The New Eastgate Swing (6 page)

‘That still doesn't help us find out more about de Vries, or whoever he was.'

‘We'll get there,' Baker said confidently. ‘I've had to deal with worse.'

‘And I'll give Amanda Fox a ring. Tell her we're in.'

‘Amanda is it now?' Baker raised his eyebrows and smirked. ‘Better not let that lass of yours find out about her, Danny.'

***

She asked him to come over to the Fox and Co. office to discuss the details. A winter wind scoured the Headrow, strong enough for him to hang on to his hat at times. He cut through to Great George Street, past the infirmary and up the hill to Woodhouse Square.

It must have been a grand house at one time. These days, though, the building was all offices, and the exterior had an air of genteel decay. Not as wealthy as Park Square, with its solicitors, dentists, and doctors, but still for the moderately well-heeled. He pressed the bell and climbed a wide staircase when she buzzed him in.

Shiny Burmantofts tiles in greens and browns lined the walls of the hall. The office door was open, an invitation. A two-room suite with a bow window that looked down over the city centre. It was intended to impress and it did the trick.

Today Amanda Fox wore a dress in two shades of grey velvet that accented her figure. A knowing smile flickered across her lips. He settled next to her on a leather sofa. A manila file sat on the coffee table.

‘I'm so glad we're going to be working together, Dan,' she began. ‘I know Mark will be, too.'

‘Good.' It seemed like the only answer he could offer. ‘How did he end up doing this kind of thing?'

‘Oh, he was SOE during the war.' She said it lightly, as if it was of no consequence. But Markham knew better. During his National Service he'd heard tales about the agents of the Special Operations Executive. They were tough, deadly, working behind enemy lines half the time. If Mark Fox survived that and the aftermath when the war was over, he'd have come to know important people. He'd have value.

‘I'm interested in the details of the job,' he told her, ‘and what you want from us.'

She tapped red-painted nails on the folder.

‘That's the bumf on five people who've come over from Germany to work around Leeds. There's everything about each of them in there, including photographs.' She paused a second. ‘When you were in Germany did you ever come across the
Fragebogen
?'

‘Of course.' It was the long questionnaire all Germans had to fill out to get the card proving they weren't Nazis, the
Entlastungsschien
.
He'd seen a few, dealt with a small number, trying to catch men out here and there. By and large he'd never paid much attention to them; it hadn't been his real field.

‘They're in there, too. I hope your German's still good enough to read them.'

He gave her a smile.

‘I'll manage.'

‘We want you to do some background. Ask around about them,' Amanda Fox told him. ‘Keep it all on the QT.'

‘All right,' Markham agreed. ‘But why?'

‘Follow up,' she explained. ‘Find out if they're all being good boys and write me a little report on each one.'

‘Are you expecting a problem with any of them?' He wasn't about to mention de Vries. See if his name was in there first.

‘Not really. None of them were Nazis, not involved with the Reds. But I don't have the skill, and Mark is over in West Germany again. He's the one who suggested you, in fact. He asked around a bit.'

Markham riffled through the paperwork. Quite deliberately, he hardly glanced at the pictures, then placed the folder on his lap.

‘It seems straightforward.'

‘Good.' She placed a hand on his and let it rest there a moment too long. She seemed to veer between the seductive and the professional. It was disconcerting, annoying, as if she was trying to play him like a fish. ‘One more thing. You'll find that they all seem to come from other countries, ones the Germans overran. I'm sure you can understand why. We've changed the names in some cases.'

‘Of course.' No one was going to admit they were from Germany. Not if they wanted to get by in England.

‘Right. Shall we say you report back on Friday?' Businesslike again, a quicksilver change.

‘That's fine.'

He hurried back to the office on Albion Place. Only then did he open the folder and draw out one set of papers, everything held together by a paper clip. The photograph was clear enough. He knew the face. He'd seen it on Saturday morning on the bank of the River Aire, lifeless and empty.

Amanda Fox evidently hadn't learnt yet that the man was dead.

Reading quickly he went through the information on Dieter de Vries. Real name Dieter Vreiten; fairly close to his alias. Born in Berlin in 1915. He'd spent the war working as an engineer on several projects connected with aircraft. He'd been a member of the Nazi party, but that meant nothing; it was probably just a condition of his employment and survival.

Much of the language was too technical for him to understand. Something to do with developing lightweight armour for aeroplanes, as far as he could make out. His wife had died during an RAF bombing raid. Brought out of East Germany. Arrived in England 1955. Interesting, he thought.

Quickly, he looked through the other four names. All of them had come out through the Iron Curtain. That made it clear what Mark Fox did in Germany. Still working behind enemy lines.

De Vries – Vreiten – was employed at Cokely's. Not the company in Holbeck he'd told his landlady. Why had he lied about it? Funny, he knew he'd heard that name lately, but couldn't remember where.

He was still going through everything when the telephone rang. He answered with the number.

‘Is Stephen Baker there?' A man's voice, weary.

‘He's out. This is his partner. Can I take a message for him?'

‘Dan, that's it?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's George Wills, Leeds CID. I just wanted to let you know something odd.' He hesitated. ‘There doesn't seem to be a record of that chappie we found coming into England.'

There was an air of defeat in the words.

‘Definitely a suicide, though?'

‘It look that way,' Wills replied. ‘I was talking to the doctor who did the post-mortem. He's convinced.'

‘Does it really matter, then? It's not your problem.'

‘No.' He seemed to brighten a little. ‘I suppose it doesn't. Can you let Stephen know?'

‘Glad to.'

He'd glossed the truth a little. But the Detective Inspector would have been worried if he knew what Markham had just learned. In this case at least, ignorance was bliss.

He was still going through everything when Baker returned, clutching a sandwich in a brown paper bag.

‘Any luck on de Vries?' Markham asked.

‘Not a dicky bird.' He hung up his hat and coat and settled at the card table.

‘Take a look at this.' He handed over Vreiten's paperwork.

‘A Jerry, eh?' Baker said after a few moments. ‘That makes sense. How did you get this?'

‘The same place I got these.' Markham held up the folder. ‘Amanda Fox. These are the men they want us to check. Dieter was from East Germany. They all are.'

‘Well, well, well.' He started to eat and the office smelt of potted meat. ‘Sounds like they don't know yet.'

‘Your friend George rang. No record of anyone named Dieter de Vries entering the country. But everyone's satisfied that it's suicide by drowning.'

‘You didn't tell him …?'

Markham shook his head.

‘This is just for us. For now, anyway. He worked at Cokely's.'

Baker snorted, his mouth full.

‘Yeadon.'

Now it clicked into place. The factory where Clever Trevor Peel worked.

‘Two of the others work there, too. Fancy a run out when you've finished?' Markham asked.

‘As long as we stop for a cuppa first. I'm parched.'

***

The road was empty on a Monday afternoon. Through Headingley and Cookridge. Past the newly built semis that lined Otley Road. Then the houses abruptly thinned out, replaced by farms with drystone walls, like skimming back through time.

‘Turn left up here,' Baker said. He'd been quiet since they left, his face looking thoughtful and heavy. Markham signalled and headed towards Pool on a quiet country lane. The only traffic was a slow-moving tractor, easily passed.

He didn't know the area well. He'd been to Yeadon Airport a couple of times, but that was all.

‘That's it.' Baker pointed off down a road.

‘Cokely's?'

‘That Avro factory I was telling you about earlier. The secret one. Pull off on the verge.'

Markham found a stretch of level ground and came to a halt. He followed the other man's gaze. It was difficult to make out a building. Grass seemed to rise in a short, steep hill to a plateau.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Of course I am.' The older man turned his face and gave a withering look. ‘I might be knocking on but I'm not bloody doddering yet. That grass slope is how they disguised it. It's all covered on the top, too. See it from the air and you'd think it was flat.'

Markham was still looking, trying to take in just how vast it was. It seemed to run on forever. About the length of fifteen football pitches, he thought, but that was no more than a guess.

‘God,' he said finally, amazed by it all. It seemed impossible that people could build anything so huge. And then to hide it …

‘Remarkable, isn't it?' Baker was all business again. ‘Best as I see it, Cokely's should be down on the right. About a hundred yards.'

The car park was half empty. Plenty of bicycles and motorbikes, though. Idly he wondered which one belonged to Trevor Peel.

The receptionist handed them off to the personnel department. A fussy little manager in a cheap Burton's suit listened as Baker talked. It made sense for him to take the lead. He had the age, the copper's manner that made people help. But this time it didn't seem to work. The manager gave a firm shake of his head.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘It's terrible news about Mr de Vries, of course. We'll miss him. He was well liked in his department.' The words sounded empty, as if he'd read them from a card. Probably he barely knew who the man was. Then he continued, ‘But I can't just go giving out details to every Tom, Dick and Harry. I'm sure you see that.'

‘We're working for his landlady,' Baker explained. ‘She's the closest person to him in this country.'

‘Yes, yes. But she's not
family
, is she? Even then I could only give details to a relative or someone with written authorisation. There are policies to follow.' He smiled, enjoying the chance to exercise a little power. ‘I'm sure you understand.' His eyes glittered triumphantly. He wasn't going to give an inch; he had his authority and he was determined to stand on it.

Outside, hands deep in the pockets of his mackintosh, Baker turned and looked at the factory.

‘Bloody little Hitler. Wouldn't have been any skin off his nose to let us see de Vries' file.'

‘We never had much chance, really.' It had been worth a try. Something to note when he handed everything back to the Foxes.
Subject committed suicide by drowning in the River Aire. Employment file not available.

He wouldn't have a chance to see the information on the other two from the list who worked here, either. That was fine. He expected it. He'd talk to landladies, local shopkeepers. All told it probably wasn't even a full day's work.

Baker stayed quiet as they drove back into Leeds. Markham pulled over outside the Original Oak in Headingley. The remains of a dead tree rose from the pavement, the slabs pushed up around it at awkward angles.

‘We might as well call it a day for now.'

‘True. Four of them left to look at, aren't there?'

‘We'll take two each,' Markham said. ‘We've nothing else on, anyway. Split them up in the morning. And we're getting paid.'

Quite handsomely, too. Twenty pounds for each follow-up, Amanda Fox had promised. The bills taken care of by Her Majesty's government.

‘I'll dig around a bit more on this de Vries,' Baker said.

‘Vreiten.' He wanted to give the dead man his real identity.

The man shrugged.

‘I'll give Miss Harding her money's worth. She deserves that.'

***

He overslept. The alarm didn't go off. He dashed through shaving and dressing, ignored breakfast, and made it to the office by half past nine.

Baker was sitting, reading the
Yorkshire Post
and puffing on his pipe.

‘Decided to get out of your pit, did you?' He grinned.

‘Don't,' Markham warned. ‘Anything more on Vreiten?'

‘A couple of the shopkeepers knew him. Not well, mind, he didn't seem to talk a lot, but you can hardly blame him, I suppose. Everyone's sad that he's dead. Shocked at the suicide, of course.'

The way people always were. Death inevitably came as a shock or a blessed relief, he'd found.

He opened the buff folder that Amanda Fox had given him, took out the two top stacks of paper and passed them over.

‘We can probably get these out of the way today.'

Baker checked through the first, then started on the second. He'd barely begun when he put it aside and began thumbing through the newspaper.

‘What is it?' Markham asked.

‘That name. Maxim Mertens. Or Marius Martin, according to what's in here.' He found the article, folded the page and tossed it on the desk. ‘Take a look.'

The man killed in a car crash on Thursday night has been named by police as Maxim Mertens, a Belgian national residing in Leeds. The accident happened in the early hours of Thursday morning on the road between Pannal and Harewood. Investigators believe Mertens, who was driving, skidded to avoid an animal and ran into a tree. He was the only occupant of the vehicle. The police are attempting to locate his family in Belgium.