The New Eastgate Swing (2 page)

‘I'll get a proper desk soon,' Baker promised. ‘So we look professional.'

‘God only knows where we'll make room for it,' Markham told him. ‘We're already on top of each other.'

‘Get rid of some of those filing cabinets. I had a shufti. They're mostly empty.'

‘If you like. And if you can find someone to haul a desk up here.'

Baker smiled and just rubbed the fingers of one hand together.

‘A little bit of that is all it'll take. I'll go looking later. We don't have anything on, do we?'

‘No. I have to be in court at three, but that's all.' A few minutes of short simple testimony in a divorce case. Markham has discovered the man in a hotel bed with another woman. It had all been set up in advance, of course. A prostitute earning a few easy quid without even having to part her legs.

The telephone rang and he answered with the number, then listened for a moment.

‘They want to talk to you,' he told Baker in surprise as he passed over the receiver. It was a short conversation. The man listened, asked a question or two, then finished by saying, ‘Why don't you send her over? And thank you, George. I owe you a pint the next time I see you.' He replaced the handset and rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, it looks like we have our first case, Dan. A missing person.'

***

The woman looked dowdy. That was the only word for it. A grey wool coat that reached to mid-calf, the fur collar ratty and worn. Brogues on her feet, the laces double-knotted, and small, sensible heels. Greying hair in a tight set under a small black hat. No colour at all about her.

She smelt of old powder and Parma violets, eyes blinking behind her glasses. There was no wedding ring. A spinster whose young man had never returned from the Great War, Markham suspected. One of a generation left on the shelf with not enough bachelors to go around. She certainly looked the right age for it.

‘How can we help you, Miss …?'

‘Harding,' she replied. A careful, educated accent. ‘At the police station they told me you might be able to assist me.' She looked from one of them to the other. ‘It's my lodger. He hasn't come home for three days now. That's not like him.'

Markham gave Baker the smallest hint of a nod. Let him take over, he'd probably dealt with cases like this before.

‘What's his name, miss?'

‘Dieter. Dieter de Vries.'

‘De Vries?' Baker asked. ‘Foreign, is he?'

‘Dutch,' she said. ‘He's been with me for two years. Very reliable.' She sniffed and pulled a small handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘If he's going somewhere, he always lets me know.' She raised her head. ‘That's why I'm worried about him. But the police said that there's not much they can do yet, and they suggested I talk to you.'

‘We can look into it,' Baker told her soothingly. Markham sat back to watch. He'd never had a chance to see this side of the man before, the one that gently teased information from someone. And he did it well.

In less than five minutes he learned that de Vries had arrived in Leeds a little before Christmas 1955 from Holland. An engineer, he had a solid job with a company in Holbeck. Kept himself to himself, rarely went out in the evenings. Every few months he'd spend a weekend away, then a week each summer when he went back to Holland to see his family. Very quiet and respectful. Never played the wireless too loud and paid his rent on time every week. Miss Harding cooked his breakfast and tea and he took his dinner at work, she said.

‘How did he come to you?' Baker asked when she'd finished. ‘Did someone recommend him?'

‘I had an advertisement at the newsagent's,' she replied primly. ‘But of course I asked for references.'

‘Do you remember who vouched for him?'

‘I do.' She opened her handbag, brought out two pieces of paper and passed them across the card table. Baker read them quickly.

‘His employer and another Dutch gentleman, by the look of it?'

‘That's correct. Normally I wouldn't take the chance on someone foreign–' she seemed to sniff again as she pronounced the word ‘–but he had everything in order.'

‘Do you have a photograph of him?'

‘No,' she answered in surprise. ‘Why would I? He's a lodger, not a friend.'

‘Could you describe him, please?' Markham asked. A picture would have been much simpler.

‘I suppose so.' Miss Harding closed her eyes for a moment. ‘He's about five feet nine inches tall, and I'd say he probably weighs thirteen stone. His face is rather round, brown eyes with heavy bags under them.' She rubbed her own face to illustrate what she meant. ‘Pale lips, quite full. And he's bald. The only hair he has is on the sides and back of his head. There are some small scars on his face. He told me they were from the war.'

‘What would he have been wearing when he went missing?' Baker had been taking notes.

‘A suit, white shirt, and tie, I suppose. Black shoes, well-polished. He was very careful of that, cleaned his shoes every evening.'

‘Have you taken a look in his room at all?'

The woman looked horrified.

‘Of course not. That's his.'

‘It might help us to have a look in there,' Baker said gently. ‘There might be some indication as to where he's gone, or why.' He smiled at her. ‘If you want us to look for him then we need to be able to do our job properly.'

‘I suppose so,' she agreed after a little hesitation. ‘If you feel it's necessary.'

‘It would be helpful. Why don't you go home and I'll come around a bit later and see what I can find.'

She nodded quickly, comforted by what he said. Baker was old enough for her to take seriously. He looked confident, as if he'd covered this ground before. And he probably had.

‘Is there something I need to do to employ you?' she asked.

‘Just pay us a retaining fee,' Markham told her with an easy smile.

She delved in her handbag and came out with two crisp five-pound notes.

‘I trust this is enough.'

‘Of course. More than enough.' He wrote out a receipt. She read and folded it methodically before putting it away. She seemed to be the type of woman who kept a lifetime of paper.

‘We'll need to know where you live, too,' Baker said. Miss Harding gave her address, a respectable street in Headingley, and they heard her solid footsteps going down the stairs.

‘Well, lad, what do you make of that?'

Markham shrugged.

‘More your territory than mine.'

‘True enough,' Baker agreed. ‘Odds are he's met someone and gone off for a randy few days. That's usually the way it goes. He'll turn up when he's had enough. But I'll stop by on my way home and have a look-see. You never know.'

‘You're probably right.' He wasn't giving it much thought, sorting through a folder, pulling out the items he'd need for the divorce hearing later.

‘I might take a wander over to Holbeck and have a word at that company he works for. They should be able to tell me something.'

‘If they'll talk to you. Remember, you're not on the force now.'

‘Don't you worry,' Baker told him. ‘They'll talk to me.'

***

He was in and out of court in under half an hour. Called to the stand he said his piece, identified the photographs and the husband, then walked back to the office on Albion Place, cutting down Lands Lane by the afternoon bustle of Schofield's department store. The air smelt fresher, less of the thick, endless smog that used to always choke autumn and winter. It looked as if the new Clean Air Act was doing some good.

When he opened the door, Baker was pacing around, his heavy face set, the pipe clamped in his jaw.

‘Something wrong?' Markham asked.

‘You could say that.' He stopped and tapped the bowl out into an ashtray. ‘I went down to Mortimer's. You know, where de Vries works.'

‘Well?'

‘They looked at me like I was stark raving mad. No one called Dieter de Vries has ever been employed there.'

‘What?' Markham said in disbelief. ‘You're pulling my leg.'

‘I wish I bloody well was.'

‘Then there has to be a mistake.'

‘I was in their personnel department. They should know who works there, and there's not a trace of any Dieter de Vries. Not now, not in the past.' He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets.

‘Maybe Miss Harding had the wrong place.'

‘Did she strike you as the type to make mistakes like that?'

No, he had to admit it. She was exact. Thorough, scrupulous.

‘We'd better go and take a look.' He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I can't take too long, though. I'm meeting someone at six.'

‘One of your fancy women?' Baker snorted.

‘The only one I have.'

He'd promised to take her out. Nothing special. Something to eat, then down to Studio 20, the jazz club in Leeds. There was a rumour that George Melly might be performing. The man was a bit too traditional for his taste, but he always put on a good, entertaining show. And Georgina was eager to go and perhaps pick up a few tips by watching a real professional at work.

He'd met her one empty Friday evening. Restless, unable to settle, he'd gone to a party. As soon as he arrived it felt like a bad idea. The house was full of people who were too bright, too loud, as if they could will themselves into having a good time.

He sat in the front room, letting the conversations and flirtations ebb and flow around him. A baby grand piano sat by the window. But the only music was skiffle and pop from a record player in the other room. Another ten minutes and he'd go, he decided.

When someone called out, ‘George. Come on, give us a song,' he groaned inside and stood by the door to leave without a fuss. The woman who settled on the piano stool and lifted the lid looked uneasy, reluctant, taking a sip of gin and putting the glass down before running her hands over the keys. Then she closed her eyes for a moment and started to play.

At first he couldn't pick out a tune, listening through the haze of voices. But the room quietened as she continued and he understood that she was lulling them, drawing in their attention. The melody began to take shape in the chords of the left hand as the right improvised like George Shearing, hinting and nudging here and there before finally settling so that faces began to smile as they recognised it. ‘A Foggy Day In London Town.' The woman opened her mouth, her singing low and languorous, as if it was emerging from a distant dream.

She had something. Not a Billie or a Sarah. But there was a velvet sensuality in her tone, hinting at intimacy and soft memories. Then she let her hands take over again, pushing down on the sustain pedal to let chords hang and fade until it all drifted off into the distance.

The applause was polite. People returned to their talk. She took another drink, looking around and blinking, emerging from somewhere else. As she stood he walked over.

‘You're very good,' he told her. She didn't blush, just looked him in the eye.

‘It's what I do. At night, anyway.'

‘You play well, too. A lot of Shearing in there.'

That made her smile.

‘I'm Georgina Taylor.' She extended a thin, pale arm.

‘Dan Markham,' he said as they shook.

‘And I only sound like Shearing because I'm not good enough to be Monk or Tatum.' She spoke the words like a challenge: did he know what he was talking about or was it all bluff?

‘No one else can ever sound like Thelonious,' he answered. ‘And Tatum …' He shook his head. ‘You'd need two more hands. Are you a professional?'

The woman looked embarrassed.

‘Trying,' she admitted. ‘I do nightclubs when I can. It's hard to get a gig. Working behind the counter at Boots pays the bills. For now, anyway,' she added with determination.

He tried to imagine her in the nylon overall, selling medicines and make-up, but he couldn't reconcile it with the woman he'd just heard performing.

‘How about you?' she asked. ‘What do you do?'

‘I'm an enquiry agent,' he said and her eyes widened.

***

The next night they met for a meal and wandered through town to Studio 20. As they walked she told him a little about herself, short sentences with long pauses. She'd grown up in Malton, married young, a couple of years after the war. The decree nisi had come through in July. Leeds had been a fresh start, a chance for her to do more with her music.

‘I've never been here before,' she admitted as they went down the stairs to the club. ‘I don't know anyone who really likes jazz.'

‘You do now.'

The place was packed, hardly room to stand among the young men and women. In the corner a quintet was playing. Three guitars, bass, and a ragged washboard offering rhythm. Skiffle. Markham glanced at Bob Barclay, the club's owner, sitting in his booth. He gave an eloquent shrug.

‘The Vipers,' he said. ‘They're up from London, had a big hit. Brings in the money. You can see for yourself, Dan. I've never had the place so full. Still, it lets me put on other things. There's not the market for jazz there was a few years back.'

Disappointed, they left. She tucked her arm through his.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Hardly your fault.' She tried to smile, but it was a weak effort. ‘It's the same all over. Everyone wants pop music now.'

He saw her again on Wednesday and the following weekend. Soon she was spending some nights at his flat, or he'd stay over in her bedsit in Hyde Park. Six months later and they were still meeting up a couple of times a week. Going out, his mother would have said. Nothing too serious; more than friends but never likely to end up engaged.

Whenever she performed Markham would be there, sitting in the corner of a club with endless cups of coffee, applauding every song. She had talent, but Leeds wasn't a place where it could ever have the chance to flower.