Dark Briggate Blues (21 page)

‘I suppose you’d better come in.’ He led the way into the club and sat at a table facing the small bandstand. ‘What is it?’

‘Have you seen your boss today? Or Mrs Hart? Have you heard from them?’

‘I only got in half an hour ago. Why? What’s wrong with Jo?’

‘It looks as if Carter’s snatched Mrs Hart to make her sign over the Ford business to him.’

‘Christ.’ He sat back, shook his head and lit a cigarette. ‘Are you sure?’

‘It looks that way.’

‘David? Why would he do that?’

‘She’d had a better offer from someone else.’

‘But …’ he began, then words failed him.

‘I need to know where he could have taken her.’

Dawson thought for a while, drawing hard on the cigarette.

‘Have you tried his other businesses?’

‘The police have. And I’ve been to other places he owns.’

‘Then I don’t know. He’s never told me much about what he does. Bloody hell. Jo.’

‘She’s in danger, Mr Dawson. I need to find her before anything bad happens.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He ran a hand through his Brylcreemed hair. ‘I don’t know where they could be.’

Markham stood.

‘The last time we talked I suggested you find another line of work. It’s time. This place won’t be around much longer.’

‘Yes,’ Dawson agreed bleakly. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

***

He went through Carter’s papers one more time, desperately searching for any addresses he’d missed before. Baker rang at five. Not a sniff of Joanna Hart and Carter. They’d simply vanished. But Leeds was a big city; there were too many places to hide, especially for someone with connections.

‘When’s this secret agent of yours arriving?’

‘Seven,’ Markham answered.

‘Bring him down to the station in the morning at nine and we’ll have a confab.’

‘If they’re not found first.’

‘Aye.’ He didn’t sound hopeful.

***

The station stank of dirt and smoke. The glass ceiling was covered in grime. Newspapers and sweet wrappers littered the floor. Markham waited by the barrier at the end of the platform, smoking a cigarette. The last time he’d been here was when Carla returned from Italy. And where was she now? Off somewhere, safe from Leeds, safe from him and all he’d brought down on her. He hoped so, anyway.

Exactly on time, the train pulled up to the platform, brakes squealing. Carriage doors opened and porters swarmed around. Jones strode through the crowd, carrying one small suitcase, raising a hand in greeting as he saw Markham.

‘You’re not looking too well, boy.’

‘Good to see you too, Ged.’ The man had filled out a little but he needed that; he’d been a skinny runt on National Service. His face was brown, as if he’d been abroad recently.

‘Nothing new?’

Markham shook his head.

‘Let’s find a hotel and you can fill me in over dinner.’

‘Carter has a room at the Metropole.’

‘Expensive?’

‘Very.’

‘I’ll need somewhere cheaper. HMG won’t spring for the best. Not at my level, anyway. But they’ll buy us something to eat.’

***

They’d finished their food, plates pushed aside. Markham drank his coffee while Jones toyed with a Scotch and soda.

‘Right, tell me what you know.’ Ged lit a cigarette and listened intently as Markham ran through it all. ‘You’ve no idea where they could be?’

‘None. I’ve checked some places and the police have been to the others.’

‘This copper you’re working with. Do you trust him?’

‘Sergeant Baker? Yes. But there’s another one named Graham. He’s in Carter’s pocket.’

‘We should start with him, then.’

‘Evidently he received a phone call then called in sick. Hasn’t been seen since.’

Jones frowned.

‘Has anyone talked to his snouts? Where does he like to go?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Right. We’ll look at that in the morning. You said you’re armed?’

‘A Colt
1911
.’

‘Smuggled it back from Germany?’

‘Not quite.’ He recounted what had happened at the stream near Shadwell.

‘You left him stark bollock naked?’

‘The police arrested him for exposure.’

Jones roared.

‘You should be back in the service, Danny. They’d bloody love that.’

‘Right now I’ll be happy to find Jo Hart and Carter.’

‘We will,’ Jones said with certainty.

‘Do you have any ideas?’

‘One or two. I’ll tell you in the morning. Do you have a phone at home if I need to get hold of you?’

‘No.’

Jones brought out a notebook and scribbled something.

‘Right, we’ll take care of that tomorrow.’

‘Just like that?’ He couldn’t believe it. The waiting list for a telephone was eighteen months.

Ged smiled.

‘We tell the GPO to jump and they ask how high.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Right, I need to ring a few people. So it’s the police station at nine?’

***

There were cups of tea and a plate of biscuits on the table.

‘I hear you’ve come to kill Carter,’ Baker said with disgust.

Jones opened a briefcase and took out a thick folder with a red stripe.

‘That tells you all about him, Sergeant. Read through it. By the count in there he’s killed twelve people himself. And only six of those were during the war. That doesn’t include Mr Hart.’

‘We all killed during the war. But you were too young for that.’

Jones shrugged as if he was used to the criticism.

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘I don’t want any murder on my patch. You kill him, I’ll arrest you.’

‘You won’t.’ He spoke quietly but there was command in his voice. ‘And that’s from the highest levels.’ He wrote a telephone number on a piece of paper and pushed it across the table. ‘If you don’t believe me, ring them.’

Baker snorted but put the paper in his pocket. He lit his pipe.

‘Right, smart boys, where do we go from here, because I’m buggered if I know.’

‘Go back and look at yesterday’s places again,’ Markham said. It was what he’d been taught. ‘Just because he wasn’t there then doesn’t mean he isn’t now.’

‘The bobbies are already going round,’ the detective said sourly. ‘What do you think we do? Sit on our arses all day?’

Jones produced a piece of paper from the folder.

‘I had them put this together before I left yesterday. These are all the properties Carter owns.’

‘We already know them,’ the sergeant snorted.

‘Not all of them, you don’t,’ Jones told him, his voice cold. ‘You don’t have our resources. There’s a man on the house Carter has in London in case he goes there.’

Baker and Markham scanned the list. There were two they didn’t know, one in Holbeck, the other close to Harewood.

‘There,’ Markham said. The sergeant nodded his agreement.

‘Nice and quiet. Wait a minute.’ He returned with an Ordnance Survey map of the area and pointed with a stubby finger. ‘That’s it. A farm sitting off by itself.’

‘What about the other place?’ Jones asked.

‘I know the street,’ Baker told him. ‘It’s all garages and lock ups.’

‘Why don’t you take the place in the country,’ Jones suggested, giving Markham a look. ‘We’ll go to this one.’

‘If you want. I’ll need to clear it, it’s outside Leeds.’

‘Don’t worry about that. You have my authority.’

‘Cocky little bastard, aren’t you?’

Jones stared at him. ‘I’m in charge of this, Sergeant. Please don’t forget that.’

‘What do I do when I find Carter?’

‘You hand him over to me. Then forget you ever met him.’

‘Simple as that?’

‘Simple as that.’ He stood, motioning to Markham. ‘Remember, Sergeant, Carter’s dangerous.’ He patted the folder before returning it to his briefcase.

‘Why do you want the place in Holbeck?’ Markham asked as they walked back from the police station. Jones smiled.

‘Because I read Carter’s file properly on the way up here.’ He glanced around. ‘Not a bad looking city, Leeds.’

‘As long as you like everything to look as if Victoria’s still on the throne.’

‘Back when Britain was great, boy,’ Jones said with a grin. ‘Carter likes towns and cities. He’d rather have someone down a back street than out in the country.’

‘As long as we find them I don’t care.’

‘We will.’ There was confidence in the voice that Markham didn’t feel.

***

It was a short trip through cobbled streets, past factories that spewed smoke into the sky. Leeds might as well still be a Victorian city, Markham thought. So little had changed. All the stone was still black from decades of dirt in the air, the houses back-to-backs and terraces. He parked beside a tall brick wall.

‘Down there,’ he said, pointing to the corner.

‘Right.’ Jones tossed the briefcase into the back seat. ‘You have your gun?’

‘Yes.’

‘Keep it close.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Ged, this is Leeds. It’s not the bloody OK Corral.’

‘Have your hand in your pocket, then.’ He closed the car door. As they turned into the street of small buildings, half of them empty, he said, ‘It’s that one. Hardisty and Sons.’

A welding shop, from the name on the fading sign. It was a street awaiting demolition, silent and empty. Broken cobbles on the road and glass from smashed street lights.

The place had a door large enough for a lorry, the blue paint flaking away in fistfuls. A smaller door, big enough for a man, fitted within it.

‘How do you want to play it?’

‘I’ll go in first,’ Jones told him. ‘I’m trained for this, Danny. You come in behind me. If you see Carter, shoot the bastard.’

He glanced at the lock and brought something from his pocket. Three quick movements and the door swung open. He heard Jones take a breath as he took the gun from its shoulder holster. Then he was inside.

Inside it was black. The only light was a small rectangle from the open door. Markham stood, letting his eyes adjust, the Colt heavy in his hand. Metal filings glittered on the floor. In a few seconds he could make out another door in the back wall. With a nod, Jones motioned him to the side as he turned the handle and dashed in.

She was there, tied and gagged on a dirty old mattress in the corner. The dress was bunched around her thighs. Her eyes were wide with fear. Markham knelt next to her.

‘It’s fine,’ he said, keeping his voice soft as he pulled the gag from her mouth. ‘We’re here, we’ve found you. You’re safe now.’ He talked while his fingers worked on the knots that kept her wrists bound behind her back, trying to sound soothing even as he saw the terror in his eyes. ‘Come on,’ he told her, lifting her up gently, and keeping his arm around her. ‘Hold on to me. Everything’s going to be fine now.’

‘No sign of him,’ Jones said. The only other furniture in the room was a straight chair covered in cobwebs and a cheap old desk.

Out in the light she kept blinking, leaning heavily against him as she hobbled. Silent tears ran down her cheeks through a dried trail of mascara. She began to shake, quietly at first, but by the time she reached the car, her body was wracked. Markham took off his raincoat and wrapped it around her like a blanket. He gave her a cigarette. Her hand trembled and she drew the smoke in deep.

‘We have a safe house where we can keep her,’ Jones said. He turned to Joanna Hart. ‘Do you know where Carter is?’

‘Leave it, Ged.’ He looked at her. ‘You’re safe now,’ he repeated, waiting until she gave a small, fearful nod.

Jones was rummaging through his briefcase, finally drawing out a paper.

‘We can take her here,’ he said. It was an address in Leeds
8
, off Street Lane.

‘In a little while.’ She needed time.

‘Bloody well think!’ Jones’ eyes blazed. ‘We’re out in the open here.’ His hand was in his coat, clamped around his gun.

He was right. There were no other cars around, just the dull sounds of machines from the factories in the distance. Easy targets for anyone who wanted to take a shot.

‘We’re going to take you where no one can hurt you,’ Markham told her. She huddled in the corner of the back seat, clutching the coat, still saying nothing.

‘You still remember how to throw off a tail?’ Ged asked.

‘Yes.’ His hands were so tight on the steering wheel that the knuckles were white.

‘Then do it. Just in case.’ He adjusted the wing mirror so he could keep watch.

Markham was cautious, taking half an hour to reach the house. It was an Edwardian villa, well kept, all red brick and fresh paint, identical to its neighbours. He pulled the Anglia into the drive.

‘Round the back,’ Jones ordered. ‘So no one can see the car from the road.’ He knocked on the kitchen door of the house, rapping his knuckles in a shave-and-a-haircut code. The woman who answered was as anonymous as the house, somewhere between forty and sixty, hair set in a wave, a floral pinafore over a skirt and twin set.

Markham escorted Joanna Hart into the building, her arm through his. The kitchen was warm, a pot simmering on the stove. A large table sat in the middle of the room, on a floor of Yorkshire flagstone. He sat her on one of the chairs as the woman bustled around, heaping sugar into a steaming cup of tea.

‘She’s in shock, poor love. You drink this, pet, it’ll help. My name’s Maggie. Maggie Cornwall. I look after the house here.’

Joanna Hart clasped her hands around the mug to take in the heat. Markham sat close, smoking, motioning for the others to leave the room. They were strangers; she knew him. She trusted him; he hoped she did. He needed to talk to her, to discover what she knew. Where Carter might be.

‘He won’t find you here.’

‘He said he’d be able to find me anywhere.’ Her voice was husky and broken.

‘Not here,’ he assured her. She pushed her lips together, staring straight ahead. Without thinking, she took a drink.

‘Do you have another cigarette?’

He lit one for her, waiting. She’d say more in her own time, when she was able. She smoked greedily, finally stubbing out the butt in a clean glass ashtray.

‘He said he’d kill me if I didn’t sign over the business,’ she said eventually, then turned to him. ‘I didn’t do it.’