The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

  It only took ten minutes of searching before he found Baker leaving a small welding shop.

  ‘Have they buggered off yet?’

  ‘They weren’t too happy.’

  ‘Sod them.’ He began to walk briskly up Templar Street.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Markham asked.

  ‘The Olympic Cafe. I want to show you something.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The coffee was tasteless, weak as dishwater. Markham pushed the cup aside.

  Baker lit his pipe and was sitting back, smoking contentedly.

  ‘Well?’ Markham asked. ‘What is it?’

  With a smile, the man brought a large, folded piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table, shaking his head as Markham began to reach for it.

  ‘I told you we used to live in Quarry Hill Flats,’ he began.

  ‘I remember,’ Markham answered impatiently. Every minute in here was one they could use searching.

  ‘My Nancy stayed there after I joined up in 1940. Last night I was telling her how we’re looking for Harker and she reminded me about something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are tunnels under the area, all round the market. They used them as air-raid shelters. Half the people from the flats would go into them when the sirens sounded. I was gone so I was never down there.’

  Markham glanced at the paper. ‘You got a map of them.’

  ‘I went down to the Civic Hall first thing this morning.’ He grinned. ‘They marked them on a map of Leeds. Turns out they’ve been around a while. Built in 1910, the lass at the council told me. There’s a whole bloody warren of them down there but they haven’t been used since the war.’

  Carefully he unfolded the paper, weighting down the corners with the sugar bowl, salt and pepper shakers, and his saucer. Lines ran across the map in red pencil.

  ‘Are those the tunnels?’

  ‘They are,’ Baker said with satisfaction. ‘You see what I mean? There were plenty of them.’ A mile or more just around the market, as best as he could judge. ‘But it gets even better. One of the entrances is on Bridge Street.’

  ‘What? Where?’ He couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Under the bridge for the road. There’s a steel door in the wall. We’ve been walking right past it for the last two days and never even noticed.’ He jabbed at the map. ‘There.’

  ‘It explains how Harker could disappear like that and why we haven’t found him. But how would he even know about them?’

  Baker shrugged.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It makes sense, though. And it would be a perfect place to keep Peel.’

  ‘If he’s still alive,’ Markham pointed out. He hadn’t forgotten about the lad. ‘After all, Harker’s killed Tim Hill.’

  ‘Only one way to find out. We’ll go down there and look.’

  Markham stared at the map. The tunnels were long, veering off from each other and heading all the way over to Kirkgate.

  ‘What about the door?’ he asked. ‘It must be locked.’

  ‘If Harker picked it, I can too. Don’t you worry about that.’

  Markham thought for a moment.

  ‘We’re going to need good torches.’ He looked down at his suit. ‘Different clothes, too. Wellington boots?’

  ‘It’s not a sewer, it’s dry down there.’ Baker looked at his watch. ‘Let’s meet back in the office in an hour; that’ll give us both time to change. And make sure you’re armed.’

  ***

  Walking boots and thick socks, his khaki army trousers with the side pockets, a heavy sweater and a thick jacket. He slid the Walther into the pocket and checked the torch. With fresh batteries, the light was strong. A final look around the flat and he locked the door behind him.

  It was a completely different Baker that he saw. A black windbreaker over a heavy polo-neck jumper, trousers that seemed to have a dozen pockets. Like Markham, he was wearing his walking boots, but his had the scuffed look of hundreds of miles of tramping across country.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked. Baker brought a Luger from the jacket. ‘War souvenir. Better safe than sorry.’

  People looked at them as they walked up Briggate. No more than passing glances, but enough to leave him self-conscious. In a world of shirts and ties, they looked out of place. Memorable.

  On Bridge Street their footsteps echoed off the buildings. The door was there, exactly as promised, in the concrete wall of the bridge. How many times had he passed it in the last couple of days and never noticed? Eastgate was just around the corner, the bustle of Vicar Lane just up the hill. But a world away.

  Baker shone his torch on the lock, bending to examine it. Then he drew out the flat wallet with his tools, selecting two. A first attempt. He stood back, switching one of the picks for another. A few more seconds, his face reddening as he applied some pressure, and the door swung open a couple of inches.

  ‘Let’s see if our friend is down here.’

  He led the way, moving with soft confidence along a short passageway then down a metal ladder. Markham followed, the beam from his torch playing on the walls. The tunnel arched above him, ten feet high, the brick surprisingly clean and dry.

  There was plenty of dust and small pieces of debris all along the concrete floor. In his head he tried to picture the map. But down here there was no sense of direction. And right now, no choice. Just follow the tunnel. Every hundred yards or so there were pinpricks of daylight from grates set into the ceiling.

  Somewhere in the distance he could hear the gentle sound of water.

  ‘Lady Beck,’ Baker whispered. His voice still rang along the tunnel. Their boots crunched over things as they walked; it was impossible to be silent.

  Markham tried to slow his breathing. He had the torch in one hand, the pistol in the other. The safety was off. He was sweating, ears pricked for any sound.

  They seemed to be moving in slow motion. Each step felt as if it lasted a minute or more. Something skittered up ahead. He moved the beam and caught sight of a rat disappearing into the darkness.

  His eyes had to adjust to the gloom before he could pick out details. Heavy black cables ran along both sides of the tunnel, lying on the base of the passageway. An old metal pipe was attached to the wall, stretching off into the distance. It was another quiet down here. Apart. Unknown. The liquid sound grew louder, the air damper.

  Baker held up a hand and leaned close enough for Markham to smell his sour breath.

  ‘This is where it joins up with the other tunnel. Off to the left it goes to an office building on the other side of Regent Street.’

  ‘What about the other way?’

  ‘That passes under Appleyard’s garage in the roundabout, the bus station and all the way to Kirkgate.’

  Half a mile, he calculated. Certainly no more than that.

  ‘We’ve found no sign of Harker so far. Let’s go that way.’

  They edged around a cavernous space where the dome of bricks seemed to soar as high as a church. The dark water of Lady Beck ran through the middle in a stone culvert, disappearing somewhere on the far side of the wall.

  Baker kept playing his torch along the ground, stooping to examine the things he saw – old cigarette ends, wrappers. After a few seconds he’d toss them aside again.

  There was a vibration overhead and more powdered mortar underfoot. They must have reached the roundabout. There was nowhere to hide down here. No alcoves that offered protection, just the lines of brick and concrete.

  Fifty yards further and the tunnel seemed to widen a little. Wooden benches had been attached to both walls, covered with dirt and spiders’ webs. From somewhere above came the deep note of an engine.

  ‘This is what they used as a shelter during the war,’ Baker told him softly. ‘The door was in the ladies’ waiting room in the bus station.’

  Facts, fragments of history. But it didn’t bring them any closer to Trevor Peel or Harker.

  Markham felt tense, throat dry as sand. His p
alm was slick and sweaty on the plastic grip of the Walther. Baker had the Luger drawn. The man was moving more cautiously now, as if he sensed some danger ahead.

  But the only sign that anyone had been here was a small collection of fag ends.

  ‘These are recent,’ Baker said after examining them. ‘Woodbines. What does your friend Trevor smoke?’

  Markham shrugged. He had no idea; he’d never paid attention.

  They followed the tunnel all the way to a set of iron steps. Beyond them, a door that opened on to Kirkgate.

  ‘Let me check something.’ Baker ran up the steps with surprising speed. ‘That lock’s been picked,’ he said when he returned. ‘No more than a few days ago, either, the scratches on the metal are still shiny. Harker’s been down here, Dan. I know it.’

  He was right. Markham could feel the man’s presence.

  Could he have moved on? He knew the rules: when you’re hunted, never stay too long in one place. But somewhere like this was safe. Hardly anyone knew the tunnels even existed. Unless Harker was incredibly disciplined, the temptation to return here would be strong. It was dry, out of the weather. Perfect.

  They made their way back; it seemed like no time at all before they were standing under the dome again, Lady Beck shining like a black mirror in the torchlight.

  ‘There’s one place we haven’t searched yet.’ Baker played the torch into the far darkness. ‘The other spur that leads to the office building.’

  ‘You take that. I’ll look around the edges in here. It’s big enough, there could be something.’

  It was simple enough; just follow the wall around the circle. Crossing the beck took no more than a large stride. But still no hint that Harker was still here. He’d almost given up when the beam caught something. A black tarpaulin, carefully folded and pushed against the join of wall and floor. Unless someone was searching closely they’d probably miss it.

  Wrapped inside was a sleeping bag and some tins of food. Baked beans, tomato soup, fruit cocktail. A tin opener and a spoon.

  Markham could feel the pulse in his neck. The man was close. He rummaged a little more and his fingers brushed against something. In the torchlight he saw a photograph of a young woman, the kind of picture that could have been taken anywhere. He stared at the face for a second. Keeping that, carrying it, made Harker seem more human.

  But a human who killed.

  He rewrapped everything, trying to leave it exactly the way he’d found it. A low whistle made him raise his head and tighten his grip on the pistol. Creeping along, he followed the sound.

  It was a short length of tunnel, just fifty yards and then a wall of rock with a metal ladder that rose to a trapdoor.

  Baker was kneeling over a wrapped bundle. Another black tarpaulin. He’d used the large knife to rip it open.

  ‘Better take a look at this, Dan.’

  He approached warily, suspecting what he’d find, not wanting to see it. The light from the torch told him all he needed to know.

  ‘That’s Trevor.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  He’d been dead at least a day, his limbs stiff, his skin waxy and hard. Baker slit the rest of the tarpaulin and they pulled it off him.

  Markham could feel the bile rising in his throat. He had to move away, close his eyes and breathe with his mouth for a moment until the feeling passed.

  ‘They’re never pretty,’ Baker told him. ‘And you never get used to it, no matter how many you see.’

  Finally the body was free. Trevor’s eyes were staring at something he’d never see. There was no blood on the front of the body, nothing to show how he’d died.

  ‘You grab that side,’ Baker said matter-of-factly. ‘We’ll turn him over. It must be on his back.’

  It was, a small, deep wound at the base of the neck that buzzed with flies, a small swarm rising up when they were disturbed.

  ‘It must have been quick,’ Markham said as he examined it.

  ‘Ice pick, by the look of it. The Russians have a history with that. It’s how they did for Lenin. But yes, it was fast. He wouldn’t have known a thing.’

  ‘We should get out and tell the police.’ He rose and started to turn away. Baker put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why? For God’s sake, his family–’

  ‘If we do that, this place will be crawling with coppers and those MI5 people. We’ll lose any chance we have of catching Harker.’

  ‘Then let him go. For God’s sake, Trevor wasn’t the brightest but he deserves better than just being left down here to rot.’

  ‘It won’t be forever.’ Baker kept his voice low and reasonable. ‘Just until we get Harker. We’ll take care of him and then tell them. They can clean it all up.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But what? You and I can get the job done.’ He was still staring down, the torch shining on Peel’s dead body. ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘A sleeping bag and some food, hidden away.’

  ‘He’ll be back, then. We just have to be ready for him.’

  Markham turned away. He didn’t want to see Trevor’s face this way. Better to think of him alive and full of all his plans.

  ‘How?’

  ‘We keep watch. And once he’s back we’ll corner him down here.’

  ‘He can still get out at the other end and vanish on Kirkgate.’

  ‘No he won’t,’ Baker said. ‘I’m going to make sure of that.’

  ***

  He was going to use the picks to jam the door at the Kirkgate end of the tunnel.

  ‘After that we’ve got him trapped.’ Baker clapped his hands together. The sound echoed off the bricks.

  ‘We’ll still need to keep watch on this entrance.’

  ‘There’s a place further down Bridge Street where we can park.’

  He hesitated before the next question.

  ‘What are we going to do once we have him?’

  ‘Let the people who are paid to do it make that decision.’

  ‘Not kill him?’ He glanced at Baker’s Luger.

  ‘Not unless we have to.’

  Markham nodded. Baker pointed down at Peel’s corpse.

  ‘Just remember, though, Harker did that in cold blood. He probably didn’t even think twice about it. And killing us wouldn’t keep him awake at night.’

  He strode away, guided by the torchlight, back towards the entrance.

  The sky was dull, the threat of sleet in the air when they came back out on to the street. But it seemed as bright as high summer after the gloom and blackness underground. They both had to blink and stand for a few seconds, getting used to the light.

  There was no one around as Baker locked the door behind him. A couple of quick movements and it was done.

  ‘You go and get the car,’ he said. ‘Bring the Wolseley, it has a good heater. We might need it.’ He passed over the keys. ‘I’ll wait out of sight until you’re back.’

  ***

  He found a place to park on Bridge Street. Far enough from the metal doorway not to look suspicious but still close enough to see anyone approaching the door.

  Baker came out of the shadows, hands in the pockets of his windbreaker.

  ‘I’ll pop over to Kirkgate. It’ll only take a moment to jam the door.’

  He watched the big man walk away with the rolling stride all policemen seemed to acquire. Markham settled back in the seat, smoking. Nothing to see. Thursday afternoon and Bridge Street was deserted. An occasional car passed. Sleet began to fall. He turned on the heater.

  Before it had time to work, though, he switched off the engine. He didn’t want to risk anyone seeing fumes from the exhaust. A figure was moving along the pavement, coming from Eastgate, pausing often to glance back.

  He could make out the man’s sandy hair. Markham slumped down in the seat, eyes just above the dashboard. A moment later Harker stood by the door in the wall. A quick look each way, a few deft movements, then he was inside.

 
Markham locked the car and walked along the pavement, one hand on the Walther, his eyes fixed on the door. He could wait for Baker – the man would be back soon. Or he could go into the tunnel after Harker.

  The torch weighed heavy in his left hand as he gripped it. He reached out and tried the door handle. It gave easily and silently; it had been oiled.

  Five minutes, he thought. That should be ample time for Baker to return.

  But five minutes became ten and still no sign of the man. Sixty seconds more. He’d give it that long, watching the hand move across the watch face. Come on, Stephen. He felt like his brain was screaming the words. Where the bloody hell are you?

  The hand swept past twelve. He took a deep breath and went through the door, pulling it to behind him.

  Absolute darkness. For a few seconds he simply stood, until the blackness seemed to take on slightly different shades. Up above, every hundred yards, the pale glimpses of daylight through the grates and air shafts.

  He could hear the faint scuffling of footsteps in the distance, but no beam from a torch. Markham took short, careful steps, making as little noise as possible. Harker would think he was safe down here. He wouldn’t be listening for anything.

  It seemed to take forever to reach the ladder down, although he knew it couldn’t be more than twenty yards. He lowered himself, hardly daring to put weight on the metal rungs, using his arms to take the strain.

  At the bottom he paused, breathing gently, then walked on as lightly as possible, alert for any noise. He tried to remember how far until the tunnel opened up into the dome. One hundred and fifty yards? Something like that. The only way to keep track of the distance was by counting his paces. He tried to work it out in his head. Each long pace was about a yard; that was what they’d taught him at school.

  He knew he was close when he could hear the soft echo as the soles of his boots came down on the concrete. Markham crouched, extending his hand until he touched brick. He slid to the side, then round and into the dome.

  Nothing. Just emptiness. His pulse was loud in his ears, beating fast. He tightened his grip on the pistol, checking again that the safety was off.

  Where was Harker? Over by his camp? Or had he sensed something was wrong and vanished to try and escape through the door into Kirkgate? The only thing Markham could do was stand and listen, hoping for some clue.