Carter leaned over and picked up a hammer.
‘This is going to hurt,’ he said with no emotion. ‘But maybe it’ll make you remember. I told you to persuade the Hart woman to sell. I give you a job to do, you do it.’
Swiftly, he brought the hammer down once, twice.
Markham screamed. It was done, all over before he could even move. He was still yelling as they grabbed his collar. Carter stood in front of him and brought up two fingers like a gun barrel against his forehead. Very quietly, staring into Markham’s eyes, he said, ‘Bang.’
They threw him out into the street. The door closed and he was lost in the dark, yelling over and over until his throat felt raw. The pain was intense, the ruined fingers burning and sending flames shooting up his arm. He bent forward and vomited, so weak he thought he might fall.
He managed to steady himself against the wall, cradling the hand, not even daring to look at it. Finally he felt strong enough to try one pace, then another, gritting his teeth and sweating, more stumbling than walking. He stopped, gathering strength before making himself move further. It seemed to take hours until he was back on Dock Street. Every step jolted and hurt. He bit his lip, gathering it all in.
Markham stopped on the bridge, resting his forearm on the parapet. He forced his hand to open. Where his ring and little fingers had been was just blood and tissue, and the sharp, ugly white of bone. They were broken. Useless. He vomited again, leaning over to empty his stomach into the river until there was only the taste of acid left in his mouth.
The pain was worse than anything he’d ever known. He drew in a deep breath and began to move again, urging one foot in front of the other along Briggate. Step by step, each one a little victory. First to Duncan Street, then rest, leaning against the wall, almost in tears. On to Kirkgate. Another break to gather his strength. Eventually he crossed the Headrow. He was soaked, face drenched in sweat, legs as heavy as lead. With his good hand he fumbled for the car keys and sat in the Anglia, head down on the wheel.
He stayed like that, waiting for the nausea to pass as his skin dried under his clothes. Finally he turned the key and put the car into gear, gasping as his fingers touched the lever. It was only a few hundred yards to the Public Dispensary at the top of North Street.
Casualty was a quiet place of green tiles and old cream walls. The nurse took one look at his hand and led him straight through to a cubicle. The doctor bustled in a minute later, no older than himself, pulling on the white coat as he entered and covering a yawn.
‘Christ Almighty, what happened?’ he asked in shock.
‘Someone decided they didn’t like me,’ Markham managed. He tried to smile but his mouth stayed set.
‘Let’s get some anaesthetic in that hand so I can look at it properly.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘It’ll just be a local, no need to knock you out.’
The nurse appeared with a tray. He watched the needle go in and a few minutes later it was numb. The doctor worked for an hour, stitching skin and splinting. He stopped to sigh and clean his glasses, then continued, finishing with a bandage to hold the two fingers tightly together.
‘That’s the best I can do,’ he apologised. ‘With luck you’ll have full usage in time but they’ll never look too good, I’m afraid.’ He paused. ‘What’s that on your head?’ Gently he felt around the knot, the residue of the blow he’d received on the other side of the river. Markham winced under the touch. ‘I’d like to get that X-rayed, just to make sure there’s no concussion,’ the doctor said.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he answered. All he wanted was to go home, to settle into bed and sleep long into Sunday.
The doctor shrugged.
‘It’s your funeral. I can’t make you. I’ll write you a prescription for some painkillers and give you enough to last until the chemist opens on Monday. If you experience any dizziness, I want you back here immediately. That could be a concussion.’
He vanished and returned with a piece of paper and a small bottle of pills.
‘Take two of these once you’re home. Another two every four hours tomorrow.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Go and see your GP, too.’
‘I will.’
‘I mean it, Mr Markham.’ The doctor stared at the hand. ‘That’s a nasty injury; it’s going to need a lot more care to heal well.’
***
He could barely feel anything as he moved to change gear. The eastern sky was starting to brighten. Ten minutes later he climbed the stairs to the flat, weary, angry and needing sleep. He swallowed a couple of the pills with a glass of water, stripped off and sank under the covers.
Part Two
SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER ME
CHAPTER EIGHT
Markham woke with the sun on his face, turned over and blinked at the clock. Ten past two. As he tried to rise he yelled out in pain as his broken fingers pressed against the mattress. He swallowed two more of the tablets with a cup of tea, switched on the immersion heater and studied himself in the mirror.
The lump on his head was tender. But at least his vision was clear and the wound only ached when he touched it. A few days and it would be gone. He gazed at the fingers, useless and bound. They were a different matter. Carter had done his work well. The scars would remind him for the rest of his life.
He bathed, shaved and dressed. At quarter to five he started the car, the sense of anticipation rising in his stomach. Another half hour and Carla would be home. He could already picture her, skin brown from the sun, climbing down lazily from the train, happy to be back. And to see him again.
He parked and walked into the station. It was a cauldron of noise, voices, engines and the stink of coal and smoke all gathered under the glass ceiling, dimming the light. A whistle sounded, followed by the familiar slow chug of a train pulling away.
Markham stood by the entrance to the platform and lit a Craven A. The pills had reduced the agony to a low ache that pulsed through his body. He watched the hands move on the clock, finishing the cigarette and lighting another.
At quarter past the train pulled in, exactly on time, letting out an exhausted sigh of steam as it came to a standstill. His right hand tensed against the barrier. The doors of the compartments opened and people alighted. Not many passengers, even for a Sunday.
Carla was the last, climbing down and pulling a heavy suitcase after her, then reaching back for second and a third and hauling them down with both hands. A porter appeared, expertly sliding everything onto a trolley and following her as she strode down the platform. Markham waved; she spotted him and her face lit up. She moved faster, almost throwing her ticket at the clerk. Then she was in his arms and grinning at him.
‘I missed you, you bastard,’ Carla said, before giving him a long kiss. She stood back, taking his hands, and the smile turned to horror. ‘My God, Dan, what happened?’
‘I’ve been in the wars,’ he answered.
She stroked the bandaged fingers lightly, then the side of his head. He pulled back a little from her touch.
‘Right,’ she told him. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’
He tipped the porter a shilling for arranging the cases in the boot, started the motor and pulled away.
‘Where?’ he asked.
She leaned her head back against the seat and let out a sigh.
‘Can we go to yours? It feels like I’ve been gone forever. I just want to spend some time with you before I go back to my flat.’
He smiled.
He carried one case in his good hand while Carla grunted and cursed the others up the stairs. Spread out, they filled most of the room. He put Monk on the gramophone to welcome her home and she tapped her feet in time with the music as she sorted through the things she’d brought back with her. Her dress lapped around her in shades of red, orange and black, perfect for her colouring and her figure. After a few minutes of digging, clothes, papers and packages strewn all across the floor, she announced, ‘Aha!’ and held up two large bags. ‘For you. Souvenirs
.’
He looked at her warily.
‘What are they? Sticks of rock with Italy all the way through?’
‘Philistine.’ Carla stuck out her tongue. ‘Here.’
He opened the first, bringing out a bottle of red wine, the bottom half covered in woven straw. Chianti Classico, he read from a label with the image of a black rooster.
‘That’s the real thing,’ she told him. ‘Not the muck we get over here. Delicious, too. I thought we could have it when we eat.’
‘I don’t have anything in.’
She gave a wide grin.
‘I’ve taken care of that, too. Look in the other bag.’
He did, and saw dried pasta in a packet. Not spaghetti, but wide noodles and a glass jar holding a dark red liquid, yards of Sellotape wound tightly around the lid to stop it spilling.
‘What is it?’
‘Sauce. I persuaded the cook where I ate on Friday to put some in there for me.’ She grinned, kissed her fingertips and opened her hand, a woman who could charm a bird out of a tree. ‘Perfecto. And all you have to do is heat it. Wait a mo.’ She knelt and rummaged around some more before holding up one more bag. ‘Here. To finish it off.’
‘My hands are full,’ he said.
She drew out a packet of coffee, opening it so the heavy aroma filled the room, then dug down for a small steel pot.
‘For making espresso,’ she explained. ‘After we’ve eaten.’
Markham laughed.
‘Is there anything you haven’t thought of?’
‘Not a thing.’ Her eyes shone.
‘I have plans for after the food.’
Carla ran a tongue teasingly over her mouth.
‘You’d bloody well better have after I’ve been gone so long. Just think of the meal as, what did that Kinsey chap call it? Foreplay.’ She came and kissed him, only their lips touching. She was warm and beautiful, wicked and bright, the skin on her bare arms warm and soft. There was no one in the world he’d rather be with right now.
‘Was it worth all the money and time?’ He knew she’d saved for two years to afford the month in Italy.
There was a whole world in her sigh.
‘Every penny. Oh Dan, it was wonderful. We have to go, you’d love it. The art was bloody marvellous. I think I could have stayed in Florence for a year and still not seen it all. I was sketching like a mad thing. I feel like I’m going to burst with all these ideas. I’d seen pictures of these things in books but until you’re there …’ She shook her head. ‘Go on, start cooking, I’ll tell you whilst we eat.’
The food was as delicious as she’d promised, the sauce light, not sweet, clinging to the pasta, the flavours blending on his tongue.
‘This is glorious,’ he told her. ‘Thank you.’
‘Wind it round your fork,’ she said and demonstrated for him, hand moving deftly as she twisted the fettuccine. ‘Like that.’
It took him a couple of attempts to master it with his right hand, Carla laughing at his clumsiness.
The wine matched the food, a hint of sweetness and an aftertaste that stayed on the tongue. He found an old candle in a drawer and set it in a saucer, turning off the electric light to create the atmosphere. As they ate she chattered about Italy, the memories piling one on top of the other: the scenery, the people, the ridiculously cheap prices. Finally, when they were done and they’d managed to understand how the espresso maker worked, she looked at him.
‘So what happened?’ She stroked the knot on the side of his skull again with her soft fingertips and held up his left hand. ‘Someone’s done you over.’
He hadn’t planned on telling her any of it. But after the wine, having her home and close again, he let it all spill out, from Joanna Hart’s first visit to last night’s beating. She was silent for a long time, smoking her Italian cigarettes, elbows resting on the table, the empty cup and wineglass in front on her.
‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed with a sigh. ‘And it’s going to get worse.’
‘What are you going to do, Dan?’
‘Beat the bastard.’
She was quiet for a long time.
‘This Carter sounds nasty.’
‘He is.’ He held up the fingers as proof. ‘He has connections, too. He knew what brand of American cigarettes I smoked in Germany.’
‘Christ. Look after yourself, Dan.’ She stared into his eyes. ‘Please.’
‘I will,’ he promised and smiled. ‘Now, weren’t we talking about something for after the meal?’
***
He woke in the early light, hearing her soft breathing beside him. Their lovemaking had been rowdy, a need in them both, powerful and loud. She’d straddled him, taking the lead, speeding up then slowing down, making it last until he was bucking under her into a final explosion. He reached out, fingers running lightly down her spine, feeling the small bump of each vertebra as she stirred for a moment.
‘What time is it?’ she mumbled.
He turned to glance at the clock.
‘Six.’
‘God. Wake me in an hour, will you?’
***
She’d never been a morning person. She lingered over tea and toast, telling him more about Italy, little highlights that popped into her head. The statue of Donatello’s Magadalene Penitent in Florence, so raw that it looked as if it could have been sculpted yesterday, the crowds around the Forum in Rome, the light in Naples.
‘What about your luggage?’ he asked as she applied her lipstick.
She turned to him, eyes wide and hopeful. ‘Would you really mind if I left it all here until tonight? I need to see the head of department in an hour about all the students starting next week.’
He surveyed the mess. There were clothes all over the floor, dresses, slacks, underclothes, paths snaking between them. It would take more than an hour for her to re-pack, longer still to transport everything to her flat in Headingley.
‘Of course. You want a lift into town?’
‘You’re a godsend.’
Markham parked and they parted with a kiss. He took time to watch her walk away towards the Art College on Vernon Street, hips swinging, heels clattering against the pavement.
***
He sat in the office, staring at the calendar on the wall without seeing it. His fingers hurt; he’d filled the prescription and taken two more of the pills. All the tiny things he’d always taken for granted became a trial – knotting his tie, tying his shoes, even buttoning his fly.
Carter, he thought. Bloody Carter.
Some memory flickered in his head, words he’d heard his American colleague in Hamburg say one day: the best defence is a good offence. Markham hadn’t understood then. Was he talking about the Russians? But now it made sense. What he needed was a good offence.
He’d brought Carter’s papers from home. Now he spread them out and began to read properly, jotting notes on a stenographer’s pad.
He worked until noon then packed everything away in a folder. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and Detective Sergeant Baker walked in without knocking, sitting hard on the client’s chair and fanning himself with his hat.
‘Off somewhere, Markham?’
‘I was just going to eat. Want to join me?’
‘Your belly can wait,’ Baker decided. ‘What’s happened to your hand?’
‘I had an accident. Broke two fingers.’
The man looked doubtful. ‘Messing about where you shouldn’t?’
‘Just a normal accident.’ Markham shrugged and settled in the chair. Joanna Hart’s lover must have come to nothing as a lead. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Baker?’
‘I still like you for the Hart killing. You fit.’
‘I told you before. I wasn’t there and I didn’t do it.’
‘What if I said I had a witness who says you were there around the time it happened?’
‘Then he’s mistaken or a liar. I’m sure you followed up on what I told you.’
<
br /> Baker nodded. ‘The shopkeeper in Meanwood says someone came in and bought Craven As,’ he acknowledged. ‘But she can’t describe him. Just that he was young.’ He stared. ‘Could be anyone.’
‘Not anyone. Me.’
‘And my witness could be telling the truth about seeing you at Hart Ford after it closed.’
‘Who is he?’
Baker’s smile was as grim as death.
‘You think I’m going to say and give you a chance to nobble him? I wasn’t born yesterday, lad. All I need now is the weapon and they can start preparing the hangman’s noose.’
‘Then you’ll be looking for a long time.’
For a fat man Baker moved quickly. He was up from the chair, leaning across the desk and pulling Markham by the tie until their faces were an inch apart. He could smell the rank sourness of the policeman’s breath.
‘Don’t play the clever bugger with me. Someone’s dead, lad. It’s not a fucking game. I can get a search warrant for this office and that flat of yours like that.’
‘Look all you like. You won’t find a gun because there isn’t one. Help yourself. I tell you what, I’ll even give you the run of the place whilst I’m out.’
The detective let go of the tie and stood up.
‘You’re a cocky little bastard, Markham.’
‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’ He picked up the folder and riffled through it. ‘See? No gun hidden inside. I’m taking this with me.’ Then he opened the top drawer, produced a key and placed it on the desk. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d lock up when you leave and pop this through the letterbox. If you want me I’ll be at Lyons.’
On Albion Place he lit a cigarette and glanced back at the building. He could leave Baker there. The man might loathe enquiry agents, but he was honest. He wasn’t a copper who planted evidence or lied for a conviction.
And the gun was safely in the river. But who was the witness who claimed to have seen him at Hart Ford? Carter’s doing, it had to be. Trying to tighten the screws just a little more. But as soon as Baker dug deeper he’d see it was all lies.
He ordered a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea, reading through more of the papers. He couldn’t find anything illegal, but it told him the extent of Carter’s empire. Clubs, shops, businesses. If he carried on at this rate, in a couple more years he’d be someone with real power in Leeds; too big to dislodge.
Dark Briggate Blues Page 6