Dark Briggate Blues

by Chris Nickson

  Markham recounted it all.

  ‘A day, eh?’ Baker said thoughtfully. ‘Plenty can happen in that time.’

  ‘I’m hoping it does.’ He had the gun in his pocket, careful to wear gloves when he touched it. Today was the deadline Carter had given him. Deliver Hart Ford or die. Plenty would definitely happen before tomorrow arrived.

  ‘Watch out for yourself. I can’t keep an eye on you all the time.’

  ‘I am, believe me.’

  ***

  He spent the rest of the morning in the office, alert for footsteps on the stairs. Nothing. Only the pigeons on the rooftops and the staccato click of typewriters from the secretarial agency downstairs.

  Carter wouldn’t let a deadline pass. He’d want revenge. He needed to keep his reputation. At half past twelve Markham put on overcoat and gloves and went down to Albion Place.

  The man set to follow him turned away whenever Markham looked back and halted when Markham paused to glance at shop windows as he walked up Briggate. Across from the Grand Theatre, he slipped into the Riviera Café and sat at a table by the kitchen.

  It was a tiny place, just six tables, the air heavy with the smells of grease and cooking. He ate slowly, finishing with a cup of lukewarm tea and a cigarette. As he paid the bill he asked casually,

  ‘Is there a back door?’

  ‘Course there is,’ the harried woman replied. ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘Do you mind if I use it? There’s someone outside I don’t want to see.’ That piqued her interest. Her hand was in the till, reaching for his change. ‘Angry husband,’ he said with a smile and a wink.

  ‘Been a bad lad, have you?’ Her voice was stern but her face softened. ‘Aye, go on, then. Straight through there.’

  He came out into a ginnel, following it around until he was back on the street. Watching the watcher. The man waited five more minutes, constantly glancing at the time, before he darted into the cafe, then left again in a panic, looking around helplessly. A black Riley pulled up to the kerb and he got in.

  The car turned and headed back down Briggate. With heavy traffic and the Monday throng crowding the street, Markham could trot and stay close enough not to lose the vehicle.

  It crossed the bridge then turned the corner on to Dock Street, and he knew exactly where it was going.

  In the daytime this was an area of small factories and workshops. There was the constant noise of machinery and voices. The spark of a welding torch and the clang of a hammer. The heat of a forge and water thrown out across the cobbles.

  The car was parked where he expected, on the small side street by the blank wooden entrance to a building. The door stood open. Markham crept close enough to listen.

  ‘You fucking lost him?’

  ‘He must have gone out the back way from the cafe.’

  ‘What about you?’ the first voice asked. ‘You were driving the car. Did you see him?’

  ‘No.’

  He waited through a few moments of silence.

  ‘He must have spotted you,’ the first voice said with disgust. ‘Go back to his office. He’ll be back there sometime.’

  Markham stepped into the doorway. The three men turned as he blocked the light. His broken fingers throbbed. The place was exactly as he remembered, empty, the bare bulb, two chairs and a table. The only difference was the large carving knife sitting on the wood.

  ‘Looks like you don’t have to bother, lads,’ the first man said with amusement. ‘He’s come to us.’

  Markham knew him now. He was the one who’d held a blade when he’d been driven here before. A bulky man with a pale complexion and dark, wavy hair, eyes full of confidence. Big Chalky White. Back then the man hadn’t spoken. Now he didn’t seem to want to shut up.

  ‘You might as well come in.’ He grinned ‘Even if you run we’re not going to let you go far.’

  His hand snaked out towards the table.

  ‘Don’t,’ Markham said quietly and drew the pistol. The man froze.

  ‘And what were you going to do with me?’ He moved the barrel between the men, waiting for an answer.

  ‘Mr Carter wants you dead,’ the second man said nervously.

  ‘Really? Another dead body would bring down the law.’

  ‘Only if they find it.’ White didn’t seemed frightened. ‘You won’t be seen. Not for ten or twenty years, any road. Who’d care by then?’

  It was hard to bring a murder case when you didn’t have a body.

  ‘Kick the knife across the floor,’ he ordered. ‘And the keys to the car and the door.’

  ‘Or what?’ White said.

  ‘I shoot.’ He raised the gun and aimed at the man’s chest.

  ‘You wouldn’t bloody dare.’ White was smirking. ‘Not when everyone could hear.’

  ‘Plenty of noise out there. Banging, booms. Do you think anyone would really notice?’ He paused. ‘Do you really want to bet your life on that?’ He raised the pistol and waited.

  Finally, turning his head to spit, White dropped the blade to the floor and kicked it across to Markham.

  ‘Keys, too.’

  With a gesture of disgust, the man brought a keyring from his pocket and tossed it at Markham’s feet.

  He picked them up, backed out and slammed the door behind him. It was solid wood, the lock old and heavy. Footsteps rushed across the concrete floor inside as he turned the key. They wouldn’t be out of there until someone came to free them, he thought.

  Markham sat in the Riley, the gun back in his pocket, knife half-hidden under the seat. The engine started on the first attempt. He bumped it back over the cobbles, then through the city centre and parked in front of the Metropole. The old car stood out among the polished Wolseleys and Jags. The commissionaire came across, a dark frown under his shiny top hat.

  ‘You can’t leave that here,’ he insisted.

  ‘Mr Carter asked for it,’ Markham said. He handed over the keys. ‘You know what he’s like. You’d better tell him his car’s arrived.’

  ‘He’s not even here,’ the man blustered. ‘He left not five minutes ago.’

  ‘Don’t ask me.’ Markham shrugged. ‘I was told to bring it here, that’s all.’ He walked away with a smile.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  So far he’d infuriated Carter. What he’d done had been niggling and annoying, but not dangerous. He needed something bigger. Something audacious. Something final.

  He wanted this to be over. He wanted Carla back in Leeds, to see if anything was still possible between them. He looked at his watch: a little after three. He couldn’t face the climb to the third floor and the empty office. Instead, he started the Anglia and went home.

  He filled the flat with piano music. From Bach and Schuman to Shearing. Sounds to sit at the back of his brain as he thought.

  What could he do that would really hit Carter hard? What could he do to topple the man? By midnight he’d found nothing. Plans skimmed through his mind, none of them workable. With the door double-locked and bolted, he went to sleep. Maybe the answer would arrive in his dreams.

  ***

  The morning was dreary, grey skies and sharp, squally showers that sent people running under shop awnings for cover. The windows on the buses were steamed with condensation. He parked on Albion Place, dashing between the car and building, the rushing to unlock the office door before the telephone stopped ringing.

  ‘Where have you been?’ There was fear in her voice. ‘I tried ringing you all yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘I was out,’ he answered. ‘What’s happened, Mrs Hart?’

  ‘He came here.’

  ‘Carter? When?’

  ‘About three o’clock yesterday. He had someone with him. A big man.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  He heard her take a deep breath.

  ‘He said he’d indulged my little games, but it was time to stop and sign the papers. He wasn’t going to offer a penny more than he already had and I was going to take it.’
<
br />   ‘Did you sign?’

  ‘No. But he’s coming back this morning.’ She hesitated. ‘There’s a strange car parked outside the house.’

  ‘Is there anyone in it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t see.’

  ‘Call the police,’ he advised. ‘Tell them about the vehicle and Carter. They’ll send someone out.’

  ‘There’s one more thing,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He hinted that you were out of the picture.’

  ‘I’ll bet he did. I’m here. Look, I’ll drive up there. It’ll only take a few minutes.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She sounded as if she was starting to cry. ‘When I couldn’t get hold of you, I thought …’

  ‘He’s going to have to work a lot harder to get rid of me.’

  ***

  Before he left, he needed to make one more call.

  ‘Jones,’ the man answered, his voice somewhere between boredom and exasperation. The secret service, or whatever name it had, wasn’t keeping him busy enough.

  ‘Ged, it’s Dan.’

  ‘Again, boyo?’ He chuckled. ‘What’s it this time? What’s been happening up there?’

  He gave a very brief outline, hearing the soft scrape of a pencil taking notes.

  ‘You’re sure about all this, Danny? It’s not your imagination or anything like that?’

  ‘I’m positive. Christ, Ged, the man smashed my fingers with a hammer. His men were going to kill me and bury me somewhere I’d never be found. You think I’m making this up?’

  ‘Calm down,’ Jones said quietly. ‘You need to think straight.’

  ‘Right now he’s threatening my client. He wants her business and her won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘Wherever she is, get her out and somewhere safe.’

  ‘I’m just about to.’ It was the procedure, one the army had taught him.

  ‘Let me talk to some people here and I’ll see what I can do. We both know he’s well connected but I think they’ll draw the line at a murder spree.’

  ‘I bloody well hope so.’

  ‘I’ll keep trying until I reach you,’ Jones promised. ‘Make sure you stay safe, Dan.’

  ***

  There was no black car on the street when he parked. A police car sat there instead, one constable inside, the other banging on the door of the Hart house.

  The officer turned as Markham marched down the drive.

  ‘We received a message about a car here, sir. Do you know the owner of the house?’

  ‘I do,’ he answered with concern. ‘She’s not answering? I’m the one who told her to ring you. It was only a few minutes ago.’

  The bobby shook his head.

  ‘I’ve been knocking. There was nothing here when we arrived.’

  Markham could feel his heart beating faster. His mouth was dry.

  ‘Have you tried the door or looked in the windows?’

  ‘Sir?’ the constable asked.

  ‘She should be here,’ he insisted. ‘I told her I was coming over.’

  ‘She might have gone out, sir.’ He shrugged. ‘Women, you know.’

  Markham thought for a moment then dashed to the garage and pulled the door open. The Humber sat inside.

  ‘If she’d gone out, she’d have driven.’ He moved into the back garden, peering through the windows of the house, seeing no one inside. He tried the back door, then the front door. Both locked. ‘Can you pass a message to Detective Sergeant Baker at Millgarth?’

  ‘Because she’s not here, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was sharp.

  ‘Sir, she’s over twenty-one,’ the policeman said. ‘She can come and go as she pleases.’

  ‘She’s part of a bloody investigation.’ He almost shouted the words then took a breath. ‘Baker will want to know.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He sounded doubtful but went to the car. A minute later he returned with his notebook open. ‘They’ll pass it on. I just need some details from you.’

  Name, address, relationship to the woman of the house. The constable raised his eyebrows at enquiry agent but said nothing. The patrol car pulled away in a shower of gravel. Markham looked around. The house stood by itself, surrounded by a tall privet hedge. Plenty of privacy but no help for him. In an area like this people didn’t look to their neighbours. Not openly, anyway.

  He caught his reflection in the window and straightened his tie. The creases in his trousers were sharp, shoes shined. He smoothed down his hair. Presentable enough to go around and ask questions here.

  Markham started with the house across the street. The woman who answered his knock was in her late fifties, grey hair in a severe perm, the scent of lavender water around her. She’d seen the parked car, she claimed, but it had been empty.

  ‘Did you see anyone else arrive?’ he persisted.

  ‘There was a motor car,’ she answered. ‘It was only there for a minute.’

  ‘Did Mrs Hart leave in it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ She sniffed. He waited. ‘I went to make a pot of tea. By the time I came back, it had gone and so had the other car.’

  That was all she knew. By the time Baker pulled up in a plain black Ford, Markham had been to four other houses. There was no answer at two of them; the others had seen and heard nothing unusual.

  He pushed the brim of the hat back. ‘You’d better tell me what’s going on.’

  Markham condensed it into a few sentences, watching the man frown as he glanced at the house.

  ‘Are you sure Mrs Hart isn’t inside?’

  ‘I haven’t been in.’

  ‘Good. That’s copper’s work. Come with me.’

  At the door Baker took a set of lock picks from his pocket. A few deft flicks of his wrist and the lock clicked. He turned the handle and they were inside. The smell of beeswax filled the air.

  ‘You look downstairs,’ the policeman ordered. ‘I’ll go up.’

  The rooms were empty. In the kitchen a half-drunk cup of tea stood by the cooker. The liquid was still warm. Hart’s handbag, the purse still inside but no keys, was on the floor next to her chair.

  ‘There’s nothing upstairs,’ Baker said as he returned. ‘She’s a messy cow, though. Clothes and towels all over.’

  ‘Her keys have gone. Everything else is here.’

  ‘Carter, you think?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Where would he take her?’

  ‘There’s the place off Dock Street where they took me.’

  Baker shook his head.

  ‘I’ll have someone look but it’s too obvious. Where else?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You get searching,’ Baker told him. ‘I’ll go back to the station and organise things. I’ll tell you what, though, if she’s just nipped out for a pint of milk I’m not going to be happy with you.’

  ‘She’s gone, Sergeant. You know it as well as I do.’

  ‘Aye,’ the man agreed grimly.

  ***

  Where, Markham wondered as he drove back into town. Where would he have taken her? And what had happened to Carter? Why was he so obsessed with owning Hart Ford? What was there that he needed? What the hell did he hope to do by taking Joanna Hart? It was guaranteed to set the police after him.

  He needed to find her, and find her quickly. In the office he pawed through the papers taken from Carter’s room. He noted down every single address. She might not be at any of them, but it was somewhere to start. It made him feel he was doing something.

  After half an hour he had a long list. It was time to begin looking. He ignored the businesses that Carter owned; there’d be too many people around and too many awkward questions.

  On a hunch he drove out to Carr Manor Parade, to the house where he’d been duped by Jenkins, the man who never really existed. He didn’t try the door but went next door. The woman had been helpful before.

  ‘Come back to see me?’ she asked with a smile as she answered hi
s knock.

  ‘Just a quick question. Have you seen anyone next door today?’

  ‘Today?’ she asked in surprise. ‘There hasn’t been anyone there in a week or more. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘There’s something going on, isn’t there?’ Her eyes were full of curiosity.

  ‘Can I use your telephone?’ He’d seen the wires running to the house. She looked uncertain. ‘I’ll pay for it.’

  ‘Of course. It’s in the hall.’

  As he talked to Baker at Millgarth station he sensed the woman hovering at the kitchen door.

  ‘I’ve made a list of places she might be,’ he told the detective.

  ‘And how did you do that?’

  ‘Some of Carter’s papers.’

  ‘I’ll not ask how you got them.’

  ‘There are too many for me to check myself.’

  ‘I’ll have the bobbies go to them.’

  Markham rattled off eight addresses.

  ‘Right. If you find anything, let me know. I kept someone at her house in case she comes home.’

  He hung up and folded the list before returning it to his pocket.

  ‘It sounds urgent,’ she said, holding out a mug of tea. ‘You look like you could use that.’

  He drank gratefully.

  ‘Someone missing.’ It was all he was willing to say.

  ‘Very hush-hush?’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Will I hear about it on the radio?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He finished the tea in a long gulp and took out a business card. ‘If you see anything next door, ring me, please. Or call the police.’

  ‘All right.’

  He trailed to houses and businesses all over Leeds, pushing and darting through traffic, from a street of back-to-backs in Armley to a cleaning business based in Roundhay. Nothing. No sign of Joanna Hart or Carter in any of them.

  Markham’s head was throbbing as he drove back into town and parked at the office. As he reached for the telephone it began to ring.

  ‘Markham,’ he said, surprised at how jumpy he sounded.

  ‘It’s Ged.’

  ‘Things have changed. Carter’s snatched my client.’

  ‘They’ve changed here, too. The brass decided to send someone up to take care of him.’

  ‘Take care of?’ he asked.