The New Eastgate Swing (12 page)

‘What else? A quiet word about Mark Fox.' He shrugged. ‘Par for the course. They'll have someone here in the morning.'

‘We don't have much to tell them.'

Baker lit his pipe. The whole ritual of it was a way of taking time to think, Markham realised.

‘Of course, you know where all this began, don't you?' he said finally. ‘When that Miss Harding came and asked us to look for her missing lodger.'

‘De Vries. Vreiten. And it was your pals in the police who sent her here.'

‘That's right,' he admitted. ‘And he went missing because he was dead. Then another of them died in a car crash. Ask yourself something, Dan: if those two hadn't died, would any of this have come out?'

‘Sooner or later.'

‘Maybe,' Baker said quietly. ‘But it would have been a lot later.' He grimaced. ‘Still, it did come out. And we'd already decided they weren't coincidences. You remember?'

‘Of course,' he answered. ‘And probably not suicide and an accident, either.' It was over. They'd been paid. Nothing to do with them any more. ‘So what?'

‘Think about it, who could have killed them?'

‘Our side or theirs,' Markham said after some thought. ‘Who else could it be?'

‘Exactly.' He used the pipe stem as a pointer. ‘And if it's ours then the spies should know all about it already. True?'

‘Yes. So what are you saying?'

‘Why did Special Branch nab Mrs Fox?'

‘I don't know,' he admitted.

‘The spies probably didn't tell them anything.' He snorted. ‘But if our side didn't kill those blokes, think about who did.'

‘Are you honestly trying to say there's a Russian assassin in Leeds?' Markham asked.

Baker raised his eyebrows. ‘Why not? It's possible.'

‘Then we're definitely better off out of it. Tomorrow we'll tell them all we know and let them get on with it.' He massaged his useless fingers. ‘It's none of our business now.'

‘Would you trust them? You were one of them.'

‘A long time ago, and at a very low level,' Markham told him.

‘Would you trust them?' Baker repeated.

‘As far as I can throw them.'

‘Well, then.'

‘Well what?'

‘Seems to me that we should do what we can,' Baker said.

‘No,' Markham said and slapped his palm down on the desk. ‘This isn't our bloody fight. I keep telling you that. Let them all kill each other if that's what they want.' If they became involved in this they'd be so far out of their depth that they'd drown.

‘I don't see how we can avoid it.'

‘We can and we will.' He could feel anger rising inside. ‘There's nothing happening. I'm going to take the rest of the day off.'

‘You're the boss.' Baker smiled.

‘That's right,' he said. ‘I am.'

***

At first he headed to Boots, hoping to see Georgina for a few minutes. But why? They'd already arranged to meet that evening and his mind was still reeling after Carla's visit.

Instead he wandered around Leeds market. The strong smells of the meat and fish aisles, plenty of fresh vegetables. The second-hand bookstall with its perfume of slightly mouldy paper. A press of women walked around, wrapped in their heavy coats against the November cold, holding their raffia and string bags tightly as they did their shopping.

On Briggate he walked to and fro, looking down into the basement at Woolworth's, then window shopped at the displays in Marks & Spencer and Matthias Robinson.

Stop at the Kardomah for a cup of coffee? He considered it for a moment then returned to Albion Place, unlocked the Anglia and drove home. Chapel Allerton was quiet, just a few housewives moving from shop to shop – Perkin's the baker to the butcher and up to Preston's the grocer.

In the flat he took off his suit, changing into an old pair of trousers and a shirt. The bedroom still smelt of Amanda Fox. The shirt she'd worn was tossed on the bed.

While the tea mashed he put on the Art Tatum and Ben Webster LP. The last thing the pianist recorded before he died. The sound filled the flat, the tenor sax calming him immediately with its lush sensuality. By the time the needle rose at the end of the side he felt better about everything.

Smoke rose from his cigarette in a gentle stream. He stood by the window, staring down at Harrogate Road but not really seeing it. Just letting the world pass by. Finally he stubbed out the butt in the ashtray and went into the bedroom.

Rest. That was what he needed. He'd barely slept during the night.

***

Markham surfaced to the sound of banging, not sure where it was coming from as he opened his eyes. Blinking, he glanced at his wristwatch. Five minutes to four. Almost like night outside.

The noise continued, steady and growing louder. The door. Someone was knocking at his door. He struggled up, body still feeling heavy and moving slowly, dragging on shirt and trousers.

‘Hold your bloody horses,' he shouted.

Dressed, pushing his fingers through his hair, he turned the lock. There was a man in a trilby, cheap suit, and worn mackintosh, a thin Clark Gable moustache over his upper lip. Next to him a copper in uniform, the point of his helmet almost touching the ceiling.

‘Are you Daniel Markham?' the man in plain clothes asked. He was short, probably the bare minimum for a policeman, with an aggressive, bantam expression on his face.

‘Yes. Why?'

‘I'm Detective Sergeant Anderson, sir. I'd like you to accompany me down to the police station if you'd be so good.' Everything very polite, but the tone brooked no objection.

‘Why?' he asked in confusion. ‘What's happened?'

‘We have reason to believe you might be able to help us in our enquiries.'

‘What enquiries?' He put a hand against the jamb. ‘If you want me to help you, I want to know with what.'

Anderson glared at him. ‘Do you know a man called Morten Blum?'

Markham felt the pit of his stomach sink.

‘I know who he is. I've never met him. We were hired to check on him – my partner and I. Why? What's happened?'

‘He's dead, sir, and under very suspicious circumstances. If you'd like to get your coat, we can be on our way.'

‘Yes, of course.' He slipped on a sports jacket, the overcoat on top, and gloves, then turned out the light and locked the door before following them down the stairs.

Christ, what was going on?

The smell of disinfectant in the back of the unmarked black Humber Hawk couldn't quite mask the acid stench of vomit. Markham rolled the window down a little; better to be cold than wanting to gag. The leather of the seat was brittle and uncomfortable, scratching against him.

The uniformed bobby drove, Anderson sitting next to him. No conversation, nothing. Just a quiet drive down into town, parking at the back of Millgarth, across the street from the bus station.

In the interview room they brought him a mug of dark, sweet tea and left him with a silent constable at the door. Ten minutes became half an hour. Finally Detective Sergeant Anderson bustled in, accompanied by a younger man in a dark suit, a V-neck jumper over his shirt and tie.

No apology for keeping him waiting.

‘This is Detective Constable Naylor. We're going to ask you some questions about Morten Blum.'

‘That's fine,' Markham said. He settled back on the chair and crossed his arms. ‘Before you start, though, what happened to him?'

Anderson paused, looking as though he was unsure whether to answer, then said, ‘He was the victim of a driver who hit him and didn't stop. He was dead by the time the ambulance arrived.'

‘I see.' Easy enough to prove he wasn't responsible; they only needed to look at his motor car. ‘So why do you want to talk to me?'

‘His landlady told us you and Mr Baker had searched his room the other day.'

‘That's right.'

‘Why did you do it?'

‘He was one name on a list we'd been asked to check. There were five of them in all.' He waited a moment. ‘Blum's the third one to die.' Anderson's head came up sharply and Markham smiled. ‘Haven't you talked to Mr Baker yet?' He paused for a second to give emphasis to his words. ‘Ex-Detective Sergeant Baker?'

‘Not yet. Perhaps you'd better tell me what's going on here.'

He laid it out simply and concisely. Naylor wrote everything in his notebook.

‘You've never seen Blum or talked to him?'

‘No.'

‘And you say you found evidence that this Blum, or whoever he really is, might be a Russian spy?'

‘It looks that way. Especially as Mark Fox – the man who brought him over – has defected. You should talk to his wife. She can tell you how Special Branch abducted and hit her.'

Anderson winced and ran a hand through his hair. It was short, sandy, and Brylcreemed to his scalp.

‘You've got to understand, this whole story sounds rather unbelievable.'

‘Try being inside it,' Markham said wryly and lit another cigarette. Naylor waved the smoke away from his face.

‘I took a quick glance at your vehicle,' Anderson said. ‘I didn't see any damage.'

‘That's because there isn't any.' He was tired, he wanted to be rid of the whole business of Germans and spies and death. ‘I don't see why you had to bring me down here to talk.'

‘Maybe because murder is very serious, Mr Markham.' His voice was sombre. ‘And make no mistake, Morten Blum was murdered.'

‘I wish I could help you.' With one more from the list dead, there was something very dark going on. And what he wanted was to stay far away from it.

‘We'll talk to Mr Baker and Mrs …'

‘Fox,' Naylor said.

‘Yes.'

‘You might want to ring her first. Otherwise she'll think men from the Branch have come back.'

Anderson ran his tongue inside his cheeks then gave a quick nod.

‘One other thing,' Markham continued. ‘Someone from MI5 or whoever is going to be here tomorrow. He'll want to talk to everyone, too. Even more so in the light of this.'

‘I see.' The detective didn't look happy at the information. He understood that from the next morning he'd be playing second fiddle in any investigation.

Markham glanced at his watch. Almost six. Just enough time to go and meet Georgina outside Lewis's on the hour.

‘Is there anything else?' He picked up his hat and stood.

‘You're free to go. We might need to speak to you again.'

***

The wind had dropped as he walked along the Headrow. He waited in the doorway of the department store, hands in his pockets, a cigarette burning in his mouth, lost in his thoughts.

Another one gone. His mind drifted back to the conversation with Baker during the morning. Who was murdering these men? And why now?

‘You're miles away.'

He turned, seeing Georgina smile at him. She was lovely, talented, a good, sweet person. Yet Carla simply had to reappear, to stroll through the edge of his life again, and he was chasing after her.

‘Just work,' Markham said and kissed her cheek. ‘Where do you want to eat?'

‘I really fancy the Red Lion out in Stanningley,' she told him. They'd gone there during the summer and enjoyed the food.

‘Not tonight. I don't have the car.'

‘Has it broken down?'

‘No, nothing like that,' he replied. Then he had to quickly explain how the police had come, and why, seeing the expression of concern grow on her face.

‘How dangerous is all this?' Georgina asked.

‘Not a bit. Not for us, anyway,' he assured her. Time to change the subject. ‘You'll have to pick somewhere in town.'

In the end they settled on Youngman's. Fish and chips. It was a large restaurant, almost cavernous, and already busy with the evening trade, couples and families hunched over their tables as the waitresses scurried to and fro.

Haddock and good, crisp potatoes. Bread and butter. A large pot of tea. He remembered before the war when a meal like this was a treat. Once a month if they were lucky. And always at home, never going out to eat. He'd be sent down to buy it, carrying the food home, the wonderful smell of it wrapped in newspaper, his hands growing warmer yard by yard until he was running. The time he dropped the package, terrified that the food would spill all over the pavement.

‘Dan,' she said after they'd finished, the taste of vinegar in his mouth.

‘What?'

‘Would you mind very much if I just went home after this? Only it's been a sod of a day.'

‘Of course not,' he answered softly, trying not to show the feeling of relief. ‘It's fine.'

***

He waited with her for the number 56, then walked back to New Briggate, standing outside the newsagent for the number 2 to take him home to Chapel Allerton. Across the street someone opened the door of Studio 20 and for a minute the sound of trad. jazz drifted on the air. Dixieland. Perhaps it was just as well that Georgina had pulled the plug on the evening; they'd have been back out of there in a minute. That was just noise to him, not the music he loved.

Markham climbed to the top deck and sat at the front, digging out change to pay the conductress when she appeared. So used to driving, this was a different experience, looking down on the streets as they passed with time to savour the view. Through Sheepscar, up Chapeltown Road. Ample time to smoke a cigarette and take in the night. And to try not to think about another death.

The flat was cold. He made tea and put on some Duke Ellington. A big warm sound to fill the place. By the time he was brushing his teeth he was glad the police had come calling earlier.

Everything was official now. The coppers were looking into Blum's killing and they'd examine the other deaths again. The spies were involved. There was nothing at all for a pair of enquiry agents. Thank God. They could go back to divorce and frauds. There might not be any glamour to that but it paid the bills.