The New Eastgate Swing (15 page)

The scent of malt and hops from the huge Tetley brewery filled the air south of the water. It was warm and comforting. But by the time he reached Farren's he barely noticed it any more.

The receptionist was more helpful than he expected, and five minutes later he was escorted down a carpeted corridor, past closed doors, to an office with
Mr Crews
painted on the glass.

John Crews was tall, in his late forties but still in good, powerful shape. He took Markham's business card and tapped it with a nicotine-stained forefinger.

‘I don't think we've ever had any enquiry agents in here before.'

‘Really? I thought you might have dealt with some others. Mark and Amanda Fox.'

Crews was a poor liar. The truth showed on his face as he said, ‘Who? Fox? I've never heard of them.'

‘Ah,' Markham said. ‘I'm sorry. Someone told me you had.'

‘They've been pulling your leg, then. I'm sorry, I can't help you.' A flush of guilt rose up Crews' cheeks.

‘I'm sorry for taking up your time.'

A quick handshake and he left. Interesting, Markham thought as he walked back along Dock Street, over Leeds Bridge and up Briggate. Why would the man lie about something like that?

It had been all too easy to read his face. Crews had looked worried from the moment Markham walked in. When the name Fox came up, he'd tried to make his expression blank. But he'd failed spectacularly.

After that he knew that going out to Cokely's would be a waste of time. They'd been turned away the last time; returning with awkward questions would bring the same result.

***

‘I could ring that bloke at Cokely's,' Baker offered. ‘I sound like a copper.'

‘Don't say you are one.'

‘I'm not daft.' He gave a withering look, picked up the receiver and began to dial.

It didn't take long. Hill was in the other part of the factory, the telephonist told him.

‘What other part, luv?'

He was over in the old Avro shadow factory that had once built Lancaster bombers and now looked deserted.

‘Don't they have phones over there?' Baker asked.

It took five minutes of waiting. Finally there was a voice on the other end of the line.

‘Mr Hill? Hello, it's Baker here from Leeds.' He sound official, ready to ride roughshod over any objection. ‘We have a few questions we'd like you to answer.' He waited, nodding as the man assented. ‘About Mr and Mrs Fox.' A pause when the question seemed obvious. ‘I said my name's Baker. No, I'm not with the police. I never said I was.'

He waited a moment then lowered the handset.

‘Mr Hill didn't want to talk to me. Funny, that, isn't it? As soon as I mentioned the Foxes.'

‘We're getting nowhere.' Markham slammed his hand down on the desk in frustration.

‘That's not quite true, Dan,' he said slowly. ‘We know we're making people uncomfortable. That's something.'

‘It still doesn't help us.'

Baker shrugged. ‘We'll see.'

***

A little more work on the frauds. Markham went to one of the businesses and talked to the owner. An hour of going through the figures and asking questions and he'd identified the thief.

He sat quietly in the corner, hat in his lap, as the owner hauled the man in. The bluster lasted a minute longer than he expected. Then it was admission, guilt, all because he had a wife and family to support.

He was sacked, of course, and lucky not to be reported to the police. Word would spread quickly throughout the business and discourage others. Markham took the cheque from the grateful owner.

It was already dark, the yellow light of the street lamps picking out the roads back to Chapel Allerton. At least the fog hadn't returned.

He parked behind the flat. On the other side of the fence St Matthew's graveyard was a patch of blackness, filled with the silence of the dead. He locked the Anglia and started across the gravel.

As he reached to unlock the front door a heavy hand came out of the shadows and grabbed his wrist. He was pulled into the gloom.

Leather gloves, a hat, scarf pushed up over the mouth and nose so only small, dark eyes showed. Nothing clear in the darkness, little more than a quick impression.

‘You've been poking around.' A gruff voice, muffled by the material. Fraction by fraction the fingers tightened on his wrist.

The training from National Service came like a body memory. Markham lashed out with his free hand, first two fingers extended, aiming for the man's eyes, making him let and back away.

‘You like your chances, do you?' It was a taunting voice. He was big, broad, eager for a scrap. The man made a small feint, eyes squinting.

Markham shifted the car key in his fist. It was the only weapon he had. Use it like a knife, slash with it; he'd learned the technique all those years ago. It wasn't much against someone like this, but it was better than nothing.

He tried to make his body loose, ready to react, trying to be aware of every movement while he fixed his gaze on the man's eyes. They were the things that would signal his intent.

A metallic click and, glancing down, he saw a blade extend in the man's right hand. A flick knife. He'd thought this wasn't a simple robbery. Now it looked as if it was going to be more than a beating. This looked deadly.

His mouth was dry. Whoever he was, his opponent was professional. No ducking and weaving, just a slow advance, pace by pace. The knife flashed up and Markham ducked to avoid it. But the man's other fist was already moving, catching him hard on the cheek and making him stagger back.

He was off balance as the man pushed, then a punch in the belly sent him crashing on his back into the dirt, all the air forced out of his lungs.

A kick in the ribs was softened by the heavy overcoat. He saw a foot raised to stamp down on his chest. Markham rolled away before it could land, slashing at the man's Achilles tendon with the car key and connecting. He heard a cry that seemed to come from far away.

The man knelt on Markham's arms, pinning them. Bone dug into muscle. A gloved hand hit his face over and over.

The police station was only twenty yards away, he thought stupidly. If he shouted, would any copper come running?

His hands were trapped, unable to reach anything. He bucked, tried to push his opponent off, but he was too heavy.

The man leaned down, bringing his face close. Sour breath came through the scarf.

It was the only chance.

Markham jerked his head up sharply. A headbutt. His forehead slammed against the man's nose in a quick crack of bone. In a second the weight lifted from him. He scrambled away and heard a clatter as the knife fell to the ground.

Markham kicked it away.

The man looked at him for a second, hate in his gaze, and moved off into the night, half-running, half-stumbling, one hand over his face.

Christ. He leaned against the brick wall and tried to catch his breath. The cigarette packet in his jacket was crushed; it seemed to take an age to pull one out, hands shaking wildly as he tried to light it.

Very carefully, he felt his face. It was tender everywhere, he was going to have a mass of bruises. His arms hurt where the man had pinned him down. The coat had saved him the worst of it. Soon enough he'd start to feel the pain. He was going to ache in the morning.

Very slowly, he finished the cigarette, taking pleasure in grinding it out under his feet. Before he went inside he searched for the flick knife amongst the weeds. He might need it.

‘Dear God,' Baker asked, ‘what happened to you?'

‘Someone jumped me outside the flat.'

Markham hung up his coat. Each small movement took effort. He'd taken a long bath the night before, and a couple of aspirin before he slept. Two more this morning. But everything still hurt, and his face was badly swollen, covered in deep bruises and cuts.

He explained what had happened. Baker listened intently, drawing on his pipe.

‘Who do you think did it?' he asked when Markham finished.

‘Special Branch.' He'd thought about it all evening. He hadn't been able to focus on anything else. It had to be them, and a telephone call from Farren's that set them on to him.

‘Possible,' Baker agreed with a nod. ‘Sounds like their style, right enough.'

Markham pulled the knife from his coat and tossed it on the card table.

‘He was going to use that.'

Baker played with the weapon, extending the blade and retracting it.

‘Nasty,' he said slowly. ‘There's just one problem: the Branch are usually the knuckleduster and heavy boots type.'

‘What do you mean?' He turned his head suddenly, feeling the pain as he moved.

‘They might do you over or pull you in.' He dropped the knife, blade out again, glittering in the light. ‘But they don't use those. Not unless things have changed very recently.'

‘Who was it, then?' He felt a chill running down his back.

‘Not the spies, either.' Baker smoked silently for a few more seconds. ‘Definitely not them. If they wanted you out of the picture they wouldn't do it in public.'

‘So – who?'

‘I don't know. But we must be ruffling a few feathers.'

‘Christ,' Markham said. ‘That doesn't make me feel any better.' They were going to have to watch over their shoulders every second. ‘Whoever he is, he's a pro.' Then the thought hit him: if it wasn't Special Branch …

‘You won. That's something,' Baker continued.

‘What if it was the same man who's been killing the Germans?'

For a long while Baker stayed silent.

‘The Russian?'

‘Yes.' Suddenly Markham felt very cold.

‘Why? We're out of it. You said so yourself. And why would we be important?'

‘I don't know. Maybe he thinks we're still involved.' Markham raised his head to display his battered face.

Baker puffed on his pipe.

‘If it was him, he won't be back.'

‘What?'

‘He's a professional. We know that.'

‘Yes,' Markham agreed.

‘For all he knows, you've reported it to the police. He's not going to risk trying again. He's not stupid.'

Baker was right. He knew that. It was the training they gave for everything in military intelligence. You only had one chance to do something. If it didn't work, you abandoned it. That was the only way to stay alive. But it didn't make him feel any safer. He sighed.

‘Since we're still in it we'd better find out what's really going on,' he said as he lit a cigarette. ‘Maybe it's time we went on the offensive.'

‘I think you're right,' Baker agreed. ‘We're not going to find anything out by just twiddling our thumbs. Perhaps we can discover a few answers out at Cokely's. We already know they're not going to talk to us. But maybe we can get a look in that shadow factory in Yeadon. It's a good place to keep secrets.'

‘How? They're not likely to hand us a key and say “look around.”.'

‘We break in.'

‘Break in? You've got to be kidding.'

‘I'm deadly serious,' Baker told him. ‘We can see what they're up to out there. It has to be something important if they're bringing in East Germans and someone's willing to take a knife to you. They might even have your Amanda Fox somewhere.'

‘I thought you were sure she'd run off to join her husband in Russia.'

‘That was before last night. You know why I became a copper? Because I like the law. All this is going around it like it doesn't bloody well exist. Or it doesn't matter. So we find out what's happening and do something about it ourselves.'

‘It might give us a start,' Markham said quietly. ‘God knows we need something.'

‘If we don't look we'll never find out, will we?'

‘They'll have guards there,' Markham warned.

Baker shook his head. ‘Nothing more than a nightwatchman, unless they want attention or gossip. We'll go out tonight for a recce. Go in if we have a chance.'

‘Not tonight.'

‘Why not?' Baker frowned. ‘Meeting someone?'

‘I'm not doing it until I can move more easily.' He was meant to see Georgina that evening. But he didn't need her questions all evening on top of everything else.

‘All right, fair enough, we'll wait a day or two,' Baker agreed reluctantly. ‘Oh,' he added, ‘there's something on your desk. Came in the post.'

A small package. A book. He ripped open the brown paper. He hadn't ordered anything. It was odd.
On the Road
by someone called Jack Kerouac. He'd never even heard of the man.

When he turned the front cover a note fell out and he unfolded it. The familiar tiny scrawl. Carla.

I don't know if you've read this. A friend brought it back from America a couple of months ago, apparently it's just been published. It's rather good and the whole thing is just like jazz, like that Monk fellow you like. I thought you might enjoy it.

And remember, let me know when you're ready. If you want to be ready.

Carla.

He set the book aside but inside he was smiling.

‘Penny for them,' Baker said quietly.

‘You'd get a ha'penny in change.'

‘Go home. Get yourself some rest. Read your new book.'

‘I want to finish that other fraud.'

‘No one's going to thank you for turning up looking like you've gone ten rounds with Sugar Ray Robinson.'

‘Does it look that bad?' Markham managed a weak grin.

‘Worse.'

Baker was right. He'd been reluctant to admit it when he looked in the mirror that morning, but he knew it was true. He struggled back into his overcoat, every muscle complaining.

‘Tomorrow night,' Baker said. ‘You'll be feeling better by then. We'll go out to Yeadon. And in the meantime, keep your eyes peeled. Just in case.'