The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Not really.’ Markham was warm in the overcoat, acutely aware of the gun in his pocket; he wasn’t about to take it off. ‘The only way we’re going to find Amanda is to shake things up a bit.’

  ‘Someone knows Harker. Someone has to.’

  Markham shook his head. ‘He probably has another identity by now. He’ll have all the papers for a spare one in his bolthole. And money, too.’

  ‘There has to be a way,’ Baker said. ‘Doesn’t there?’

  They left, crossing Vicar Lane and walking up King Edward Street. Baker nodded at people he knew; after decades on the force hundreds of folk around Leeds were familiar with his face.

  The office felt stuffy, the radiator burning to the touch. Feast or famine, cold or boiling; it could never just be comfortably warm.

  They had no ideas just when they desperately needed a few. For an hour they tossed thoughts back and forth. Nothing useful. Not a damned thing. They were still discussing it when the second post arrived. Markham sorted through it. An income tax reminder in its buff envelope, a note from a solicitor about some possible work, and another envelope.

  The address was printed in capitals. He tore it open. Inside there was a lock of hair. The same shade as Amanda Fox’s hair. He held it up.

  ‘He’s saying she’s still alive.’

  ‘Where was it posted?’

  The mark was too blurred to read clearly. Holbeck? Holt Park? It was impossible to be sure. And it probably didn’t matter. Harker wasn’t stupid enough to drop it in a post box close to his hideaway.

  But they had a sign. That was something. And it was a goad. He was still thinking when the telephone rang and he heard the tumble of coins into the slot.

  ‘I think your postman has been, Mr Markham.’

  He sat up straight.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Harker.’ He looked across at Baker. ‘It was just delivered.’

  Markham raised his eyebrows. With a brisk nod, Baker left quietly. If the man knew they had the envelope, he was somewhere close. There were telephone boxes at either end of Albion Place.

  ‘I’m sorry we didn’t have time to chat yesterday.’ Harker chuckled. ‘You caught me just as I was leaving.’

  ‘Then perhaps we can meet somewhere.’

  ‘You’re very droll. I’m sure we can find a more … anonymous way to do business. I think you’d like to see Mrs Fox again.’

  ‘I’d like to see her alive.’

  ‘She is. For the moment.’

  ‘I don’t know why you took her. Her husband was working for your lot.’ He wanted to keep Harker talking, to give Baker a chance to spot him.

  ‘But she wasn’t. And whilst she might not realise it, she knows a few things. I just need a little time to make sure her knowledge is unimportant.’

  I, Markham noted; the man was definitely operating alone.

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Why not? This was your trade once, I believe. Können Sie noch Deutsch sprechen?’

  ‘Nur ein Bisschen,’ he replied. A bit, yes, but his German was rusty now. Harker knew about his National Service. That was no surprise, really. ‘When will you release her?’ He wasn’t going to ask if the man would kill her.

  ‘When it’s time,’ Harker said coolly. ‘But it would be safer for her if you weren’t looking for me. Do I make myself quite clear on that?’

  ‘I understand what you’re saying.’ He tried to pick out any background noise, if there was anything that might pinpoint the location.

  ‘If you back away, no harm will come to her.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘That’s a promise. Now you know how we stand, Mr Markham. The choice is yours.’

  Then just a click as Harker replaced the receiver.

  ***

  He waited for Baker to return, pacing around the small office and smoking. What was Harker doing? Did he just want to taunt them? No, the man was a professional. But a phone call like that, sending the lock of hair, that didn’t fit with everything else.

  There had to be something more. What was it?

  Baker didn’t return. Maybe he’d found Harker. Maybe.

  The seconds ticked past with no footsteps on the stairs. He finished his second cigarette and lit a third. When the telephone bell shrilled again he leapt for it.

  ‘Pick me up at Millgarth in quarter of an hour,’ Baker told him.

  ‘Did you find him?’

  But the line was already dead.

  Markham threw on his overcoat and gathered up his hat and gloves. He was pulling out his keys to lock the office when the phone rang once more.

  ‘Dan?’

  ‘Hello.’ His voice softened. Carla.

  ‘Are you in the middle of something?’

  ‘Sort of,’ he admitted.

  ‘I’ll be quick, then. My train arrives at half past five tomorrow. Can you meet me?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he promised.

  ‘Good.’ A small hesitation. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  For a second he couldn’t say anything.

  ‘I’ve missed you, too.’ He had. A lot.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Markham kept the engine running as he parked outside Millgarth police station. In less than thirty seconds Baker was grunting into the passenger seat. His face was flushed.

  ‘Drive out to Morley,’ he instructed.

  ‘Morley?’ He put the car into gear and eased out into traffic. ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought Harker wouldn’t use the telephone boxes so close to us,’ Baker explained. ‘But he knew that the postman had come. So I looked a little further away.’

  ‘You found him?’

  ‘Down on Commercial Street.’ He dug out his pipe, lit a match and started to smoke. ‘He had a car parked right there. I took down the number plate and went to Millgarth.’

  ‘Well?’ he asked impatiently.

  ‘It’s registered to someone called David Thorp on Gillroyd Parade in Morley. A Ford Prefect, two years old. Bought it three months ago.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Baker told him. ‘Maybe he wasn’t as clever as he thought.’

  Maybe. But they wouldn’t let someone who made such basic mistakes operate abroad. There was something more behind this.

  ‘We should just let the police take care of it now,’ Markham said.

  Baker sighed.

  ‘Tell me something, Dan. What do you think of Leeds Police? Be honest now.’

  ‘Not much,’ he replied.

  ‘Aye, much as it hurts me to say it, you’re probably right. In this, anyway. I’ve talked to them, they don’t have a clue. And I was one of them for years. They’d go in mob-handed and balls it all up. The only way we’re going to take care of this is to do it ourselves.’

  They drove in silence along Elland Road, past the football ground. On the waste ground close by, the team was training, playing a five-a-side match. When they reached the turning for Churwell, Markham accelerated up the hill.

  ‘He wants us to find him,’ he said finally. He’d reasoned it out.

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Baker turned in his seat. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘He has Amanda Fox, agreed?’

  ‘We already know that from the hair and the phone call.’

  ‘If we find her, he has us all together.’

  ‘There are two of us and only one of him.’

  ‘And he’s a professional, he’s trained. How many people here know about him?’

  ‘Mrs Fox. You, me. Tim Hill, Gus Howard, and that Peel lad.’

  ‘How many men has he managed to get rid of so far?’

  ‘Three. And he tried for you.’

  ‘You think he’d stop at that? He has a job to do.’

  ‘That’s too twisted for me,’ Baker sighed.

  ‘He could have gone once Mark Fox disappeared,’ Markham insisted. ‘I think there’s one thing he said that’s true – Amanda Fox probably knows something impor
tant. Maybe he’s right and she doesn’t even realise it. He has to take care of that. And we’ve become dangerous so he’s decided we have to go, too.’ He turned off the main road, down into Morley. ‘Now, where’s Gillroyd Parade?’

  The Ford Prefect was parked on a patch of waste ground five minutes’ walk from the street. The bonnet was still warm. As Markham peered in the windows on the driver’s side, Baker squatted.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Letting down two of the tyres. He won’t be going anywhere in a hurry.’

  Number twenty-one was halfway along the block. A through terrace of blackened brick, like all its neighbours. There was a small yard at the back that opened on to a ginnel, the same as the house where they’d found Harker in Harehills.

  ‘How are we going in?’ Markham asked.

  ‘If we try to kick in the front door, Morley police will be along before you can swat a fly,’ Baker said. ‘We have to be quick and fast. Make it the back door. Did they teach you to do that when you were a spy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Follow me, then. And keep that gun ready.’

  They kept low, moving along the ginnel in a crouch below the high walls, counting the houses as they passed. A thin drizzle began to fall, chilly on the skin.

  ‘This one,’ Baker whispered. Very quietly he unlatched the gate, then moved with surprising grace and speed over the flagstones and up the stone steps to the back door. He brought his foot down hard on the lock. It gave on the first kick and he shouldered his way in, knife in hand.

  Markham followed, pulling out the gun. Throughout the house the curtains were closed, leaving the place in gloom and shadow. The scullery was empty. The same in the front room. Baker gestured to the stairs and Markham led the way, staring up, scarcely daring to breathe, weapon ready to fire.

  No one in either of the bedrooms. Only one looked lived-in, a small dent in the pillow where someone’s head had been. He bent to examine it and saw a couple of dark blond hairs. Harker. The wardrobe had been cleaned out, no suitcase on the floor or under the bed.

  ‘Cellar,’ Baker said quietly. ‘You stay up here in case he’s around.’

  He waited, constantly glancing round, nervous, as Baker descended the steps. The electric light didn’t work and Baker took a small torch from his mackintosh.

  ‘She’s here,’ he called up after a moment. ‘Alive.’

  Markham felt relief surge through him. But he was worried. This was far too easy. Harker had almost led them here. It had to be a trap of some kind. He stood where he could see both the front and back doors, alert for the slightest sound and on edge. His hand was sweaty as he gripped the Walther.

  It felt like the better part of five minutes before Baker was gently urging Amanda Fox up the stairs. She came out, blinking in the light. Bedraggled, terrified, dirt on her face and clothes, her hair a tangle. But nothing damaged that he could see. Tears were streaming down her face. Her wrists were red and raw where she’d been tied.

  As soon as she saw Markham, she hugged him, clinging tightly, making a low, moaning sound.

  ‘Let’s get her out of here,’ Markham said. ‘You take the gun and I’ll look after her.’

  He felt nervous going out of the back door and along the ginnel. They were exposed, vulnerable. Amanda Fox clung to him. Here they made easy targets. But nothing had happened by the time they reach the Anglia, and he settled her until she was lying along the back seat. Baker kept watch, shaking his head as Markham started the car.

  ‘No sign of anyone.’ The Ford Prefect was still there, leaning drunkenly to one side. ‘Maybe he’s decided to cut his losses and scarpered.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ But he didn’t really believe it. The man was too professional for that.

  ***

  He headed back towards Leeds a different way, down Gelderd Road. The city was spread out below him. The top of the Town Hall, the tower of the Parkinson Building at the university. Low cloud and smoke hung over Leeds; so much for cleaner air.

  Traffic was light; it was easy for Markham to keep an eye on the mirror. Harker must have another vehicle, he reasoned. But no cars seemed to be following them. A dirty white Commer van came up from behind. Over the speed limit, like so many tradesmen.

  At first he paid it no mind. Another builder or plasterer.

  It was just thirty yards away when he could make out the driver’s face. Harker.

  ‘Better hold on,’ he warned.

  He stamped down on the brake pedal for a second, hearing the screech, then jammed his foot on the accelerator, feeling the Anglia jump, grateful for a good mechanic. But the van had power, closing the gap between them as they sped down the long hill.

  There were places to turn, he thought frantically, but all that would do was trap him somewhere. He needed to be in Leeds to be safe. His gaze moved constantly between the mirrors and the road ahead. Hands so tight on the wheel that his knuckles were white. And still the van was getting closer. It was going to ram them.

  Markham tried to swallow. His throat was dry. Off to the side, past the pavement, was rutted scrubland and piles of bricks. The factory that had once stood here had been hit in a German raid. If he could judge it perfectly …

  He let up on the speed, just a fraction, enough to make the car more controllable.

  ‘Hang on,’ he warned through clenched teeth.

  The van was very close. He could see every feature on Harker’s face. No expression, only hard concentration.

  As soon as he felt the first small thump of contact, he tore the wheel to the left, bouncing over the kerb, feet on the brake and clutch, gearing down into second, then first as he heard the engine whine in complaint.

  From the corner of his eye he registered the van speeding past, going too fast to stop. Markham tried to steer away from the rubble. But there was too much of it, too close. The Anglia crashed, sending him forward, the breath squeezed out of him by the steering wheel. His head cracked against the windscreen, but the hat saved his skin. The engine died with a sharp judder.

  He was dazed, but nothing broken or damaged. In the passenger seat Baker looked grim. He had a split lip, blood on his chin. Nothing more.

  He turned his head. His neck hurt. Amanda Fox had tumbled on to the floor, but she glanced up.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said in a small, cracked voice.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Markham ordered.

  The front doors worked, but they had to tug and force the back open until the three of them were standing on the waste ground, the drizzle feeling fresh on their faces.

  ‘Looks like a write-off, Dan,’ Baker said as he shook his head. ‘But you did well there.’

  Markham didn’t speak. It wasn’t the ruined car. It was how close he’d come. He breathed deeply for a few seconds then reached for his packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Can I …?’ Amanda asked. He gave her one, his hand shaking wildly as he lit them. She drew down the smoke, keeping it in her lungs for a long time before blowing it out again, staring down at the broken ground.

  ‘There’s a telephone box down the road.’ Baker pointed into the distance. ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Markham passed over the gun and started to walk, glancing all around with every step. One chance, he told himself. Harker had taken it and failed. He wouldn’t dare circle back. Not in such a public place.

  For the first few paces he stumbled; his legs felt weak, as if they couldn’t support him properly. But by the time he was ringing the garage on Buslingthorpe Lane he was starting to feel himself again.

  As he waited, then pushed the coins in the slot, he kept his eyes on the road for the white Commer van. But there was no sign of it. One chance. Maybe. Markham wasn’t going to relax just yet.

  Martin Day answered the phone himself.

  ‘You can’t have a problem with the Anglia, Dan,’ he laughed. ‘I worked on it myself. A Swiss watch couldn’t tick over better than that thing.’

  ‘
It’s a write-off. Someone pushed me off the road.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He could hear the man exhale slowly. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Can you send someone out to tow it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Day spoke slowly, the sound of a man making quick calculations. ‘I’ve got a mate who does that.’

  ‘I’m going to need a car, too. Until I try to claim on my insurance.’

  ‘There’s that Escort Estate you had before.’ He paused. ‘I did get something in on Monday. Bigger than the Anglia, but it might be up your street. A Riley Pathfinder. You can borrow that, if you like. Runs really well. I’m going to be selling it.’

  The Pathfinder was big, with a powerful motor. Larger than anything he’d ever driven.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘If you like it, we can work something out once your insurance pays you, Dan. How about that?’

  ‘Very fair.’

  ***

  Now all they had to do was wait. Smoking, on edge, still constantly looking around.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Baker asked finally.

  ‘I think we’re safe enough for now. He hasn’t given up yet, though. I’m sure of that. At least we found her.’

  Amanda Fox sat quietly on a pile of bricks. This was the second time he’d rescued her. But he didn’t feel like a knight in shining armour. They had her, but what could they do with her now? How could they keep her safe?

  ‘I’ll take care of her,’ Baker offered. ‘We have a spare room and the wife will see she’s looked after.’

  ‘What if Harker tries something?’

  Baker snorted.

  ‘My Nancy would have scared Hitler. A Russian spy isn’t going to worry her. I can run up and get some clothes from her house. She’ll be safe enough.’

  ***

  At first the Riley scared him. It was so bloody big. But as soon as he was used to it, he loved the car.

  ‘It’s had a couple of dents,’ Day told him breezily, ‘but they’re easily knocked out. A quick respray and it’ll look like new. And don’t worry about the miles on the clock, it runs perfectly. I had it up to ninety yesterday.’ He smiled.

  It was speedy, commanding and sturdy. If he’d been driving this then Harker would never have caught him. By the time he parked at the flat he was convinced. All he needed was to scrape up the money to buy it. It wouldn’t be cheap to run, not with petrol at five shillings a gallon, but he’d feel safe; the car was built like a tank.