The New Eastgate Swing (24 page)

She looked at his face. ‘When will that be?'

‘Soon,' Markham said. ‘Soon. We know you weren't involved in anything.' He saw Baker shoot him a glance. ‘And Harker will be out of the way.'

‘How?' She turned to him.

‘He'll have to run very soon. He doesn't have any choice.'

‘But he's still here, isn't he?' She couldn't hide her fear.

‘Probably. For now, anyway,' he admitted. After a short pause, he continued, ‘I need to know, when he was questioning you, what names did he ask you about?'

‘Too many. I didn't know them.'

‘Tim Hill?'

‘Yes.' She raised her head. ‘We worked with him at Cokely's.'

‘John Crews?

Amanda nodded. ‘He's with Farren's in Hunslet. We worked with him, too.'

‘Who else?' Markham asked. He needed to press her, but gently. ‘Who do you remember?'

‘Mike someone,' she answered after a little thought.

‘What was his surname?'

‘I don't know.' There was an edge of panic in her voice. ‘Graham, something like that. And there was Teddy Post. I remember that, his name just seemed so odd.' She stared at him hopefully. ‘Does that help?'

‘Yes,' he told her. ‘It does.'

‘I really didn't know what Mark was doing … for the other side. Do you believe that?'

‘I do.' He'd seen her reaction after she'd received her husband's letter detailing the truth.

‘Thank you. Harker, or whatever his name is, he didn't. He didn't think it was possible.'

‘I'm sure you're telling the truth.'

‘Thank you,' she said. She took a breath. ‘I don't have anything else to tell you. All I want to do is forget it. I'm sorry.' She stood quickly. ‘Excuse me.'

When she'd gone, Markham looked at Baker and raised an eyebrow.

‘Has she been like that since you brought her here?'

‘More or less. She's a bag of nerves. It's going to take a while for that to go. And as long as Harker's still on the loose …'

‘He is. And MI5 won't say if they have someone looking for him.'

‘They must have,' Baker snorted.

‘Let's hope so.'

‘How did you end up getting anything from one of their muckety-mucks, anyway?'

‘With the help of a friend.'

‘What else did they say?'

He recounted the conversation.

‘So you're reading a lot into a bunch of non-committal answers?' Baker asked doubtfully.

‘Because there was a lot in them.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘What about those names? Has she mentioned them before?'

‘Not to me. Mike Graham doesn't mean owt, but I've come across Teddy Post.'

‘Who is he?'

‘I can see his face in my mind, but nothing more than that.' He shrugged. ‘I'll find out in the morning. Do you want to ask around about Graham?'

‘Yes.'

Before he left, Markham ducked into the kitchen to thank Nancy Baker for the meal. The room was spotless, the back burner glistening with black lead, the lino mopped. She was standing and reading a copy of
Woman's Own
while Billy Cotton's dance band played quietly on the wireless.

‘I'm glad you could finally come,' she said with a smile. ‘I've been after Stephen to invite you. He's always talking about you.'

‘Don't believe half of it.' He laughed.

‘Oh no. He sings your praises. Now you've been here you'd better not be a stranger in future.'

Baker singing his praises, Markham wondered as he unlocked the car? The world was becoming a strange place.

***

Mike Graham.

He could start looking tomorrow or begin tonight. Why put it off?

It was a little after eleven when he parked on Chapeltown Road. He'd pottered at home, reading a little, listening to music. There was no sense going to the Tempest Club before the pubs shut; no one would be there.

This early in the week it was quiet. The real business came on the weekend, when people wanted to wring every drop of pleasure from the hours. There was no sign outside the place. If you didn't know about it, you weren't welcome.

It was in the cellar of a house, the bar made of plywood, a few tables and chairs around, low-wattage bulbs casting shadows. There was a scattering of drinkers, one or two familiar faces.

Markham thought about some of the people he'd known in clubs like this. Brian, who drank to forget all he'd seen in the war. He'd finally found release twelve months ago, throwing himself out of a third-storey window while going through the DTs. Others who'd faded away to nothingness.

There was precious little joy in these shebeens, just a constant sense of desperation, of men holding on to life with their fingertips. He ordered a Scotch then carried it over to a table where a man sat, eyes half-closed. He wore an old army greatcoat, the Royal Signals insignia still on the sleeves. But there was nothing military about the rest of him. Hair long and greasy, hanging on his collar, face in need of a shave. A packet of tobacco and papers on the table in front of him. And an empty glass.

‘You look like you could use that, Carl.'

The man looked up and nodded his appreciation.

‘I won't say no, Dan. It'd only go to waste with a teetotaller like you.' He downed it in a single gulp. ‘Haven't seen you for a while.'

No one knew much about Carl's past. He'd appeared from nowhere two years before, dressed much the same as he was now, without a surname to weight him down. But he was a listener, a man who remembered what he'd heard. Another lost soul.

‘I've been busy,' Markham replied. ‘Does the name Mike Graham mean anything to you?'

Carl pursed his lips. ‘Can't say that it does.'

‘It might be something like Graham.'

‘There's Mike Grant. But he's in his sixties. Why?'

‘I'm just trying to track someone, that's all. Can you ask around?' He took out a half crown and his business card. ‘Let me know if you hear anything.'

‘I will,' Carl promised, and he hoped he could believe the man.

***

In the morning he started early, going around the cafes where men sat staring into their cups of stewed tea, trying to face the morning after a long night. Half of them still stank of booze as it came out of their pores.

He paid for a round of toast or a chocolate wafer here and there, but no one had much to tell him. Shaking heads to match the shaking hands. Nobody seemed to know Mike Graham until he sat down with Harry Pearson in a cafe on New York Street.

‘Mike Grant, that's who you mean,' Pearson said as he stirred a third spoonful of sugar into his coffee. ‘It has to be. I've never heard of anyone called Mike Graham.'

Pearson had a grizzled face split by a pale, jagged scar that extended down one cheek all the way to his jaw; the rumour was that he'd received it in a razor fight before the war. Whatever the truth, it made people keep their distance. He scuffled a living as a debt collector. Along with his big frame, his face was his fortune in the job. People paid up before the threat of a second visit.

‘Who is he?' Markham lit a cigarette. The same name Carl had given him.

‘Did you ever hear of Pat Shea?'

‘No.'

‘Before your time, maybe. He died back in '48. Mike Grant started out working for him.'

‘What did he do?'

‘Nosying around, this and that.' Pearson took a cigarette from Markham's packet, lit it and blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘Then he found he had a talent for getting in and out of places. Keeps it very quiet, mind. The coppers have never had a sniff of him.'

A burglar. That might fit with Harker.

‘What's he up to now?'

‘I see him here and there. Mostly at the Hyde Park pub, he probably lives round there somewhere.'

‘Do you know how I can get hold of him?'

Pearson shrugged and narrowed his eyes. ‘I can ask. What do you need him for?'

‘A couple of questions.' He handed over another business card, two pound notes wrapped around it.

‘I'll pass the word.' It disappeared into Pearson's pocket. ‘You'll hear if he wants to be in touch.'

***

Baker was already in the office, writing in a notebook. It was a police habit, keeping everything straight, everything documented. He looked up as Markham entered.

‘Did you find Graham?'

‘Mike Grant. That's the name I've heard. A burglar.'

Baker shook his head.

‘They're pulling your leg. I'd have heard the name.'

‘The word is that the police don't know about him. What about Teddy Post?'

The big man leaned back in his chair and stretched.

‘Didn't take long. He's been inside for the last six months. Got caught breaking into a house.'

‘Another burglar?'

‘Yes. Nothing to do with Harker, though. Not unless he's tunnelling out to help him. He's not due for release until 1959.'

Interesting, Markham thought. A pair of burglars. That didn't sound like coincidence. The telephone rang. Without thinking, he picked up the receiver.

‘Mr Markham,' a terrified voice said, ‘it's Trevor Peel. You've got to help me.'

‘What is it?' Markham asked urgently.

‘That man. He came back this morning.'

‘Harker?' He saw Baker's head jerk up.

‘Yes. He wants me to get him into one of those special rooms again. Steal the key for him.' Peel was whispering the words. Straining, Markham could hear a dull babble of conversation in the background and the tinny sound of a radio. ‘If I don't, he said he'd tell them what I've done.'

‘Where did he find you?'

‘Outside the house. I was just getting on the bike. What can I do, Mr Markham?'

He was trying to think quickly.

‘Tell the management you're poorly and you need to go home. Meet me in an hour.'

‘Where?' Trevor sounded desperate.

‘The cafe at the market.'

‘OK.' He rang off quickly.

‘Harker's pressing Peel,' Markham told Baker. ‘He's scared.'

‘It must be something important if he's still hanging around. I was sure he'd have skipped the country by now.'

‘I'll get Trevor to leave Leeds for a while. That should keep him safe.'

‘Do you want me to come with you?'

Markham shook his head.

‘No. He knows me.'

‘All right.' He paused. ‘I still don't believe you about that Grant bloke. The coppers would be on to him.'

‘I only know what I was told.' He shrugged. ‘If we're lucky he might ring.'

He did, a little later, as Markham was preparing to leave.

‘You've been looking for me.' No hello, no preamble. Just his name and straight into it.

‘Yes, Mr Grant, I have.' He settled back in his chair, keeping an eye on his watch. He didn't want to be late to the cafe; Peel was frightened enough as it was. ‘What do you know about Simon Harker?'

There was the slightest flicker of hesitation before Grant asked, ‘Why?'

‘I'm looking for him.'

‘What for?' Full of suspicion.

‘Do you know what he does?'

‘Don't care.' An abrupt, simple answer.

‘I need to get in touch with him,' Markham said.

‘What's in it for me?' Grant asked.

‘Maybe some protection. He's a Russian spy.'

‘Is that right?' He sounded amused. ‘No one can connect me to him.'

‘Yet. If MI5 start looking …' He let the idea hang.

‘I'll have a think.'

‘Make it quick. There's not too much time.'

‘I'll be in touch.'

***

The cafe was full of people eating dinner. The clatter of knives and forks and the smell of gravy. Markham waited until a table came free and sat down, ordering a lamb casserole and tea.

Exactly an hour since Peel had called. No sign of him yet. He ate, glancing around, looking at his watch every few seconds. Trevor still hadn't arrived when he'd finished the food. He lit a cigarette, eking out the moments while he drank the tea. Twenty minutes past and he still hadn't shown.

Something had happened. Could Peel have run? Had Harker caught up with him first?

Finally he had to admit it. Trevor wasn't going to show. Out on Vicar Lane he stared around, hoping against hope that the lad was simply late. But there was no familiar face pushing through the crowd on the pavement.

Markham trudged back to the office. Baker had gone somewhere. Alone, he sat and worried. Should he wait and hope that Trevor rang or arrived? Go to the lad's house and see if his mother knew anything?

He'd give it a few more minutes. He chain-smoked through the time. Finally he stubbed out his fourth cigarette, picked up his hat and locked the door behind him. Driving out along Kirkstall Road he kept an eye on the mirror for any vehicle following him, holding his breath hopefully as a motorbike came up quickly. But it zipped past and vanished into the distance. Not Trevor.

The lad's mother knew nothing. Surprise filled her face when Markham asked if she'd heard from him.

‘Not since he left this morning, luv,' she answered. ‘Why? What's wrong?'

‘I was going to meet him at dinnertime and he never came.'

‘Wasn't he at work?' She frowned, wrapping a tea towel around her hand.

‘He wasn't feeling too well when he rang me.' It was a white lie but better than the truth.

‘Why didn't he just come home if he was poorly?' The worry was growing in her voice.

‘There was something he needed to tell me, he said.'

‘I don't know.' She stared at him. ‘You'd better not be lying to me.'

‘Can you ask him to ring me when he comes back?'