The New Eastgate Swing (13 page)

***

‘Did they have you down to Millgarth yesterday?' he asked Baker.

‘Aye, turned up in the middle of my tea.' The big man pursed his lips. ‘Told them they'd have to wait until I'd had my pudding.'

Markham laughed.

‘Did they?'

‘Of course, don't be daft. They're coppers and I used to be one of them. Who talked to you? Was it Anderson?'

‘Yes.'

‘I feel sorry for the poor sod. He's out of his depth and he knows it.' He packed the pipe with shag tobacco.

‘It's his worry now. We can go back to normal.'

‘I liked the touch of excitement.' Baker's eyes twinkled and he smiled. ‘You did, too. I could see it on your face, Dan.'

‘Not really,' he said. ‘I'm just glad the circus is over. Amanda Fox said she'd turn over some of their ordinary cases to us, since they're not in business any more.'

‘Makes you wonder what's ordinary for them.' Baker glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Those spies should be here at ten.'

***

There was only one and he arrived exactly on time. With his bowler hat, overcoat, briefcase and brolly, he looked like the archetypal Whitehall civil servant.

‘William Warner.' He introduced himself with a handshake, voice clipped and precise. ‘Thank you for seeing me.'

He took out a folder and scanned the contents for a few seconds.

‘I gather the local CID has already talked to you about Mr Blum. We had them on the blower last night.' He gave a quick smile. ‘I'll pop over to see them later but I just wanted to go over everything with you again.' A quick smile and a nod and he launched into his questions.

A simple rehash. There was no reason not to tell the truth and lay it all out. Finally Warner came around to the heart of the matter – Mark and Amanda Fox.

‘Do you think Mrs Fox knew what her husband was up to?' He looked from Markham to Baker.

‘No,' Markham answered. ‘Why would she have hired us to check on the men if she did?'

‘Quite.'

‘And she'd have known better than to let Special Branch in.'

‘I heard about that. I rather think we owe Mrs Fox an apology.' He crossed one leg over the other, pulling back on the knee of his pinstripe trousers. ‘You met Mark Fox once, you said?'

‘That's right,' Baker told him. ‘Very briefly in a pub.'

‘Why there, do you think?'

‘It was between here and his office. Made sense. Why?'

He smiled easily.

‘Part of my job is to wonder why. You never know when there's a reason.'

A few more questions and he closed the folder once more. He hadn't made any notes. But Warner had remembered every word. Markham was sure of that. There was a quiet, quick intelligence in his eyes.

‘He's the type you've got to watch out for,' Baker observed when the man had gone. ‘He'll store it all away in his brain and pick up on the slightest thing. Nothing flashy, ordinary as they come, but sharp.'

‘All we did was tell him what we know.' He stood. ‘Come on, we might as well go and get something to eat.'

‘Ten to one he'll be back. They always are, that lot, once they get their hooks in you.' Baker rubbed his stomach. ‘You're right. My belly thinks my throat's been slit.'

***

They'd been back for an hour when the telephone rang. This time he knew the voice immediately.

‘What can I do for you, Amanda?'

‘Those cases I promised you,' she said. She sounded surprisingly cool and controlled, as if the abduction and her terror had never happened. ‘If you're free I could bring them by and discuss them.'

‘Of course.'

‘I'll be there in a few minutes.'

***

Skilful makeup hid the bruises. If he didn't know about them he'd never have guessed. She looked elegant, wearing an expensive jacket and skirt, a wide, soft belt emphasising her slim waist. She placed three files on the blotter in front of him.

‘It's not much but Mark concentrated on … other things.' Amanda Fox kept her gaze on his face. ‘And it's the least I can do after all the trouble.'

‘Thank you.'

‘They're all quite straightforward. I've rung them to say you'll be in touch.' She started to rise from the chair.

‘You saw the police and MI5?'

She settled again and took a cigarette from her handbag.

‘Oh yes.' She blew out a long plume of smoke. ‘I talked to them both. The same questions over and over. Only to be expected, I suppose.'

‘Did they believe you?'

She closed her eyes then opened them again.

‘I hope so.' Her voice was weary. ‘I really hope so. I was telling them the truth. I didn't know what Mark was doing. I still don't have any idea why he did it. It doesn't make sense. I keep going over and over it.'

‘Money?' It was the usual reason; he knew that from his experiences in Germany.

‘He had plenty. I thought he did, anyway.' She sighed. ‘I haven't had time to check yet.'

‘What are you going to do now?' he asked kindly.

‘I don't know. It'll take a few days to close up the office. Then I'll go through the house. That chap from London is there now. I told him to look through everything if he wanted, just to show I've got nothing to hide.'

‘Are you going to stay in Leeds?' He was curious, nothing more. She cocked her head and pushed her lips together.

‘I haven't even thought about it,' she told him emptily. ‘I grew up in the south, but my parents are dead and my brother lives in America. My friends are here – if I have any left now, that is. After all, I'm the wife of a traitor. Sooner or later everyone's going to know.' She ground out the cigarette angrily then shrugged. ‘But I suppose I have more of a life here than anywhere else. There must be jobs, mustn't there? After all, we've never had it so good.' She made a sour face. ‘Sorry, I suppose I'm a little bitter. I'll be fine, don't worry.' She indicated the files. ‘Good luck with those.'

She was gone, only the faintest hint of her perfume left in the air. Did he believe her? Yes, he reflected. If the police or secret service had any doubts about her she wouldn't be walking around Leeds now. It sounded as if her husband had betrayed her even more than his country. How did anyone rebuild a life after that?

Markham glanced through the folders. Two possible frauds and one that seemed to involve a man stealing from his mother, slowly stripping away her savings. As she said, straightforward. He pushed them aside.

Baker had left before Amanda Fox arrived. A few errands to run, gone for the day and goodbye.

He sat alone in the office, smoking and staring out of the window at the November gloom. It looked as if a fog was settling in, just in time for going home. It would be bad. The air might be cleaner these days, with fewer smogs, but it would still be thick and sooty. Policemen on point duty wearing white sleeves over their uniforms to direct traffic, the acrid taste in the mouth. People coughing everywhere.

He could ring the new clients and introduce himself, but that could wait for the morning. Better to get a jump on things and home to Chapel Allerton.

Everyone else seemed to have the same idea. It was stop and go heading out of the city centre. Each minute the fog seemed to thicken. Much more and he'd be able to lower the window on the Anglia and stir it.

The farther he went from the city centre, the wispier it became. By the time he reached the flat, the fog was no more than a suggestion, hints in the air that it would arrive later. It was an evening for listening to Monk, for those odd angles of melody and piano to push their way through it all. A night for staying at home with both bars glowing on the electric fire.

At half past seven he glanced out of the window. About one hundred yards' visibility. By eight he couldn't even make out the signs on the shops across Harrogate Road. Tomorrow morning was going to be a mess.

The sound of the telephone bell startled him. Bad news; it usually was when someone called him at home. Another from the list dead? He lifted the receiver cautiously and gave his number.

‘You shouldn't have.' For a moment he couldn't breathe and his heart beat heavily. ‘But I'm glad you did. That Mose Allison is wonderful.'

‘Hello, Carla.' He felt as if he could barely speak the words. God, this was stupid. He had it bad. And that certainly wasn't good.

‘He really is hip, isn't he?' The enthusiasm brimmed in her voice. ‘That singing just sounds so lazy.'

‘Have you played the Miles record yet?' he asked.

‘I haven't had time, but if it's as good as Mose …'

‘Very different, but yes, it is.'

‘Bloody hell, Dan, new music. Do you know how lovely that is? My students all want skiffle or that horrible New Orleans jazz.' She paused for a moment, suddenly horrified. ‘Oh God, you don't like that stuff, do you?'

‘Can't stand it.' He couldn't help but smile.

‘Oh good.' Carla sounded satisfied. ‘Thank you for meeting me the other night, too. It was good to see you again.'

‘You too.'

There was the smallest hesitation before she spoke again.

‘I'll be coming through Leeds again on Friday. I'm going to see Mummy and Daddy for the weekend. I don't suppose I could persuade you out for a meal, could I? Repay you for the drink and the records.'

‘I'd like that,' he told her, meaning every word.

‘Really?' She seemed surprised. ‘Good. How about six at the station? I'll be the one with a carnation in my buttonhole and carrying a rolled-up copy of
The Times
.'

He chuckled. She'd defused the tension growing inside him.

For the rest of the evening he felt as if he was buzzing. In bed his thoughts slid around as he tried to sleep. All she'd done was add to his problems but he didn't really care.

***

One day. Two. They started work on the clients Amanda Fox had passed on to them. Markham took the frauds. He'd worked on cases like this before. Baker had the woman who was being fleeced by her son. He was old enough and bluff enough that she'd open up to him.

The frauds both lacked imagination. Just two hours in and he'd already found the first of them. Now he only had to follow the trail and discover who was responsible. It would take a little time but he'd get there.

Baker pushed himself out of the chair and folded his copy of the
Express
. He still hadn't replaced the card table with a real desk. As he pulled on the mackintosh he said, ‘You're looking very dapper today. Meeting the girlfriend?'

‘Not tonight.' He was wearing the suit he'd bought at the start of autumn. Pale, subtle grey, a tie shot through with silver thread.

‘You'd better hope she doesn't find out, then.'

‘I'm seeing an old friend who's passing through.' It was true, as far as it went.

Baker raised an eyebrow conspiratorially and smirked.

‘You think she'll believe that, do you, Dan? Let me give you a tip. Nobody puts on his Sunday best just to meet an old friend. You're playing with fire. Better make sure that Georgina doesn't see you.'

‘It's all innocent.'

‘Aye, and United will win the league this year. I'll see you on Monday unless a woman kills you first.'

He sat, idly massaging the two useless fingers on his left hand as if they might regain some life. He thought about what Baker had said.

It
was
all innocent, he told himself. What they'd once had was history even if he had hoped for more. Carla was too sensible for anything else.

***

But he was still waiting eagerly at the end of the platform when the train pulled in with a thick whoosh of steam and the tired screech of brakes. The station was dirty, sweet wrappers and empty cigarette packets blowing across the floor. The thick smell of smoke filled the air but he hardly noticed, watching the people as they alighted.

She was carrying a suitcase, wearing a three-quarter-length coat in bright royal blue, her eyes seeking him out then smiling as she spotted him. A peck on the cheek and the smell of her scent on his skin. He reached for the case.

‘I'll take that, if you like.'

‘It's light,' she told him, keeping a firm grip on it. ‘Do you know where I'd like to eat? Donmar. For old times' sake.'

It had been their place when they were going out. Where they'd had their last meal together and he'd watched her walk out of his life.

‘Of course.' He'd tried going back there, alone and with others. But it had never been the same.

There was idle chatter as they walked through town. Carla gazed around, picking out all the changes. The remnants of the fog still clung and people passed with wet, bronchitic coughs. As they opened the door the restaurant felt like an oasis of warmth and light in the gloom.

‘It hasn't changed a bit,' she said as they were seated. The same posters on the wall, the same music playing. Even the tablecloths had the bright gingham pattern he remembered.

‘Have you been back to Italy?' That final summer she'd gone for a few weeks, in search of history and inspiration for her own art.

‘Haven't had the chance.' She sipped a glass of Chianti and lit a cigarette. ‘Between students and painting I've been too busy. And the money, of course.'

‘You're making a name for yourself.'

‘Don't believe everything you read,' she warned.

He was surprised. As they ate the conversation flowed freely and easily. She'd taken off the coat to show a blouse in the bright summer colours she loved. The ones that always seemed so out of place in drab, grey Leeds.

The food tasted better than he remembered, plenty of flavour in the sauce, the spaghetti not too limp. He asked Carla about her work, about Durham. Her questions stayed carefully neutral – business, the way Leeds had altered since she left. Finally, over coffee he made himself ask the question that had been eating at him since they'd sat in the Scarborough Taps last Sunday.