The New Eastgate Swing (25 page)

‘After I've had a word with him myself.' Mrs Peel straightened her back. ‘Whatever's going on, I want to get to the bottom of it.'

No you don't, Markham thought, but he kept his mouth closed.

***

Back to the office, stirring at the slightest noise on the stairs and willing the phone to ring.

Nothing.

Eventually Baker returned.

‘Well?' he asked.

‘He didn't turn up.'

‘That doesn't sound too good.'

‘I went to his house, his mother doesn't know anything. Where were you, anyway?'

‘This and that. I followed you down to the market and back.'

Markham was startled.

‘Why?'

‘In case Harker was setting a trap,' Baker said flatly.

‘Any sign?'

‘Not a dicky bird. I did some checking on that Mike Grant afterwards. You're right; the police don't know him at all.' He grinned. ‘They'll be keeping an eye on him now, though.'

‘Not until I've heard from him, I hope.'

‘If he sets a foot wrong they'll be all over him. You did a good service there.' He looked at his watch. ‘I'd better get going. We're due at the brother-in-law's tonight.' He rolled his eyes. ‘It's their anniversary.'

***

By five there was still no word from Peel. And nothing they could do. Markham had no idea where to start looking. With a sigh he put on his overcoat and hat. As he took the office keys from his pocket the telephone bell shrilled and he lunged for it.

‘Hello?'

‘I talked to our mutual friend.' It was Grant, curt and to the point.

‘What did he say?'

‘He said he'll see you when he's good and ready.' Markham felt a chill move down his spine.

‘Anything else?'

There was the sound of a match being struck and someone inhaling.

‘He said you should have a look off the Otley Road. Not far from the crematorium. There's a radio mast. Take a hunt around.'

‘Why?' he asked. ‘What–'

But Grant had gone.

By the War Room bunker. That had to mean something. It wasn't a spot chosen at random.

He tried ringing Baker: no one answered.

Markham saw his reflection in the window. Outside it was pitch dark. If he went there alone he'd just be blundering around, not even knowing what he was looking for. He'd have to wait until tomorrow. They'd go out there then. In the light.

And Trevor? Maybe he'd go home tonight and save his mother all that pain, he thought. But inside Markham knew that wasn't about to happen.

***

By nine he knew he wasn't going to settle easily. There was only one answer: Studio 20. But it was still quiet there, someone doodling on the piano as a bassist attempted to play along.

Bob Barclay sat in his booth, adding up columns of figures as he worked on the books.

‘If you're hoping for magic you're probably out of luck tonight, Dan,' he said wryly. ‘I'll tell you what, though, we've sold quite a few tickets for Georgina's show. It might be a winner.'

‘I hope it is. She deserves it.'

‘Shame you two are on the outs. That lass you were with the other night, she looked vaguely familiar.'

‘An old friend.'

Barclay nodded. He wasn't likely to ask more.

Ten o'clock passed and the music didn't improve. Probably some others would drift in later but he was too restless to stay. As he climbed the stairs to the cold of New Briggate, Markham wrapped his hand around the pistol in his overcoat pocket.

But no one was waiting to take him by surprise. The drive home was uneventful, no one around on the November streets. He was still cautious as he parked. The bruises might have faded but the memory was strong.

In the flat he rang Baker again. Still no one there. He put on a Nat King Cole album. It was light, a confection that was more pop music than jazz. But the voice was like silk, and when the man decided to play, his piano work had a delicate, easy beauty.

By eleven he'd had enough. The locks were secure on the door and he was ready for bed. Yet Trevor Peel kept gnawing at his mind, the guilt chewing at him.

What he needed was sleep, he thought. He stirred from the chair and the telephone bell filled the silence.

‘Hello?' he answered tentatively, feeling his heart beating faster as he heard the coins drop in the slot.

‘I'm not ringing too late, am I, Dan?' It was Carla, and her voice calmed his fears.

‘Not at all.'

‘I just wanted to hear your voice, that's all,' she said softly. ‘Rather silly, isn't it?'

‘I'm glad you did.' He lit a cigarette, ready to settle into the conversation.

‘It's only quick, I don't have much change. But I miss you.'

He looked around, imagining he could see her shadow disappearing into the bedroom.

‘You'll be living down here soon.'

‘I know … why don't you come up this weekend?'

‘I'd enjoy that. It all depends on if this case is done, though.'

‘Of course,' Carla answered quickly. ‘If you can, though … bugger, the pips are going.'

‘If I can, I will,' he promised before the empty dial tone took over.

***

Baker drove, guiding the Wolseley out through Headingley while Markham stared out of the window.

‘Out by the radio mast, he said?'

‘That's right.'

‘The War Room's been empty for a year or two now. They'll probably knock it down soon.'

‘It could be a wild goose chase.'

‘Maybe.' He yawned. ‘I didn't get home while almost one last night. Bloody Terry likes nattering on and on.'

‘What did you do with Amanda?'

‘As far as I know she never even came out of the spare room.'

‘Is she any calmer?'

‘Just the same as when you saw her. The wife's keeping a close eye on her.' He shrugged inside his mackintosh. ‘I don't know. Maybe it's what she needs.'

‘While Harker's around, at least.'

Beyond Leeds Modern School and the ring road he slowed, searching for the spot, and turned on to a small paved road.

‘It's back in here,' Baker said. ‘Do you have the gun?'

Markham pulled it from his pocket.

‘Right here.'

The War Room was ugly concrete, hidden from the road by a stand of trees and surrounded by a wire fence. They walked around until they discovered a place where it had been cut. Off in the distance, tyres hummed softly along Otley Road. Back here, though, everything was quiet, only the cawing of crows as they moved from branch to branch or swooped down on something in the nearby field.

Thick steel doors, heavy air vents set deep in the walls. If the Russians had dropped the atomic bomb, all of Yorkshire would have been run from here, he thought. From this tiny place, no more than thirty feet by thirty. Christ.

And now there was the threat of nuclear war always hanging like a sword. Somewhere another, better place had been built to withstand things and try to keep things functioning. Why? What would even be left?

‘Over here,' Baker called.

Out of sight, in a scrubby patch of gorse that had grown up behind the building. A motorbike, on its side, abandoned, half-hidden. Petrol had leaked from the tank and into the dirt.

‘Doesn't your friend Peel ride a bike?'

‘Yes.' He didn't know what make, but this was a Norton, the familiar line of the name painted on the fuel tank. It could have been Trevor's; he'd have come along Otley Road on his way home from Cokely's. But it definitely wasn't the same machine they'd seen outside Harker's house; that had been an old BSA M20 motorcycle. ‘This must be what Harker wanted us to find. He has Trevor.'

‘Or he could have just nicked a bike somewhere and be pulling a fast one on us.'

‘You don't believe that any more than I do,' Markham told him. ‘Check the number plate with your police mates.'

‘I will once we're back in town.' Baker eyed the building. ‘We should have a look inside.'

‘Why?'

‘If he's really taken Peel, this would be a good place to keep him. Safe enough.'

‘Can you get in?' Markham asked doubtfully. ‘It looks secure.'

‘I'll try. Can you get the torches from the car?'

By the time he returned, the thick metal door was a few inches open. Markham flicked on the beam and entered.

It was a dark, claustrophobic world of cramped rooms. Inside, everything had been stripped, just leaving a shell. Here and there the concrete had begun to crumble, leaving chips and powder on the floor. The air was old and thick, the stench of years gathered inside.

They played the lights around, moving slowly from doorway to doorway. Finally, in a small space by the far wall they saw a camp bed, a blanket tossed on the top. Baker crouched and began to search around it as Markham explored more of the place.

There was nothing else in there. Empty of everything. He made his way back to Baker, following the flashes of light through the doorways.

‘Anything?' he asked.

‘Someone was here recently.' He lifted up a newspaper. ‘Yesterday's edition. Can't tell who it was, though. Could have been your friend or it could have been Harker.' He thought for a second. ‘It would be a good place to hide out. No one would think of looking here. Could have been his bolthole.'

‘If it was, he has another one now.'

Even the pale November light seemed bright after the War Room. He blinked a few times. Another dead end. And they still had no idea where to find Peel or Harker.

‘Is this Mr Markham?' A woman's voice, speaking loudly, as if she wasn't used to the phone. He'd heard the coins fall; she was calling from a telephone box.

‘It is.'

‘This is Mrs Peel, luv.'

‘Has Trevor come home?' he asked, hopes rising.

‘No. Not even a message.' She was trying to press down the fear; he could hear it under her words. ‘Have you found him?' It came out like an accusation.

‘Not yet.'

‘I'm going to the police,' she told him firmly. ‘This isn't like him.'

‘It's probably the best idea,' Markham agreed. ‘They can do more than me.'

‘All right.' She seemed surprised, taken aback at his honesty.

‘And I hope he shows up very soon.' He daren't tell her what he believed.

‘So do I, luv,' Mrs Peel said bleakly. ‘I didn't sleep a wink last night. I just hope to God nowt's happened to him.'

***

‘What now?' Markham asked.

‘I'm thinking.' Baker had rung a friend on the force and given the number plate of the motorbike. It belonged to Trevor Peel. ‘Fair to say that Harker has him.'

‘Yes.' He thought about the lad's mother and what she must be going through. ‘But how do we find him?'

‘I don't know, Dan,' Baker said quietly. ‘I don't bloody know. Harker's the one calling the shots on this. I'd keep that gun close, though. I've feeling we're going to need it before all this is over.'

***

Markham sat upstairs at the Kardomah, taking his time over a cup of coffee and looking blankly down at Briggate.

Nothing. They had absolutely nothing. No way to find Harker. Nowhere to even begin.

The man was in charge; they were trotting along behind and hoping.

He'd ground out the cigarette when a movement below caught his eye. Hurriedly, constantly glancing out of the window, he counted out change before dashing out of the cafe.

The figure was about seventy yards ahead, strolling and taking his time, as if he didn't have a care in the world, carrying a small brown-paper parcel under his arm. Markham stayed back, just close enough to keep him in view, exactly the way he'd been taught in the service. He ducked his head, taking off the hat and crushing it into his pocket. A quick change of appearance in case the man was watching in shop windows.

There were plenty of pedestrians around. And up ahead, in the middle of the throng, was Simon Harker, moving carelessly along Briggate towards the Headrow. Across from the Odeon he turned, heading down the hill. Markham hurried up to the corner, holding his breath that the man was still in sight.

Harker was walking faster now, weaving through the people, and there were fewer of them around. If he tried to keep up, he'd stand out. Markham quickened his pace a hair, not too much, straining his neck to keep his quarry in sight.

At Vicar Lane Harker had to wait for the traffic lights to change, gazing around. Markham stayed behind a knot of women out shopping together. He took out the hat and placed it back on his head. Anything that might mean the man didn't spot him.

Then Harker crossed Eastgate through a gap in the traffic and disappeared down the steps by the Gas Board showroom. Markham waited for an opening and darted across the road. At the bottom of the stairs he paused. They were a short cut through to Lady Lane and the West Yorkshire bus station.

He counted to five then pushed his head around the corner of the building. Harker was already far down the street. No other pedestrians; he daren't follow. All Markham could do was watch as the man turned left on to Bridge Street, then try to cover the distance to the corner rapidly and quietly.

Harker had vanished.

It couldn't have taken more than twenty seconds. But he was nowhere in sight. Bridge Street stretched out ahead. There were buildings, other roads that ran off it. He must have taken one of those.

Cautiously, Markham walked, his hand around the butt of the Walther in his pocket. Harker could have spotted him and be waiting, ready to pounce. He walked two hundred yards, through the tunnel under the bridge, engines roaring above him, glancing up the side streets as he passed, then coming back again to Lady Lane.

Nothing.

So bloody close and he'd come away empty-handed. As he stood and lit a cigarette he could feel his heart pounding, all the fire roaring through his body.