The New Eastgate Swing (29 page)

‘That's right,' Baker told him coldly. ‘I win.'

‘And what will you do with your victory?'

‘I'm going to get me laddo there to casualty and make sure we leave the police a puzzle they'll never solve.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘I'm certain of it. I used to be one of them. But I'm sure your file told you that.'

‘Of course.' Harker dipped his head in acknowledgement.

‘And did it say what I did during the war?'

‘Soldier?' the man guessed.

‘Commando.' He glanced across at Markham. ‘See if you can stand, Dan. I'll be done with this one very soon.'

Markham crawled to the wall, gasping from the pain. His hands touched the brick. Inch by inch, so slowly it seemed impossible, he pushed himself up. It hurt. Fuck, it hurt. Finally he was standing, panting, sweating hard, leaning back, closing his eyes against the dizziness.

‘Just stay there.'

Markham nodded. He heard Baker's voice but he didn't open his eyes. Simply leaning against the bricks was all he could manage.

‘You'll be my executioner?' Harker asked.

‘You started that when you killed Dieter de Vries,' Baker told him. ‘Vreiten or whoever he was.'

‘He committed suicide. Wasn't that what they said?'

‘So you're clever. It doesn't make you less of a killer.'

‘And does murdering me bring justice?' Harker asked.

‘For that poor bugger you're sitting next to, yes it does.'

‘Then you'd better do your job, commando.'

Markham didn't want to see. All he heard was a sound like a quiet sigh. Then Baker was there, taking his arm and putting it around his neck to support him.

‘Don't worry, we'll have you out of here in no time.'

He could feel the man reaching around and removing one of the guns.

‘Just hang on to me,' Baker ordered. ‘I've got your weapon.' He took out a handkerchief and wiped the pistol before dropping it back on the floor. Then the same with the one Harker had dropped. ‘Right. Two guns, both with the prints gone. That should confuse everyone. Now, try to limp. Let me take the weight, all right?'

They moved slowly. Markham hung on to the bigger man, hopping each pace and letting the wounded leg drag. Step after step. Baker had the torch in one hand, lighting their way.

‘You killed him.'

‘Of course I did. Don't be daft.' He spoke through clenched teeth. Caught in deep shadow, his face looked determined. ‘I told you I always preferred a knife.'

‘What happened to you?'

‘I was coming back when I saw you go in. I thought if I went in the other way we'd have a better chance of catching him. I was lucky, the door to the tunnel's round the back of the office building. No one saw me. Then I waited.'

They crossed the culvert then the opening of the tunnel leading to Bridge Street.

‘Not long now,' Baker said. ‘You're not too bad. A few more minutes and we'll have you in casualty.'

Each step seemed harder. Markham wanted to stop, to rest and catch his breath, but he knew the other man wouldn't let him. He wasn't even going to ask. Baker was older, large, out of shape. Yet he was the one doing the work, concentrating, forcing them on and taking the strain.

How long had they been moving? It could have been three minutes, it could have been twenty. The only thing he could think of was the next step, moving one more pace. His leg hurt. Every time it caught on something he wanted to scream, forcing himself to stifle it.

Finally they reached the ladder.

He looked up. Only a few feet but it seemed like a mountain. How was he going to climb that?

‘I'll go first,' Baker said. ‘Use your arms and your good leg. Pull yourself up, just one rung at a time. I'll be waiting at the top to haul you over.'

He was gone, taking the torch with him. For a minute Markham was in darkness, resting his hands on the cold metal.

‘Start climbing.' The order came down to him and Baker moved the beam so he could see.

It was like being back at school, on the bars or the rope in the gym. Letting the shoulders do the work, dragging himself higher. One leg hanging free, the other resting on a rung to balance him.

Even before he was halfway up, his muscles ached. He started to raise his head, to glance up to the top.

‘Don't,' Baker shouted. ‘Keep facing straight ahead. You're doing well, Come on, Dan, you can make it. Slow and steady.'

Higher up and he needed to stop, to keep resting and give his muscles time before he moved on. Breathing, telling himself he could do it. One more, than another. A short break. He was soaked with sweat from the heavy effort, the shirt sticking to his skin.

‘Only five more, Dan. Almost there now.'

One. Two. Stop for a few seconds to catch his breath. Three. Four. Then a pair of strong hands was gripping him tightly around the wrists and pulling him up and over the top of the ladder. Keeping hold of him when he simply wanted to collapse.

‘Just a few more yards now and then it'll be fresh air.' He lit up the doorway with the beam. ‘See? Almost there.'

By the time they came close he had no strength left. He was simply hanging on and letting Baker drag him. The door swung back and the grey November daylight flooded on to his face. The cold air was a shock, taking his breath away for a moment.

‘Are you all right?'

He answered with a nod, fumbling for a cigarette, then his lighter. He could scarcely keep his hand still enough to light it. Baker was wiping the door handles, getting rid of their fingerprints, leaving the door slightly ajar.

‘Stay here a minute. Enjoy your smoke.'

‘Where are you going?'

‘Wipe our prints off the ladder. So no one can ever show we've been here.'

Markham looked down at his trousers. The right leg had a dark stain that ran down to his calf.

As he inhaled, the smoke left him dizzy. It hadn't done that since he was fourteen. Three minutes and Baker returned.

‘You wait here. I'll bring the Wolseley down.'

***

The bright lights in the Public Dispensary didn't allow any rest. He was lying on a trolley in a curtained-off cubicle, waiting to see the doctor.

‘What should I tell them?' he'd asked as Baker drove to North Street and parked in the small, weeded space next to the building.

‘Say you cut it on some scrap metal. And you got that graze on your face when you fell. Give them a false name,' he added.

‘No one's going to believe a story like that.'

‘They will, especially if you stick to it. Trust me on that. People believe what they want.'

‘What about …?'

There was no doubt what he meant.

‘In a few minutes the police are going to receive an anonymous call from a telephone box,' Baker told him. ‘A man will tell them about the metal door on Bridge Street and say he thought he heard shots from inside. That'll bring them running.' He kept his hands tight on the steering wheel.

‘They'll come and ask us questions.'

‘Let them.' He turned his head. ‘We don't know a damned thing about it. And we'll keep saying that.'

‘And my leg?' Markham asked. ‘They're not stupid.'

‘They won't be able to prove it.' He kept his gaze steady. ‘You hurt yourself on some sheet metal. Understand?'

Markham held his stare for a moment.

‘Yes,' he answered finally.

‘At least this way they'll find Trevor Peel.'

‘He didn't deserve what happened.'

‘He was in it, Dan. He made his choice in the first place, remember that. I've known a lot of people who didn't deserve what happened to them.' He shook his head slowly. ‘That's life. Go on, get yourself in there and seen to. I'll be out here when you're done.'

Markham didn't move.

‘What Harker said about Amanda Fox. Did you believe him?'

‘I don't know,' Baker sighed. ‘I hope he was lying. After I call 999 I'll ring the wife and make sure she's still there.'

***

That had been half an hour before. He kept glancing at his watch, seeing the time pass slowly. Finally a nurse appeared, cutting his trousers with a pair of scissors.

‘My my, what have you done to yourself?' she asked as she peeled the fabric away.

‘Scrap metal,' Markham replied. ‘I slipped and it sliced me open.'

Just like Baker said, she didn't even question the fact, simply took a ball of cotton wool and poured iodine on to it.

‘This is going to sting but it'll clean everything up for doctor.' Another quick, professional smile. He half-expected her to tell him to be brave.

Another five minutes and the man bustled in, white coat flapping around his body. He looked younger than Markham, with a fresh, baby face behind a pair of NHS glasses. He poked painfully at the wound, nodding to himself and saying nothing.

‘No real damage,' he announced finally. ‘You were lucky, Mr …' He smiled and glanced at the chart. ‘Wilson. It missed the artery and the muscle. I'll stitch you up. It'll take a week or two to heal properly, but you'll be fine. There'll be a scar, but nothing too bad.'

‘Thank you,' he said stupidly.

An injection to numb his leg, then he lay back, not wanting to watch the man work with his needle and thread. Another jab for tetanus.

‘I'll give you some painkillers to last a day or two. Go to your GP in a week and have him take out the stiches and give you a follow-up on the tetanus,' the doctor told him mechanically.

They lent him a walking stick and he hobbled out on to North Street, trousers flapping wildly where they'd been cut. Baker's Wolseley was in the car park, the engine running.

Awkwardly, Markham climbed in.

‘Did they fix you up?' he asked as he pulled out into traffic.

‘No real damage.'

‘You'll be running the hundred yards in no time.' He was heading away from town.

‘Where are we going?'

‘Alwoodley. Your Mrs Fox decided she was ready to go out for a walk this morning and never came back.'

‘So Harker was right.'

‘It looks that way. She's probably flown the nest but …' He shrugged. ‘My fault. Last night I told her we were close to nabbing him.'

The car rushed along King Lane, all the way to the house.

The doors were locked. A few seconds with the picks and they were inside. The place felt empty, as if the life had been sucked out of it. In the bedroom clothes were tossed on the bed, the jewellery gone. Amanda Fox had made her run.

‘What time did she leave your house?' Markham asked. He'd hobbled slowly around the place.

‘About nine, Nancy said.'

He looked at his watch. It was after four. Plenty of time. She could be on a ferry to the Continent by now.

They drove back slowly.

‘I believed her,' Markham said bleakly. As they searched he'd gone back over his conversations with her, to see if there was any clue he'd missed. Not a thing.

‘You're not the only one. She had me convinced, too. And our Nancy. Played us all for fools. Had herself in the perfect place to know what we were doing and what was going on.' He slammed his palm against the dash. ‘Bloody woman. She'd have had us dead without a care.'

‘She was smarter than us.'

‘Aye, she was,' Baker agreed. ‘I wonder why she didn't run before, though. It's not as if she didn't have a chance.'

‘Staying with you she knew what we were up to,' Markham said. ‘How close we were getting. If we hadn't been able to find Harker it would probably have been safe for her to stay in England. Maybe she'd have headed up a new operation or something, I don't know.'

‘Perhaps. She was good, I'll give her that. Took guts to hang on that long. But it doesn't make me feel less of a bloody idiot.' He drove in silence for a little while. ‘Do you want me to drop you at home?'

‘If you don't mind.' He didn't think he'd be able to drive for a few days.

‘I wonder why Harker went back to the tunnel.'

‘Maybe she didn't have the chance to tell him we were close. He did say he was expendable.' Or perhaps it was for the photograph of the young woman he'd hidden in his bedding.

‘Maybe.' Baker grunted. ‘Too late to worry now.' He parked behind the flats. ‘They'll be out to see us tomorrow.'

‘I'll be at home.'

‘Just stick to the story. We know sod all about it.'

‘I will.'

The stairs took effort, using the stick and balancing himself against the wall. Finally he was inside, home. Safe. It was all over.

Markham picked up the phone and asked for a number. It took a while until he was connected. He hung on, letting it ring. Even after someone answered, they still had to go and find her.

‘Hello?' As soon as he heard Carla's voice he began to smile.

‘I don't suppose you fancy Leeds this weekend, do you?'

‘Why, Dan? Has something happened?' An edge of fear in her voice.

‘Nothing too bad. I'm a bit banged up. I don't think I can drive up there, though. I've hurt my leg.'

‘Yes,' she said quickly. ‘Of course.'

‘It's nothing too bad, honestly. I'll give you the full story when you're here. But it's over. Really over.'

‘Good,' Carla said warily.

‘It is,' he promised. ‘I'm sorry, though, you'll have to take the bus from the station.'

She laughed.

‘How do you think I usually get around, Dan?'

They talked for a few more minutes. By the time he put down the receiver he felt pleasantly warm, the ache gone from his body for a while.

He crumpled the old army trousers and threw them in the bin. Not even fit for rags now.

An evening of Thelonious Monk on the record player. Awkward, beautifully disjointed melodies to match his thoughts. The painkillers left him floating, but they couldn't block out the images of Trevor Peel. Or the memory of Harker.