The New Eastgate Swing (19 page)

‘Is that a Walther?' Baker asked.

‘Yes. A PPK.' Like the James Bond character had in the books, but that was just fiction. This was all too real. He'd seen enough of these during his National Service to know where they belonged. Back then, when he was in Germany, everyone who owned a weapon was trying to sell it for a packet of cigarettes or some scraps of food.

Still wearing his gloves, he picked up the weapon carefully. It was small enough to fit comfortably in his hand. This one looked brand new.

Baker looked at the pistol and the blade then started going through the address book.

‘There are only two names in here and I know one of them.'

‘Who?'

‘Gus Howard. I tried to have him up for murder more than once when I was on the force. I know he did them, but no one would talk and there wasn't enough evidence. It doesn't look good. Not if Harker's dealing with him.'

‘Why would Harker need someone like that if he kills people himself?'

‘I don't know. But it worries me.'

‘Who's the other name?'

‘Someone called Trevor Peel.'

‘Clever Trevor?' Markham asked in astonishment. ‘Are you sure?'

‘That's what it says here. Why, do you know him?'

‘It can't be him. Trevor wouldn't hurt anyone. He doesn't have the brawn, never mind the brains.'

‘Maybe it's a different one, then.' Baker stared at him. ‘Who is he?'

‘Just a lad who works at Cokely's.' Even as he said the name of the company he knew it had to be more than coincidence.

‘Cokely's eh?'

‘It looks like we have a couple of visits to make,' Markham said.

Baker picked up the knife and slid it in his pocket.

‘If we're going to see Gus Howard I'm taking this.' His smile was dark. ‘Always did prefer a knife to a gun, anyway. Silent.' He paused. ‘I'd grab that gun if I were you.'

‘I don't like them.'

‘Good. I'd wonder about you if you did. But I'll worry about you less if you pick the bloody thing up. When we run into Harker again it'll even things up.'

Reluctantly, he did, feeling the hard plastic of the grip and the cold metal of the barrel, then slipping it into his overcoat pocket. He felt as if it made a bulge, something everyone would see.

‘Let's go and see Trevor first,' Markham decided. ‘What's his address?'

Baker opened the address book. ‘Kirkstall.'

***

It was in sight of the old abbey. But no one was walking in the grounds around the ruins. The sky was grey, the wind whipping through the tall trees and making the river flow fast in the distance.

They walked up a street of back-to-back houses, the weary remnants of an industrial age.

‘I'll handle this one,' Markham said.

The door must have just been painted that summer, the finish still glossy, the colour bright. He waited and heard footsteps shuffling inside.

The woman wore a scarf around her head and a long tabard apron.

‘Hello, Mrs Peel, I'm looking for Trevor. Is he at home?'

‘No, luv, he's at work.' She looked from Markham to Baker. ‘What are you, coppers?'

‘Nothing like that,' he assured her quickly. ‘Does Trevor still work at Cokely's?'

She leaned against the doorjamb, assessing them as she brought a battered packet of Woodbines from her apron and lit one.

‘That's right.'

‘I met him down at Studio 20.'

The woman shook her head in disgust. ‘Always got that racket going on in his bedroom. Radio Luxembourg. Just noise, if you ask me. You don't look like the type to enjoy that.'

‘I'm not. I like jazz,' Markham told her and she snorted. ‘Do you know when he'll he home?'

‘It'd better be by six or his tea'll be cold. Same for his dad. They know the rules.'

‘Thank you.' Markham began to turn away then stopped. ‘Has he ever mentioned someone called Simon Harker?'

She pursed her lips then shook her head. ‘Doesn't ring a bell. Why?'

‘I'm looking for him, I thought Trevor might be able to help. Never mind.' He smiled and raised his hat in farewell.

‘What's your name?' Mrs Peel asked.

‘Dan Markham,' he replied. ‘Can you ask him to get in touch with me?'

‘Aye, if you like.'

***

‘I'll go back later,' Markham said as he settled behind the steering wheel of the Anglia. ‘Where now?'

‘Off Burley Road.' Baker didn't even need to look at the address book.

It wasn't far, just a little closer to the city centre. More back-to-back houses, more poverty.

‘Up Cardigan Road, then turn on Burley Lodge Road. Might as well park in front of the place. It won't matter to Gus.'

Baker banged hard on the door. No one came to answer it. He bent, lifting the flap of the letterbox.

‘Come on, Gus. I know you're in there. You might as well open up.'

He straightened again, smiling. Half a minute later they heard a lock turn and the door snicked open an inch.

‘What do you want?'

‘A word, Gus.' Baker paused. ‘Two words. Simon Harker.'

‘Piss off.'

It happened quickly. Baker raised a foot and bought the thick sole of his shoe crashing down on the wood. Gus Howard toppled backwards as the door fell open.

‘Nice of him to ask us in like that.'

Howard was still on his back, shaking his head to try and clear it. He was a big man, thickly muscled, the shirt tight across his chest.

The way the knife appeared in Baker's hand seemed like magic. He grabbed the other man's shirt and pulled him to his feet. ‘I've been wanting to do this for a long, long time.'

Markham closed the door. This wasn't his show. He simply stood, one hand in his pocket, holding the pistol, ready.

Baker's face was flushed through with anger as he rammed Howard against a wall, hard enough to shake the house.

‘Harker,' he said again.

‘Don't know him.' The wind had been knocked from the man and the words came out with effort. Baker moved his hand against Howard's neck.

‘I'm not here to play any bloody games.' He brought the knife up and laid the flat of the blade against the man's cheek, the tip close to the corner of his eye.

‘You don't want to do this,' Howard warned.

‘Bit late now, isn't it? I'm doing it.' He waited. ‘Well, are you going to tell me?' His hand clamped tighter on Howard's windpipe. ‘I'll count to three. One … two …'

The man held up a hand. Baker eased his grip, grabbing Howard's hair as he started to topple, then dragged him to the scullery at the end of the hall before pushing him into one of the chairs gathered around a table.

It was a neat, spare room. No washing up waiting to be done, everything tidy and in its place.

‘Harker.' It was an order. The knife glistened in the light through the window.

‘He got in touch two months ago.' Howard rubbed his throat. His voice was a raw, dry rasp. ‘I need some water.'

‘When you're done,' Baker told him coldly. ‘What did he want?'

‘Gave me fifty quid to make myself available.' He shrugged.

‘Available for what?'

‘I didn't ask.'

Baker tightened his grip on Howard's hair, drawing his head back and placing the knife against his throat.

‘I said I'm not messing about, Gus. For what?'

‘Any jobs he needed. Said he'd heard about me.'

‘And what have you done for him?' A single bead of blood trickled slowly down to Howard's collar.

‘Nothing.' There was pleading in his voice. ‘Really. He came back every month and gave me more money. Said the same thing.'

‘What have you done for him?' Baker repeated.

‘Nothing. I told you.' Howard's eyes were open wide. ‘He never asked me to do anything.'

‘There are three people dead so far. Maybe four. You kill people, Gus. It's what you do.'

Another drop of blood made its way along his neck.

‘Honest.'

‘I don't believe you.'

‘I just took his money.'

Baker stared into the man's eyes for a long time. The knife didn't move. Markham stayed silent in the doorway, watching, his hand tense around the butt of the Walther. Finally Baker took the blade away and let go of Howard's hair.

‘If he comes back, you don't answer the door,' he said. ‘If you see him, you turn around and run the other way. You understand me?'

The man nodded. He brought a handkerchief from his trousers and dabbed at the blood.

‘And I wouldn't bother reporting this to the police, Gus. Most of them think that killing you would warrant a medal.'

He walked out, pushing Markham out of the way.

‘Find a pub,' he said when they were in the car. ‘I need to take the taste of him out of my mouth.'

He settled on the Fenton, just down from the university. A table of students enjoyed an afternoon pint instead of their lectures. Markham bought a whisky for Baker and a shandy for himself.

Baker had his pipe lit, the smoke like a cloud around his head. For two minutes they stayed silent.

‘I thought you were going to murder him.'

‘I was tempted, believe you me,' he said. ‘He's got away with it too often. Mostly I wanted him terrified enough to tell me the truth. What did you think? Did you believe him?'

Markham took a sip of his drink.

‘Yes. I did.'

‘So did I.' Baker sighed. ‘Looks like it's all down to this Trevor if we're going to get anywhere.'

‘I'll find him later.'

The students left noisily and the landlord put a towel over the taps, calling, ‘Three o'clock. Time, gentlemen, please.'

Baker downed the Scotch in a single gulp.

‘Howard's had that coming for years.' He shook his head and laughed. ‘Still, better I didn't. The wife would have killed me before they could hang me.'

Outside, Leeds was spread before them, chimneys belching smoke into a sky the colour of worn lead.

‘Harker's probably long gone now,' Markham said. It was what all the field operatives were taught: have a bolthole and don't tell anyone where it is. They'd never find him in the city.

He parked on Albion Place.

‘You go in. I've a few things to do. I'll catch up with Trevor later.'

‘Let's hope you can make him talk.'

He knew; Clever Trevor was all they had if they were going to find Amanda Fox.

***

He didn't have any pressing errands; he simply wanted time to think. He'd seen a different side of Baker and it disturbed him. Right on the edge of violence, so close to going over. And what could he have done to stop it? Nothing.

Did he really want someone like that as a partner? The man had always seemed straightforward enough. This was like opening a door and finding someone familiar but completely unknown.

Markham sat in the flat, a Billie Holiday LP spinning quietly on the record player. If it hadn't been for Baker they'd never have had the missing person case that drew them into this maze.

Harker. Since the confrontation in the ginnel his fears had started to recede. The man couldn't have missed at that range but he hadn't pulled the trigger.

Maybe he was safe. For now, at least.

His mind turned to Amanda Fox.

Every day that passed made it more likely that she was dead. He knew that. But someone had her, and until a body was discovered it was still worth searching. He ground out another cigarette in the ashtray.

They'd find her. They'd find her alive. Then perhaps he'd sit and have a long talk with Stephen Baker.

It was seven o'clock when Markham parked in Kirkstall. Time enough for Trevor to have eaten his tea and be watching television. But his mother just shook her head when she opened the door.

‘He rang down to the corner shop, they have a telephone there. Left a message that he was meeting some of his mates and he'd be home later. I'm sorry, luv, you've had a wasted journey.'

‘It doesn't matter.' He raised his hat.

‘You've got good manners, you do,' she told him approvingly. ‘Your mam brought you up right.'

***

He could guess where Trevor would be. This was a skiffle night at Studio 20. They started early and finished early for the kids still at school or on apprenticeships who had to be up in the morning. Afterwards the jazz players would slide in and keep things going well into the small hours.

Markham waited until eight, walking along New Briggate and smoking, stopping outside the Grand Theatre to read the playbill, before walking down the lino-covered stairs at Studio 20.

There was a crowd. A few had seats, but most were standing. A small space was clear for dancing, couples swinging round. Bob Barclay, the owner, sat in his booth, raising an eyebrow and rubbing his fingers together in a money gesture. Markham grinned.

The music was nothing much. A pair of acoustic guitars, one of the players singing, tea chest bass, and someone rubbing the washboard far too loudly. But the audience ate it up.

He peered through the crowd, looking for Trevor Peel. He was over in a corner with a small group of friends, all of them dressed in black leather jackets and carrying motorcycle helmets.

Markham edged between people who paid him no attention, faces focused on the music, until Trevor noticed him approach. The lad said something to his friends and moved closer, raising an arm in greeting.

‘Hello, Mr Markham.' He was smiling, happy. He nodded at the band. ‘What do you think?'

‘Not quite my taste,' he replied with a shrug. ‘I was looking for you.'

‘Me?' Trevor seemed astonished.

Markham smiled. ‘I thought you might be able to help me.'

Peel looked at him uncertainly. ‘How?'