The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Nothing like that,’ he assured her quickly. ‘Does Trevor still work at Cokely’s?’

  She leaned against the doorjamb, assessing them as she brought a battered packet of Woodbines from her apron and lit one.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I met him down at Studio 20.’

  The woman shook her head in disgust. ‘Always got that racket going on in his bedroom. Radio Luxembourg. Just noise, if you ask me. You don’t look like the type to enjoy that.’

  ‘I’m not. I like jazz,’ Markham told her and she snorted. ‘Do you know when he’ll he home?’

  ‘It’d better be by six or his tea’ll be cold. Same for his dad. They know the rules.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Markham began to turn away then stopped. ‘Has he ever mentioned someone called Simon Harker?’

  She pursed her lips then shook her head. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. Why?’

  ‘I’m looking for him, I thought Trevor might be able to help. Never mind.’ He smiled and raised his hat in farewell.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Mrs Peel asked.

  ‘Dan Markham,’ he replied. ‘Can you ask him to get in touch with me?’

  ‘Aye, if you like.’

  ***

  ‘I’ll go back later,’ Markham said as he settled behind the steering wheel of the Anglia. ‘Where now?’

  ‘Off Burley Road.’ Baker didn’t even need to look at the address book.

  It wasn’t far, just a little closer to the city centre. More back-to-back houses, more poverty.

  ‘Up Cardigan Road, then turn on Burley Lodge Road. Might as well park in front of the place. It won’t matter to Gus.’

  Baker banged hard on the door. No one came to answer it. He bent, lifting the flap of the letterbox.

  ‘Come on, Gus. I know you’re in there. You might as well open up.’

  He straightened again, smiling. Half a minute later they heard a lock turn and the door snicked open an inch.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A word, Gus.’ Baker paused. ‘Two words. Simon Harker.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  It happened quickly. Baker raised a foot and bought the thick sole of his shoe crashing down on the wood. Gus Howard toppled backwards as the door fell open.

  ‘Nice of him to ask us in like that.’

  Howard was still on his back, shaking his head to try and clear it. He was a big man, thickly muscled, the shirt tight across his chest.

  The way the knife appeared in Baker’s hand seemed like magic. He grabbed the other man’s shirt and pulled him to his feet. ‘I’ve been wanting to do this for a long, long time.’

  Markham closed the door. This wasn’t his show. He simply stood, one hand in his pocket, holding the pistol, ready.

  Baker’s face was flushed through with anger as he rammed Howard against a wall, hard enough to shake the house.

  ‘Harker,’ he said again.

  ‘Don’t know him.’ The wind had been knocked from the man and the words came out with effort. Baker moved his hand against Howard’s neck.

  ‘I’m not here to play any bloody games.’ He brought the knife up and laid the flat of the blade against the man’s cheek, the tip close to the corner of his eye.

  ‘You don’t want to do this,’ Howard warned.

  ‘Bit late now, isn’t it? I’m doing it.’ He waited. ‘Well, are you going to tell me?’ His hand clamped tighter on Howard’s windpipe. ‘I’ll count to three. One … two …’

  The man held up a hand. Baker eased his grip, grabbing Howard’s hair as he started to topple, then dragged him to the scullery at the end of the hall before pushing him into one of the chairs gathered around a table.

  It was a neat, spare room. No washing up waiting to be done, everything tidy and in its place.

  ‘Harker.’ It was an order. The knife glistened in the light through the window.

  ‘He got in touch two months ago.’ Howard rubbed his throat. His voice was a raw, dry rasp. ‘I need some water.’

  ‘When you’re done,’ Baker told him coldly. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Gave me fifty quid to make myself available.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Available for what?’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  Baker tightened his grip on Howard’s hair, drawing his head back and placing the knife against his throat.

  ‘I said I’m not messing about, Gus. For what?’

  ‘Any jobs he needed. Said he’d heard about me.’

  ‘And what have you done for him?’ A single bead of blood trickled slowly down to Howard’s collar.

  ‘Nothing.’ There was pleading in his voice. ‘Really. He came back every month and gave me more money. Said the same thing.’

  ‘What have you done for him?’ Baker repeated.

  ‘Nothing. I told you.’ Howard’s eyes were open wide. ‘He never asked me to do anything.’

  ‘There are three people dead so far. Maybe four. You kill people, Gus. It’s what you do.’

  Another drop of blood made its way along his neck.

  ‘Honest.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I just took his money.’

  Baker stared into the man’s eyes for a long time. The knife didn’t move. Markham stayed silent in the doorway, watching, his hand tense around the butt of the Walther. Finally Baker took the blade away and let go of Howard’s hair.

  ‘If he comes back, you don’t answer the door,’ he said. ‘If you see him, you turn around and run the other way. You understand me?’

  The man nodded. He brought a handkerchief from his trousers and dabbed at the blood.

  ‘And I wouldn’t bother reporting this to the police, Gus. Most of them think that killing you would warrant a medal.’

  He walked out, pushing Markham out of the way.

  ‘Find a pub,’ he said when they were in the car. ‘I need to take the taste of him out of my mouth.’

  He settled on the Fenton, just down from the university. A table of students enjoyed an afternoon pint instead of their lectures. Markham bought a whisky for Baker and a shandy for himself.

  Baker had his pipe lit, the smoke like a cloud around his head. For two minutes they stayed silent.

  ‘I thought you were going to murder him.’

  ‘I was tempted, believe you me,’ he said. ‘He’s got away with it too often. Mostly I wanted him terrified enough to tell me the truth. What did you think? Did you believe him?’

  Markham took a sip of his drink.

  ‘Yes. I did.’

  ‘So did I.’ Baker sighed. ‘Looks like it’s all down to this Trevor if we’re going to get anywhere.’

  ‘I’ll find him later.’

  The students left noisily and the landlord put a towel over the taps, calling, ‘Three o’clock. Time, gentlemen, please.’

  Baker downed the Scotch in a single gulp.

  ‘Howard’s had that coming for years.’ He shook his head and laughed. ‘Still, better I didn’t. The wife would have killed me before they could hang me.’

  Outside, Leeds was spread before them, chimneys belching smoke into a sky the colour of worn lead.

  ‘Harker’s probably long gone now,’ Markham said. It was what all the field operatives were taught: have a bolthole and don’t tell anyone where it is. They’d never find him in the city.

  He parked on Albion Place.

  ‘You go in. I’ve a few things to do. I’ll catch up with Trevor later.’

  ‘Let’s hope you can make him talk.’

  He knew; Clever Trevor was all they had if they were going to find Amanda Fox.

  ***

  He didn’t have any pressing errands; he simply wanted time to think. He’d seen a different side of Baker and it disturbed him. Right on the edge of violence, so close to going over. And what could he have done to stop it? Nothing.

  Did he really want someone like that as a partner? The man had always seemed straightforward enough. This was like opening a door and
finding someone familiar but completely unknown.

  Markham sat in the flat, a Billie Holiday LP spinning quietly on the record player. If it hadn’t been for Baker they’d never have had the missing person case that drew them into this maze.

  Harker. Since the confrontation in the ginnel his fears had started to recede. The man couldn’t have missed at that range but he hadn’t pulled the trigger.

  Maybe he was safe. For now, at least.

  His mind turned to Amanda Fox.

  Every day that passed made it more likely that she was dead. He knew that. But someone had her, and until a body was discovered it was still worth searching. He ground out another cigarette in the ashtray.

  They’d find her. They’d find her alive. Then perhaps he’d sit and have a long talk with Stephen Baker.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was seven o’clock when Markham parked in Kirkstall. Time enough for Trevor to have eaten his tea and be watching television. But his mother just shook her head when she opened the door.

  ‘He rang down to the corner shop, they have a telephone there. Left a message that he was meeting some of his mates and he’d be home later. I’m sorry, luv, you’ve had a wasted journey.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He raised his hat.

  ‘You’ve got good manners, you do,’ she told him approvingly. ‘Your mam brought you up right.’

  ***

  He could guess where Trevor would be. This was a skiffle night at Studio 20. They started early and finished early for the kids still at school or on apprenticeships who had to be up in the morning. Afterwards the jazz players would slide in and keep things going well into the small hours.

  Markham waited until eight, walking along New Briggate and smoking, stopping outside the Grand Theatre to read the playbill, before walking down the lino-covered stairs at Studio 20.

  There was a crowd. A few had seats, but most were standing. A small space was clear for dancing, couples swinging round. Bob Barclay, the owner, sat in his booth, raising an eyebrow and rubbing his fingers together in a money gesture. Markham grinned.

  The music was nothing much. A pair of acoustic guitars, one of the players singing, tea chest bass, and someone rubbing the washboard far too loudly. But the audience ate it up.

  He peered through the crowd, looking for Trevor Peel. He was over in a corner with a small group of friends, all of them dressed in black leather jackets and carrying motorcycle helmets.

  Markham edged between people who paid him no attention, faces focused on the music, until Trevor noticed him approach. The lad said something to his friends and moved closer, raising an arm in greeting.

  ‘Hello, Mr Markham.’ He was smiling, happy. He nodded at the band. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Not quite my taste,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘I was looking for you.’

  ‘Me?’ Trevor seemed astonished.

  Markham smiled. ‘I thought you might be able to help me.’

  Peel looked at him uncertainly. ‘How?’

  ‘I heard your name somewhere.’

  Now the lad was worried. ‘Who was talking about me?’

  ‘It was in an address book.’ He watched Peel bouncing slightly from foot to foot, as if he was ready to flee. ‘Don’t run,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve got a gun. It belonged to the man who had your name. Do you know who I’m talking about?’

  Trevor nodded, defeat on his face.

  ‘How do you know Simon Harker?’ Markham asked.

  Trevor’s eyes slid around, seeking a way out, then glancing back at his friends.

  ‘Well?’ Markham repeated. ‘Come on, Trev, I’m not asking for the fun of it.’

  Suddenly he was surrounded by young men with hard faces. They bumped against him, trying to bounce him between them. Their jackets had the smell of new leather, hair shining with Brylcreem. He reached out and grabbed Trevor’s wrist; he wasn’t going to let him vanish.

  Markham stood his ground, saying nothing, just staring at Peel. Then Barclay was there, pushing the lads away.

  ‘I’m not having any trouble in here,’ he said loudly. ‘If you want that, you can get out right now. You,’ he told one of them, ‘you’re banned now. The rest of you want the same?’

  Reluctantly, they moved back, turning their heads to glare. It was over as quickly as it had begun. But Markham kept a tight grip on Trevor before the lad could vanish with the others.

  ‘Are you all right, Dan?’ Barclay asked.

  ‘Fine,’ he answered. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Bloody kids,’ he muttered and made his way back to his booth.

  ‘I still want some answers,’ Markham warned Trevor. ‘Proper answers.’

  ‘He came up to me at the bus stop,’ Peel said finally. ‘I’d just got off on my way home from work. Asked if I worked at Cokely’s.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We went down the pub and had a couple of drinks.’ He looked down at the scuffed floor.

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The shadow factory. I told him I didn’t know much about it. I hadn’t been there long.’

  But Harker had picked him out as not too bright, easily flattered and persuaded. And tempted.

  ‘Did you find out?’

  ‘Some of it,’ Peel admitted after a moment. ‘They have some rooms in there. They’re doing defence stuff. Secret things.’

  ‘Did you tell him? How much did he pay you?’

  ‘Fifty quid.’ He reddened, the spots standing out angrily on his cheeks.

  ‘There was more, though, wasn’t there?’ He felt sure of it. His name wouldn’t have been in the address book just for that. Trevor nodded.

  ‘He got me to steal a key for one of the doors at the shadow factory. They’re just in a drawer.’ He raised his head hopefully. ‘Don’t shop me, Mr Markham. It’s a good job. It’s got a future.’

  ‘How much did he pay you for the key?’ He was going to learn as much as he could.

  ‘Two hundred. I bought my bike with it.’

  ‘And did he say why he wanted the key?’

  ‘I didn’t ask,’ Trevor answered quietly.

  Markham leaned close enough to smell the man’s fear.

  ‘You’re going to tell me everything you know about him. What he wants, what he’s doing. If you’re good and do it right, no one else needs to know. You understand?’

  The group had finished and were packing away their instruments. The crowd was thinning as people vanished up the stairs.

  ‘Can you keep an eye on the place, Dan?’ Barclay asked him. ‘You know how it is. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Of course.’ Markham didn’t even glance over his shoulder. He and Trevor were the only ones left in the place. A thin cloud of cigarette smoke hovered below the ceiling. ‘We might as well sit down. Make ourselves comfortable.’

  Trevor perched on the chair but he didn’t look relaxed.

  He’d given Harker the key, he said slowly, and thought that was it. A week later the man was back, wanting to know more. He’d forced Trevor to meet him there one night and take him through the shadow factory, to explain what was going on there.

  ‘I’d been over there a few times, you see,’ he explained. ‘Just delivering stuff, like. But I’d learnt my way around. He said he’d tell the bosses if I didn’t help him. I didn’t have much choice, did I?’

  ‘That wasn’t all, was it?’

  ‘There are places in there that they keep well locked. It’s where the boffins work.’ It must have been in an area he and Baker hadn’t explored. ‘He wanted to get in there. I told him I couldn’t get a key. He kept pressing me.’ Trevor was quiet for a moment. ‘Threatening me.’

  ‘Did you get him the keys?’

  ‘Just for one evening. I managed to borrow them. I told him I’d need to put them back the next morning.’

  ‘What was in there?’

  ‘I didn’t go in. I didn’t want to know. I
was too scared.’

  A thought struck Markham.

  ‘Was this before the two men who worked at Cokely’s died?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Trevor looked quizzical. ‘Why? One of them was an accident, wasn’t it? And the other killed himself. That’s what everyone said.’

  ‘That’s right.’ There was no need to burden the lad. ‘What else?’

  ‘That’s it. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks. Don’t want to, neither. Is that it, Mr Markham? Please?’

  ‘Do you know where Harker lives?’

  ‘No,’ Peel answered, and he believed him.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, and heard Trevor dash away up the stairs as if he was escaping.

  ***

  He sat for a few minutes, going through all he’d been told. Harker was smart. He’d used Trevor Peel in a very clever way, forcing more and more from him until he’d taken all he could. But none of this was going to help him find Amanda Fox, and that was what he needed to do. All the rest of it, the spying, any state secrets, that didn’t matter. That was abstract and theoretical. He couldn’t do anything about it. If someone dropped the bloody bomb, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

  Where did he go from here …?

  Markham turned at the footsteps. Three people coming down the stairs. Someone struggling behind a bass drum and behind him, a pair of West Indians with battered saxophone cases. They played here regularly, he’d seen them a week or two before; they were always good, letting the music curl and glow, playing like each note meant something vital, that it had something important to say. Worth staying to hear.

  ‘Hi, man.’ One of them nodded a greeting. ‘What happened to your fingers?’

  He hadn’t thought about the useless fingers for a while.

  ‘I had an accident a few years ago.’

  ‘Maybe you should take up guitar.’ The man laughed. ‘You could be the new Django.’

  ***

  They were sitting in the cafe on the balcony at the market, looking down at the shoppers wandering and the traders opening their stalls. There was a sharp sizzle as the cook took bacon from the grill and put it on a plate. Condensation ran down the windows. The place was a small oasis of heat.

  ‘So we’re still no further on,’ Baker said after Markham finished recounting everything Trevor had said. He put another spoonful of sugar in his tea and stirred it absently.