The New Eastgate Swing (16 page)

***

He felt numb. They were deep in this. Someone had tried to kill him. Might even have succeeded except for luck. All because of a missing person case.

Walking along Briggate, people veered away from him with horrified looks, but he scarcely noticed. The pavement was busy but he had a clear path all the way to Boots. Georgina was behind the counter closest to the door, by the cash register. Her mouth opened wide as she spotted him and saw what had become of his face. She finished serving a customer, had a word with the girl next to her and hurried over.

‘My God, Dan, what happened to you?' she whispered. She had fear and concern in her eyes, reaching out and stroking his cheek lightly.

‘I lost an argument.' He tried to keep his tone light. ‘It looks worse than it really is.'

A white lie. A big one. Her eyes examined his face.

‘I hope that's true.'

‘Would you mind if we didn't do anything tonight? I don't really want to go out looking like this.'

‘No, that's fine,' she agreed quickly. Then she made a decision. ‘I tell you what, why don't I come over after I finish here? I can take the bus. Just to talk. I'll pick up some fish and chips from Nash's.'

***

At home he checked the locks and bolted the door. The man wouldn't be back, he told himself. If he said it often enough he might convince himself. Knowing it in his head was one thing. Feeling it in his heart was another. He'd stay very wary and alert. At least this time he wasn't in it alone. That was one tiny crumb of comfort, for all it was worth.

Baker was right about that, Markham thought as he settled in the tub. Hot water and bath salts relaxed his muscles. He let himself soak until he began to feel a chill, dried and dressed in his American blue jeans and a heavy jumper and tried to relax with the book.

At first it confused him. It was unlike anything he'd ever read, a rush of words that seemed to careen around the page. After a little while he began to understand it. The freedom of the road, the freedom of America. It carried him along in the cars and the changing landscapes.

She was right, it was jazz. Not just the thoughts that came to the narrator at the club in Chicago, but the energy and the wild improvisation. It was bebop on a page, something he'd never imagined before. There was music behind it.

By the time he looked up it was dark outside, too dark to really read. He'd been so caught up in it that he'd lost track of time and let all the bad things slip out of his mind. A welcome relief. Half past four and only the street lamps through the window to bring some light into the flat

He put on some Monk, the only music that could fit after the wild ride of words, and tried to come back to Leeds.

The man looking back at him from the mirror had flesh swollen around his left eye, scrapes on the skin, bruises that were still growing. It would take time for someone familiar to reappear.

Markham held up his two useless fingers, the permanent reminder of what had happened three years earlier. This was heading in the same desperate direction. He'd had angry husbands throw punches at him in divorce cases before, but few of them had ever connected.

Fighting back was a start, he realised. But it would only be over if they won.

And they didn't even really know who the enemy was. All he'd seen was a pair of dark eyes.

Did he have Amanda Fox hidden away somewhere in Leeds? Or perhaps she was already dead, her body hidden somewhere.

He could stare into the mirror as long as he liked. It wasn't going to tell him the things he needed to know.

***

Georgina left the packet wrapped in newspaper in the kitchen as she held him close, arms wrapped around him. He squeezed her gently then pulled away, putting the food on plates as she buttered slices of bread and filled the kettle.

‘You took quite a beating,' she told him as they ate. Outside the window a procession of headlights passed along Harrogate Road as people made their way home, the working week over. ‘Who did it?'

‘I don't know,' he answered and it was perfectly true.

‘But why?' She looked confused. ‘Was he robbing you?'

‘No. It's to do with a case.' He wasn't going to tell her more than that.

Georgina drew in a breath.

‘Bloody hell, Dan. What are you involved with?'

‘It's messy. Soon be over, though.' Better to leave it at that and change the topic. ‘Are you ready for your gig at Studio 20?' Just over three weeks now.

‘I'm scared.' She gave a small laugh. ‘The people there are going to know their jazz. It's not like a club where everyone's drinking and eating.'

‘You'll be fine. You're good.'

‘Maybe,' she allowed, then looked at him under her eyelashes. ‘Dan …'

‘What?'

‘After work last Friday I popped over to the Grand Theatre.'

‘Did you see anything good?'

She took a breath and continued.

‘I went past that restaurant. Donmar.' Suddenly a pit seemed to open up in his stomach as she stared into his face. ‘You know what I'm going to say, don't you?'

He'd been there with Carla.

This was the conversation they needed to have.

‘I was with a friend. An old girlfriend. She was passing through Leeds.'

‘You just happened to run into her, then one of you suggested a meal?'

‘She rang me.'

‘I see.' She stood, clearing away the empty plates, then pouring another cup of tea from the pot before lighting a cigarette. A very ordinary, domestic scene.

‘So?' she asked finally. It was a question that asked everything in a single word.

‘I knew her back in '54,' he began. ‘We were very close for a while, then she moved away. I never heard from her again until she rang a couple of weeks ago. She was on her way home and her train was delayed here.' Georgina was watching him intently. ‘We had a drink, and that was it. Then last Friday.'

‘When she just happened to be passing through again?'

‘Yes.'

She snorted disbelievingly.

‘It was all innocent,' he said.

‘No, Dan,' she told him. ‘That's something it definitely wasn't.' Before he could speak, she continued, ‘It's hardly innocent when you have a meal with an old girlfriend and don't tell the one you're supposed to be going out with now.'

‘I–'

‘You never said a word about it, did you?' She was angry, but her voice was low and quiet, carefully controlled. ‘Not a single bloody word, like it's some secret you have to keep.'

‘I didn't sleep with her,' he said.

‘Oh God, that's not the bloody point! I know we're not engaged or it's anything special, but I thought neither of us would go out with anyone else. That's what really hurt me. I kept waiting for you to say something.'

‘I didn't know how.'

‘Of course you did.' Georgina slammed her hand down on the table, making the cups jump. ‘All you had to do was come out and say it. For Christ's sake, Dan, we're adults.'

He stayed silent. There was nothing he could give her as an answer. Everything she said was right.

‘I saw your eyes when you were talking to her. We're never going to have anything like that, are we?' She waited a moment. ‘You're never going to look at me that way, are you?'

‘I didn't even know until I heard from her again.'

She stood and paced around the room.

‘When were you going to say something? Next week? Christmas? Next year?' He hung his head, silent. ‘Don't I deserve something better than that, Dan?' she asked quietly.

‘Yes,' he admitted.

Georgina reached for her coat, buttoning it tight around herself. ‘I'm going to walk out of here with my head held high. If I see you somewhere, I'll be polite enough. But do me one favour.'

‘What's that?'

‘Please don't ever come and see me play again. Especially at Studio 20.'

She didn't slam the door. The lock clicked quietly behind her and he was alone again, feeling guilty.

‘By God, you still look rough'

‘You would too if someone had tried to kill you.' Markham said curtly as he hung up the overcoat. Outside, a chilly drizzle was falling. The aches weren't too bad. Movement was slightly easier. His face still looked like something from a horror film, but it would heal.

He'd spent a sleepless night. It didn't matter what he
knew
, the fear had coursed through him, all the images of what might happen. The sense of panic and helplessness had kept him awake. At least the feelings had receded in the daylight.

Georgina had simply been the icing on the cake. Yes, he'd been thoughtless, a bit of a bastard for not saying anything. But at least it was resolved now. Over.

‘Will you be able to manage tonight?' Baker asked.

‘Yes,' he answered. ‘What time?'

‘I thought about half past nine. We'll look like people going home from the pub. I'll come and pick you up.'

‘That sounds fine.'

‘Do you want some advice?'

‘What?' he asked sharply.

‘Just keep on moving and try not to dwell on it. It's one time when thinking doesn't help.'

Markham nodded. ‘I'm going to crack on and finish this fraud.'

Another hour going through the papers, trying to concentrate, finding one more connection. Then off to the factory, never mind the ugly bruises on his face, checking the wing mirror every few seconds as he drove. People gave him sideways glances. Good, he thought. He wasn't in the mood for chit-chat.

By early afternoon it was all over. A full confession. No begging for any sort of mercy this time. The embezzlement had funded a gambling habit. Markham waited until the police arrived, taking the thief off in handcuffs. On the way home he deposited the cheque in the bank. Alert every single moment.

The alarm woke him at nine. At least he'd been able to sleep. The bedroom looked down on the graveyard. Markham stared out of the window into the darkness as he smoked a cigarette, then dressed. His old army trousers, a snug fit now, the wool scratchy against his skin, but right for this job. Dark shirt and sweater, hiking boots. With a black windcheater he'd be ready.

At half past he was waiting, sheltering from the wind, cupping a cigarette in his palm, the glow of the tip hidden, the way he'd learned when he was still at school. He'd come out with the knife in his hand, checking everywhere to make sure his assailant wasn't waiting to surprise him. When the Wolseley glided over the gravel, he trotted out of the shadows and climbed into the passenger seat.

‘How are you going to do this?' Markham asked as they sped out along Otley Road.

‘Carefully.' Baker's voice was tight and cautious. ‘Did you bring gloves?'

‘In my pocket.'

‘Torch?'

‘Yes, with new batteries.'

‘I went out earlier this evening for a recce. There's only one watchman and he doesn't seem too enthusiastic about his rounds. Keep it quiet and we should be fine.' He paused. ‘Don't worry, no one's following us. We're safe.'

There wasn't much more to say. It wasn't the time for small talk, just to prepare. If they were caught … he wasn't going to think about that. He lit another cigarette.

Baker turned down a track between two fields, just far enough along to be out of sight of the road. He turned off the headlamps and they were lost in the night.

‘Follow this track and we'll come out on the other side of the shadow factory.' He was whispering; noise carried in the darkness. ‘Try not to use your torch.'

They moved slowly. Baker took the lead, Markham just a pace behind. Through a small copse with the strong smell of leaf mould. A sliver of moon appeared for a moment, long enough to make out the building two hundred yards away. It was huge, larger than he remembered, dwarfing everything around.

The last fifty yards were bare ground illuminated by floodlights.

‘There's a way to get through without being seen,' Baker whispered in his ear. ‘See down there to the left? One of those lights has burned out. Go down that way. Close to the factory there's enough shadow to hide us.'

Moving in a crouch, running through the empty space with his heart in his mouth, it was like being back in the training he'd had at Catterick Camp. The only difference being that there was no sergeant screaming at him.

By the time he reached the building he was gasping for breath and his heart was pounding. He waited for Baker. The only sound was the deep thrum of a generator from somewhere inside.

Then Baker was there. He'd moved in silence. Markham could feel breath against his ear and two quiet words: ‘Follow me.'

Baker knew what he was doing. He seemed to go on instinct, to disappear as he moved, almost impossible to spot. His footsteps hardly seemed to disturb the ground. Finally he halted.

‘There's a door a few yards along. We'll go in there. Give it ten minutes. If the watchman's coming, he should have passed by then.'

‘What the hell did you do in the war?'

‘Didn't I ever tell you? I was in Number 4 Commando. Now keep your head down and stay shtum.'

The seconds seemed to stretch out endlessly. Markham could feel the sweat rolling down his back and his hands were clammy.

Finally there was a nudge in his ribs and a hand gesture. They crept to the door and Baker handed him a torch.

‘Keep that shining on the door whilst I open it.'

The lens was taped so only a pinprick of light showed. He focused the beam on the lock. A few movements and he could hear the tiny click as it freed. The handle turned and he held his breath, praying there was no alarm.

Just silence and they slipped inside. Baker closed the door behind them.

‘We can breathe a bit easier now,' he said. He sounded relaxed, almost happy. ‘The watchman won't come inside.'