘It’s all that stuff he did in Germany that paid the bills. And he has money, of course. Had, anyway. I don’t suppose they pay much attention to all that in Moscow.’

  ‘Who did they deal with here?’

  Grout shook his head.

  ‘Everything’s decided down in London.’

  ‘But they must have had contacts up here.’

  ‘A few.’ But he didn’t say more.

  ‘Who are they, George?’

  ‘If I were you I’d want to talk to two people: Tim Hill and John Crews.’

  ‘I don’t know them.’

  ‘That’s the whole point. They keep a very low profile.’

  Markham didn’t bother to ask how Grout knew their names. He’d never say, anyway.

  ‘How do I find them?’

  ‘If you want Hill, take a look at Cokely’s. Crews works for a company in Hunslet. Farren’s.’

  ‘Let me guess: both those companies do defence work.’

  ‘I’ve heard they maybe do some hush-hush things,’ was as far as Grout would commit himself. He adjusted the knot on his tie. ‘That’s what I know offhand about the Foxes. I’ll see what else I can dig up. If there’s anything I’ll be in touch.’

  Back out on the corner, Markham considered what he’d heard. It was a start. De Vries and two of the other Germans had worked at Cokely’s. It might be worth another trip out there.

  Farren’s was closer, just across the River Aire on Hunslet Road. They’d manufactured shells during both wars. God only knew what they were making now. It was walking distance. And he had nothing else to do.

  He crossed over Crown Point Bridge. There was very little traffic on the river, half the old warehouses looking derelict, windows broken. Like Leeds, it all seemed to look to a forgotten industrial past rather than the future.

  The scent of malt and hops from the huge Tetley brewery filled the air south of the water. It was warm and comforting. But by the time he reached Farren’s he barely noticed it any more.

  The receptionist was more helpful than he expected, and five minutes later he was escorted down a carpeted corridor, past closed doors, to an office with Mr Crews painted on the glass.

  John Crews was tall, in his late forties but still in good, powerful shape. He took Markham’s business card and tapped it with a nicotine-stained forefinger.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve ever had any enquiry agents in here before.’

  ‘Really? I thought you might have dealt with some others. Mark and Amanda Fox.’

  Crews was a poor liar. The truth showed on his face as he said, ‘Who? Fox? I’ve never heard of them.’

  ‘Ah,’ Markham said. ‘I’m sorry. Someone told me you had.’

  ‘They’ve been pulling your leg, then. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’ A flush of guilt rose up Crews’ cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry for taking up your time.’

  A quick handshake and he left. Interesting, Markham thought as he walked back along Dock Street, over Leeds Bridge and up Briggate. Why would the man lie about something like that?

  It had been all too easy to read his face. Crews had looked worried from the moment Markham walked in. When the name Fox came up, he’d tried to make his expression blank. But he’d failed spectacularly.

  After that he knew that going out to Cokely’s would be a waste of time. They’d been turned away the last time; returning with awkward questions would bring the same result.

  ***

  ‘I could ring that bloke at Cokely’s,’ Baker offered. ‘I sound like a copper.’

  ‘Don’t say you are one.’

  ‘I’m not daft.’ He gave a withering look, picked up the receiver and began to dial.

  It didn’t take long. Hill was in the other part of the factory, the telephonist told him.

  ‘What other part, luv?’

  He was over in the old Avro shadow factory that had once built Lancaster bombers and now looked deserted.

  ‘Don’t they have phones over there?’ Baker asked.

  It took five minutes of waiting. Finally there was a voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘Mr Hill? Hello, it’s Baker here from Leeds.’ He sound official, ready to ride roughshod over any objection. ‘We have a few questions we’d like you to answer.’ He waited, nodding as the man assented. ‘About Mr and Mrs Fox.’ A pause when the question seemed obvious. ‘I said my name’s Baker. No, I’m not with the police. I never said I was.’

  He waited a moment then lowered the handset.

  ‘Mr Hill didn’t want to talk to me. Funny, that, isn’t it? As soon as I mentioned the Foxes.’

  ‘We’re getting nowhere.’ Markham slammed his hand
down on the desk in frustration.

  ‘That’s not quite true, Dan,’ he said slowly. ‘We know we’re making people uncomfortable. That’s something.’

  ‘It still doesn’t help us.’

  Baker shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

  ***

  A little more work on the frauds. Markham went to one of the businesses and talked to the owner. An hour of going through the figures and asking questions and he’d identified the thief.

  He sat quietly in the corner, hat in his lap, as the owner hauled the man in. The bluster lasted a minute longer than he expected. Then it was admission, guilt, all because he had a wife and family to support.

  He was sacked, of course, and lucky not to be reported to the police. Word would spread quickly throughout the business and discourage others. Markham took the cheque from the grateful owner.

  It was already dark, the yellow light of the street lamps picking out the roads back to Chapel Allerton. At least the fog hadn’t returned.

  He parked behind the flat. On the other side of the fence St Matthew’s graveyard was a patch of blackness, filled with the silence of the dead. He locked the Anglia and started across the gravel.

  As he reached to unlock the front door a heavy hand came out of the shadows and grabbed his wrist. He was pulled into the gloom.

  Leather gloves, a hat, scarf pushed up over the mouth and nose so only small, dark eyes showed. Nothing clear in the darkness, little more than a quick impression.

  ‘You’ve been poking around.’ A gruff voice, muffled by the material. Fraction by fraction the fingers tightened on his wrist.

  The training from National Service came like a body memory. Markham lashed out with his free hand, first two fingers extended, aiming for the man’s eyes, making him let and back away.

  ‘You like your chances, do you?’ It was a taunting voice. He was big, broad, eager for a scrap. The man made a small feint, eyes squinting.

  Markham shifted the car key in his fist. It was the only weapon he had. Use it like a knife, slash with it; he’d learned the technique all those years ago. It wasn’t much against someone like this, but it was better than nothing.

  He tried to make his body loose, ready to react, trying to be aware of every movement while he fixed his gaze on the man’s eyes. They were the things that would signal his intent.