The New Eastgate Swing

‘The book is a pacy, atmospheric and entertaining page-turner with a whole host of well-rounded characters'

Yorkshire Post

‘[
Dark Briggate Blues
is] written with an obvious affection for the private investigator genre, this is a skilful take in an unusual setting. It has real depth which will keep you turning the pages'

Hull Daily Mail

‘This is a tense thriller, all the more disturbing for the ordinariness of its setting among the smoky, rain-slicked streets of a northern industrial city. Nickson has captured the minutiae of the mid-20th century perfectly'

Historical Novel Society

To the woman whose name I never caught, who told me about her father, a real 1950s Leeds enquiry agent. That conversation was the first spark for this book.
Thank you.

‘Killing you would be the easiest thing in the world.' He sat behind the desk, smoking lazily and staring at the other man. ‘An industrial accident, maybe. A car crash. Or just a simple disappearance,' he added with a hint of a smile. ‘After all, no one would be stupid enough to ask questions about you, would they?'

The ‘
du
' for ‘you', so familiar, a hard reminder of who held the power here. The other man kept his gaze on his lap and shook his head. The words weren't meant to be answered. They were a threat, a little dance of victory. He'd been caught trying to escape from East Germany. Like everyone, he knew the price of capture.

He'd already been beaten in his cell by the time the Stasi officer arrived. Eyes so swollen they were almost closed, his nose broken, five or six teeth gone. Ribs cracked and bruises all over his body. He just hoped nothing was damaged inside. The men had enjoyed their work, making him hurt and yell out. He spat blood into the bucket on the floor and breathed through his mouth. He felt numb, beyond pain.

Failure. Death.

The uniformed men leapt to attention as soon as the officer appeared. He dismissed them, waiting and watching silently as the man slowly sat up. Each tiny movement was painful. He winced and tried to focus.

‘Come with me,' the Stasi man ordered finally. There was no compassion in his tone, no feeling at all. ‘You look strong enough to walk.' He led the way through a maze of corridors to this plain room, the injured man limping slowly behind, steadying himself with a hand on the concrete block walls. No window in here, just a table and two chairs.

‘Do you really think the West is paradise?' the officer asked. He didn't wait for a reply; he didn't need one. ‘It's not, although they'd be grateful enough for anyone with special skills. Especially someone from this side of that Iron Curtain they keep talking about. Someone like you.' That
du
again. ‘Or perhaps you thought you were so unimportant that no one was watching you?' He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his face close enough to smell the sourness of meat and garlic on his breath. ‘Here in the Democratic Republic everyone watches everyone. I'd really hoped you'd be less naïve. And not so stupid.'

The man stubbed out his cigarette and lit another, watching the smoke curl upwards.

‘You're a very lucky man today. Very lucky indeed. I'm going to offer you a bargain, and it's one you won't turn down. You're going to go to the West. You're going to see what life is like there.' The man jerked up his head in astonishment. Was this a joke? Was he going to promise the world and then shoot him?

The Stasi officer smiled. ‘I thought that would get your attention. Your paradise, just beyond that door.' He inclined his head. ‘But you're going to do something for us while you're there. To show your thanks for our mercy. You're going to give us information. Lots of it.' A pause that lasted for a heartbeat. ‘You're one of us now, Dieter.'

He laid it out in simple sentences. The freedom, the chances. Then the demands, and finally the threat.

‘You won't betray us,' he said quietly, matter-of-factly, counting it all out on stubby, manicured fingers. Not even a trace of nicotine stains. ‘You won't run from us. After all, your parents, your sister, her husband and children are still here. If you're ever tempted, just remember that their lives–' he held out his right hand, palm up ‘–are in my hand.' Slowly, calmly, he closed his fingers to make a fist. ‘Always remember that, Dieter.'

1957 had been a good year. Plenty of divorce business. The bloom had gone off too many marriages, it seemed; whole bouquets of them shedding their petals. It had kept him busy from January until the middle of October. Now, halfway through November, things were winding down. The petrol rationing that had been in force during the Suez Crisis was a memory. People were thinking ahead to 25 December. Families keeping the peace until Christmas was over. Holding a truce. And that was fine. It would pick up again in the New Year.

Dan Markham sat reading the morning paper, going through every article to tease out the time until dinner. For the last four days no one had come into the office needing his services, and for once the emptiness felt welcome. After so many hectic months he was ready to relax.

He lifted his head as he heard the clump of footsteps on the stairs. A familiar, heavy tread, the ominous, unmistakable sound of a copper. Markham waited as the door opened. Close, he thought when he saw the face; it was an ex-copper. Detective Sergeant Baker, just plain Mr Baker now. He'd retired from the force a year before. But he was dressed exactly the way he always had, an old mackintosh, belted and buttoned up, the trilby pushed down on his head, with a white shirt and striped tie. As portly as ever, maybe even rounder than before, a little more flesh to his jowls. He was carrying a large brown paper bag. Sighing, he settled on the empty chair.

‘This is a surprise,' Markham said. They'd ended up working together on a case in 1954. Back then Baker made no secret of his contempt for enquiry agents. The man had been wounded by a bullet and never fully recovered. About the only useful thing to come from it was the uneasy truce the two of them had found. Not friends, but able to rub along together.

‘I thought I'd see if you were staying on the straight and narrow.' Baker took off his hat and placed it on the edge of the desk.

‘I'm getting by. Enjoying your retirement?'

The man frowned.

‘My missus kept going on at me to retire as soon as I could, what with that injury from the shooting, so I had myself invalided out. Now she's on at me to do something and not be under her feet all the time.' He rolled his eyes. ‘Women. Never bloody satisfied.'

‘You could find something.' He knew Baker had a sharp mind. He was still young enough. And he was honest.

‘I daresay,' he agreed. ‘It got me thinking, any road. You're on your own here. People tell me you're busy these days. You could use some help. I have plenty of experience.'

Markham smiled. It was the damndest job application he'd ever heard.

‘I make enough to support myself. There's not enough to pay two people.'

‘Ah, you might be wrong there, lad.' Baker stared squarely at him. ‘I've had a quiet word round the stations. They all know me. They'd pass stuff on. Missing persons, little things they don't have the time to deal with properly. Think on. It could more than double your business. Get you out of this divorce lark, too.' He said the words with distaste.

‘Are you sure?' Markham said warily.

‘I am. I'd not be here otherwise.'

‘You always said enquiry agents were parasites,' he reminded the man.

‘I did,' Baker admitted and scratched the back of his neck.

‘So why do you want to be one?'

‘Someone has to keep you honest. It might as well be me.' Baker leaned forward and put the paper bag on the blotter. ‘Open it.'

It was heavier than it seemed. Markham slid out a piece of polished brass and turned it over.
Markham & Baker, Enquiry Agents
in bold, solid script. He glanced at the man and raised his eyebrows. He had balls; had to give him that. He did have experience, years of it. Markham was only twenty-eight. And if he did bring in more business …

‘If we're going to do it, it ought to look right,' Baker said.

Markham began to laugh.

‘We can give it a try. Until the end of the year.'

‘Fair enough,' Baker nodded.

‘And if it doesn't work, go our separate ways.'

‘Can't ask better than that.' He extended his hand and they shook.

‘I don't even know your Christian name,' Markham said.

‘Stephen.' He shot a warning glance. ‘Never Steve. You understand that? I know what you young ones are like. Shorten bloody everything.'

***

The next day Baker showed up on the dot of nine, breathing hard from carrying a coat rack. He placed it inside the door, hung up his battered trilby and old mackintosh, taking the
Daily Express
and a screwdriver from the pocket. Then he picked up the brass sign, polished it lightly with a handkerchief and vanished back down the stairs. When Markham went out at eleven it was fixed to the wall by the entry door, proud and shining.

‘I tell you what, lad, we're going to need another desk in here,' Baker said later in the day. The next morning he brought in a card table, ugly, scarred wood topped with tatty green baize, followed by another trip carrying a folding chair.

‘It's just for the moment,' he said as he set them up. Two days into the partnership and already the office seemed crowded, claustrophobic.

That afternoon they were sitting, listening as gusts of wind blew rain against the window, the drops spattering noisily.