Dark Briggate Blues

by Chris Nickson

  If Carter’s plan had worked, Markham would be in Armley jail now, on remand and waiting to be tried. Prima facie evidence; a five-year sentence. No question about it.

  Carter was worried. Now Markham needed to make things bite.

  He smoked his way through two cigarettes without finding an answer. It was almost noon. By now Freddie Hart would be in the ground, friends and family getting drunk in his memory.

  On the way to the post with his tax return he stopped at the secretarial agency. As he opened the door the staccato clack of typewriter keys hit him like a loud wave. Miss Jacobs sat at her own desk, facing the others like a teacher in front of the class, busy with her own work. He smiled sheepishly as she silently handed over the envelope she’d kept for him. It was still sealed. He thrust it into the pocket of his mac, thanked her and left.

  It went through the slot in the post box, two envelopes, one to the Inland Revenue, the other with no name or address. It would sit in the unclaimed room for years before being destroyed. A British bureaucracy was the best place to make anything vanish. He’d learnt that after he was conscripted.

  ***

  At five, just as he was taking the raincoat from its hook, the phone rang.

  ‘The bloody bastard came to the funeral!’ she shouted down the line.

  ‘Mrs Hart …’ he began.

  ‘He was there at the back of the church and in the cemetery.’ She sounded drunk, her words slurred and bitter.

  ‘Carter?’ he asked. The question was pointless; it couldn’t be anyone else.

  ‘Bastard,’ she repeated as the fire seemed to drain from her voice.

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘Just his commis–,’ her tongue stumbled over the word. ‘Commiserations. He said he’d be in touch tomorrow.’

  ‘Then don’t worry about it until tomorrow. Where are you now?’

  ‘Mummy and Daddy’s.’

  ‘You stay there and sleep it off,’ he advised.

  ‘Can’t. People still here. Got to go and grieve for them.’

  ‘When will you be back in Leeds?’

  ‘In the morning. I need to start sorting out the house. Bloody thing’s mortgaged to the hilt.’

  ‘I’ll come by in the afternoon. We can talk more then.’

  ‘What if he rings before that?’ A note of panic rose in her voice.

  ‘Then put him off.’

  ***

  With her husband in the ground she’d abandoned her widow’s black clothes. Joanna Hart answered the door wearing a bright floral dress, catching the last gasp of summer. Her hair was up in a chignon, face heavily made up to hide the lines, all the weariness and the puffiness of her hangover. Another five years and she’d look old.

  The dining table was piled high with papers, roughly sorted into piles. She flopped into a chair and reached over to a small table for a glass filled with a clear liquid.

  ‘Did he call?’ Markham asked.

  ‘A little after luncheon.’ She shook her head. ‘Bloody man.’ She nodded at the shamble of documents. ‘There’s no choice. I’m going to have to sell the business very soon. Freddie left me with nothing. This house has to go, too.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her.

  ‘Oh, don’t.’ She waved his words away. ‘I’ll get by, I suppose.’ She lit a cigarette and blew out a thick trail of smoke.

  ‘Did Carter make you another offer?’

  ‘For what it was worth.’ She grimaced. ‘I told him I expected better.’

  ‘What about your friend?’

  ‘Will? I asked him after the funeral. I told him what I needed.’ Joanna Hart shook her head. ‘He said it was a bit rich for his blood.’

  ‘So Carter has the only bid.’

  ‘I need more, though.’ She tapped ash off the cigarette. ‘Freddie hadn’t paid his bloody taxes and they want their pound of flesh. You know what they’re like; they’re not going to wait. If I don’t pay them soon they’ll close the business. Then I won’t have a damned thing to sell.’

  ‘And you’ve had no other offers at all?’ It seemed strange. This was the age of the motor car, pronounced by the newspapers. They seemed to bring new models out every month. People had money to spend.

  ‘None,’ she said. ‘Help me. Make him offer more.’

  ‘I can’t force him to do anything,’ he told her.

  ‘He wants to meet me tomorrow.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In town. Jacomelli’s at half past twelve. He’s booked a private room. I told him you’d be with me.’ She looked at him, her eyes pleading. ‘You will, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He wouldn’t miss the chance to see David Carter again.

  ***

  Long before that, though, he had a date. Bob Barclay from Studio 20 had rung him during the afternoon, full of enthusiasm.

  ‘You have to come down tonight, Dan. I’ve got someone special.’

  ‘Who?’ he asked.

  ‘A lad called Tubby Hayes. I know, it’s a daft name. But he’s already been with Kenny Baker and Jack Parnell’s bands and he’s not even twenty yet. One of the best tenor players you’ll ever hear, honest to God. I’m trying to drum up a good crowd.’

  ‘What time will he be on?’

  ‘Midnight or so.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Markham promised.

  He’d rung Carla at college, persuading her to come along with him. He’d conceded a meal out. She was the one to suggest going to Donmar again.

  ‘Are you sure you want to?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Guides’ honour. No scenes. We’ll have a long, lazy supper then listen to this chap you say is so wonderful.’

  She’d been as good as her word, enjoying the meal and the wine, a Chianti that tasted like a weak imitation of the one she’d brought back from Italy. They finished the coffee by eleven, a glass of grappa to wash it all down, the last customers in the restaurant.

  ‘There’s still time before the music starts,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy a game of snooker?’

  ‘I suppose we can,’ she said guardedly. She’d told him once that she often played with her students in the Union. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  He led her down the Headrow and into the dark gap between buildings called Bramley’s Yard. Next door, the Vine was already closed, the drinkers turfed out into the night. He climbed a set of rusted iron steps bolted to a building at the back of the court. A small bulb illuminated a sign over the door – ‘W. Smith and G. Nelson Billiard Hall’. Everyone called it Nelly’s. He entered a room where men crouched and concentrated over four billiard tables, lights shining down on the bright green baize. Balls clacked and sped around.

  ‘Good God, I never even knew this place existed,’ Carla whispered in wonder. She was the only woman in the place but no one even gave her a glance. Nelly’s was where the serious players came. Money changed hands quietly in private games, often large amounts. A small crowd had gathered to watch two men in shirtsleeves and braces playing. Brylcreemed hair shone. A fug of smoke hung in the air. The tension was palpable, the atmosphere was as reverent as a church, no more than small mutters of pleasure and praise as one of the players made a difficult shot to pot one of the balls.

  The game ended, the two men shaking hands, and the tension broke.

  ‘This is fantastic.’ Carla spoke softly in his ear. ‘Are you sure we can play here?’

  ‘If we can get a table.’

  In the end midnight had come and gone when they walked into Studio 20. Carla had beaten him in two straight games. Her arm was curled around his. But as he settled and lost himself in the music he forgot about her. Hayes was everything Barclay had promised, exploring his way through a tune and taking off on flights of fancy that spiralled up and up before gliding back to earth. He was still young, full of fire, and played more than an hour before taking the reed from the instrument and acknowledging the applause.

  In the orange glow of a streetlight Markham looked at her
with a question.

  ‘Can you drop me off at college in the morning?’ she asked and he nodded. ‘Right,’ Carla said, ‘let’s go home.’

  ***

  He’d eaten at Jacomelli’s often enough but Markham had no idea it boasted a private room. The waiter escorted him up the stairs and along a thickly carpeted corridor, holding open a polished wooden door of etched and bevelled glass. No one could see in. Private, indeed.

  The table was set for three, the window looking down on Boar Lane. Joanna Hart gazed out as she smoked a cigarette, turning as he entered.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said with real gratitude. ‘I didn’t know if you would.’

  Yesterday’s floral dress had been replaced by a sober grey suit, seamed stockings and a white blouse. Prim and business like, with the hair gathered back off her face. A waiter appeared silently, bringing her a gin and tonic. Markham ordered a lemonade and she chuckled.

  ‘Still teetotal?’

  ‘I’ve told you. Alcohol and business don’t mix.’

  ‘If you say so. I find they go together very well.’

  Carter was five minutes late, bustling into the room without an apology.

  ‘Mrs Hart,’ he said, shaking her hand quickly before sitting down and nodding at Markham. ‘I hope you don’t mind, I ordered for us. So much quicker.’

  Carter was watching her, appraising each movement, looking like an animal waiting for the moment to pounce. They’d hardly settled before the soup arrived, a spicy Brown Windsor.

  ‘We’ll eat first and discuss things later.’ Carter gave a quick, tight smile. ‘Better that way.’

  He was as good as his word, offering nothing more than idle chat about the weather during the sole and the pudding. Finally he poured cream into his coffee and lit a cigar.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Mrs Hart, you have my bid on the business. I understand everything needs to go through probate yet, but you’ll find I’m offering a fair price.’

  She sipped at the gin before answering.

  ‘It’s anything but fair,’ she replied. Markham could hear the faintest tremor in her voice.

  ‘Do you have other bids?’

  ‘That would be telling.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ The smile showed Carter’s teeth, white and even. ‘I know you haven’t.’

  She gave a short nod.

  ‘If you know so much, you’ll know what Hart Ford is worth.’

  ‘Oh, I do. To the very last penny. And I know how much you owe the Revenue.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘I think you’ll find that an item is only worth what a person is willing to pay for it. I’m sure you’ll agree, Mr Markham. After all, you’re a man of the world.’

  ‘What if Mrs Hart doesn’t want to sell at your price?’ Markham asked.

  ‘She does. Even if she doesn’t realise it yet. She can’t afford not to.’

  ‘You seem to know an awful lot about me,’ Joanna Hart said.

  ‘It’s business.’ There was a brusque edge to his words. ‘Knowledge is power, that’s what they say. I like to have an advantage.’

  ‘And use it in any way?’ Markham asked.

  Carter acknowledged it with a nod of his head.

  ‘It’s like war or love. Everything’s fair.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure you understand what I mean.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean I agree,’ Markham told him.

  ‘You’re very presumptuous,’ Joanna Hart said. ‘You assume I’m going to sell to you.’

  Carter shrugged. ‘You’re desperate for money. Mine’s the only offer on the table. You’re going to sell to me. If it helps I’ll go three hundred higher.’

  She pushed the chair back and stood.

  ‘No, Mr Carter, it doesn’t help. Thank you for luncheon but it’s been wasted. I need the money. That much is true. But I refuse to deal with a bully.’

  ‘It’s quite simple, Mrs Hart. You can deal with me now or later.’ He kept his voice low and even. ‘I’ll give you until Monday to decide.’

  She stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Silence filled the room in her wake.

  ‘Tell me something,’ Carter said eventually. ‘Have you always had a charmed life?’

  Markham held up the bandaged fingers.

  ‘I’d hardly call these charmed.’

  ‘They’ll heal.’ He dismissed the injury, then added, ‘Of course, if they were broken again you’d probably lose all the use of them.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘Mr Markham,’ he said with disappointment. ‘Why would I need threats when actions can scream so much louder? Don’t you remember? I told you I wanted you to persuade Mrs Hart to sell. That’s the job I gave you.’

  ‘I don’t work for you.’

  Carter shook his head.

  ‘You still seem to believe that. You’ve been harassing the manager of one of my clubs. They’ve had a raid looking for underage drinkers. And I’ve had inspectors at my other businesses.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate.’

  ‘It’s more than that. It’s costly.’

  ‘And so you planted counterfeit currency in my office?’

  ‘Did I? Are you accusing me?’ Carter asked with interest. ‘You might do well to beware of slander.’

  Markham took his time gazing around the room.

  ‘As far as I can see, we’re the only ones here.’

  Carter stared at him for a long time. ‘I wonder about you,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to do what you’re told and Mrs Hart seems to like you as support. You’re an annoyance, like one of those flies that buzzes around the food in the summer. If I removed you from the equation altogether she might be more amenable to selling her husband’s business. And my life might be a little simpler.’

  It was delivered in a matter-of-fact tone, a passing thought.

  ‘Is that another threat?’

  Carter grinned. ‘Why would I threaten when I can promise, Mr Markham. After all, who’d miss you? There’s no family, only that girlfriend of yours.’

  ‘I could go to the police. They’d look for you if anything happened.’ Even as he said it he knew he was wasting his breath. Carter would keep himself well covered.

  ‘Be my guest. But if I were you I’d keep looking over my shoulder from now on.’ At the door he turned. ‘I believe whatever business you and I ever had is done. Goodbye, Mr Markham.’

  ***

  For a while he simply sat and smoked. Murder. Nothing more or less. And casual, as if it was nothing at all.

  He felt dazed, as if someone had knocked him out and he was just coming to, trying to find his bearings. He bobbed between the crowds on Briggate like flotsam, pushed this way and that.

  Carter was no stranger to murder. It had been part of his job. He’d been forced out of the secret service for it. He’d arranged the death of Freddie Hart. Another body wouldn’t mean too much to him. The end would justify the means.

  By the time he reached the office he felt bruised and battered, his thoughts still muddled. He sat for a long time, letting the afternoon pass. The sounds of traffic and pedestrians came through the window. Finally he locked up and drove the two short miles to Headingley.

  He knew where to find Baker. The man loved his routines and rituals. He always finished his week with a drink in the Skyrack before heading home to his house in Burley.

  He was there, leaning against the bar, still wearing his raincoat and hat, talking intently with an older man who had the bearing of an ex-copper. Markham ordered his orange squash and waited for Baker to spot him.

  Five minutes later the detective ambled over, a pipe balanced in his mouth, a glass of bitter in his thick hand. There was no friendliness in his eyes.

  ‘If you’ve come to confess to something I’ll be at the station on Monday morning.’ He drained the glass. ‘Since you’re taking up my time you can put another in there.’ Baker signalled to the barman and a pint appeared.

  ‘What do you know about David Carter?’
<
br />   The man took a slow drink and wiped his moustache.

  ‘The one who wants to buy Hart Ford.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not that much. Why?’

  Markham took a deep breath. ‘He’s said he’s going to kill me.’

  He didn’t want to confide in Baker but he knew he had no choice. The sergeant was the only one who could help him, the only one he could trust. Broken fingers, someone going after his bank account, the possibility of jail: he could deal with those alone. But a death threat … he needed help.

  ‘Can’t say as I blame him. I’ve felt like doing that often enough myself. What did you do, bugger up his marriage?’

  ‘I know he’s behind Freddie Hart’s murder.’

  Suddenly Baker was all attention.

  ‘Go on, lad. You’ve got something to tell me. But I already looked at him and he’s clean.’

  He explained some of it, careful to omit his Webley from the tale.

  ‘That’s all you’ve got? Where’s your proof?’ Baker demanded when he was done.

  ‘He wants Hart Ford. Ask Joanna Hart. He’s been pressing her to sell. And his offer is very low.’

  ‘So why’s he going to kill you?’

  ‘He wants me to persuade Mrs Hart to sell. I told him I won’t.’

  ‘Did he do that?’ Baker gazed at the fingers and Markham nodded. ‘What does he have on you?’

  ‘Nothing.’ It was true, more or less.

  The detective stayed silent for a long time, puffing on his pipe and thinking.

  ‘You’re not telling me everything, lad. What I want to know is why you’re coming to me now. You were eager enough to handle it all yourself before.’

  ‘He hadn’t threatened to kill me then. If it happens then you’ll know where to look.’

  ‘I don’t want any more murders on my patch.’

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’ Markham asked in exasperation.

  ‘I’m sure it’s right enough,’ Baker said. ‘But I’ve still not heard any proof. There’s nothing he said or did to you when anyone else was around, is there?’

  ‘Not anyone who’ll talk. Rob Anderson was there when he broke my fingers.’