The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

  PRAISE FOR

  DARK BRIGGATE BLUES:

  A DAN MARKHAM MYSTERY

  BY CHRIS NICKSON

  ‘The book is a pacy, atmospheric and entertaining page-turner with a whole host of well-rounded characters’

  Yorkshire Post

  ‘[Dark Briggate Blues is] written with an obvious affection for the private investigator genre, this is a skilful take in an unusual setting. It has real depth which will keep you turning the pages’

  Hull Daily Mail

  ‘This is a tense thriller, all the more disturbing for the ordinariness of its setting among the smoky, rain-slicked streets of a northern industrial city. Nickson has captured the minutiae of the mid-20th century perfectly’

  Historical Novel Society

  To the woman whose name I never caught, who told me about her father, a real 1950s Leeds enquiry agent. That conversation was the first spark for this book.

  Thank you.

  LEEDS, 1957

  CONTENTS

  Praise

  Title

  Dedication

  Leeds, 1957

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  East Germany, March 1954

  ‘Killing you would be the easiest thing in the world.’ He sat behind the desk, smoking lazily and staring at the other man. ‘An industrial accident, maybe. A car crash. Or just a simple disappearance,’ he added with a hint of a smile. ‘After all, no one would be stupid enough to ask questions about you, would they?’

  The ‘du’ for ‘you’, so familiar, a hard reminder of who held the power here. The other man kept his gaze on his lap and shook his head. The words weren’t meant to be answered. They were a threat, a little dance of victory. He’d been caught trying to escape from East Germany. Like everyone, he knew the price of capture.

  He’d already been beaten in his cell by the time the Stasi officer arrived. Eyes so swollen they were almost closed, his nose broken, five or six teeth gone. Ribs cracked and bruises all over his body. He just hoped nothing was damaged inside. The men had enjoyed their work, making him hurt and yell out. He spat blood into the bucket on the floor and breathed through his mouth. He felt numb, beyond pain.

  Failure. Death.

  The uniformed men leapt to attention as soon as the officer appeared. He dismissed them, waiting and watching silently as the man slowly sat up. Each tiny movement was painful. He winced and tried to focus.

  ‘Come with me,’ the Stasi man ordered finally. There was no compassion in his tone, no feeling at all. ‘You look strong enough to walk.’ He led the way through a maze of corridors to this plain room, the injured man limping slowly behind, steadying himself with a hand on the concrete block walls. No window in here, just a table and two chairs.

  ‘Do you really think the West is paradise?’ the officer asked. He didn’t wait for a reply; he didn’t need one. ‘It’s not, although they’d be grateful enough for anyone with special skills. Especially someone from this side of that Iron Curtain they keep talking about. Someone like you.’ That du again. ‘Or perhaps you thought you were so unimportant that no one was watching you?’ He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his face close enough to smell the sourness of meat and garlic on his breath. ‘Here in the Democratic Republic everyone watches everyone. I’d really hoped you’d be less naïve. And not so stupid.’

  The man stubbed out his cigarette and lit another, watching the smoke curl upwards.

  ‘You’re a very lucky man today. Very lucky indeed. I’m going to offer you a bargain, and it’s one you won’t turn down. You’re going to go to the West. You’re going to see what life is like there.’ The man jerked up his head in astonishment. Was this a joke? Was he going to promise the world and then shoot him?

  The Stasi officer smiled. ‘I thought that would get your attention. Your paradise, just beyond that door.’ He inclined his head. ‘But you’re going to do something for us while you’re there. To show your thanks for our mercy. You’re going to give us information. Lots of it.’ A pause that lasted for a heartbeat. ‘You’re one of us now, Dieter.’

  He laid it out in simple sentences. The freedom, the chances. Then the demands, and finally the threat.

  ‘You won’t betray us,’ he said quietly, matter-of-factly, counting it all out on stubby, manicured fingers. Not even a trace of nicotine stains. ‘You won’t run from us. After all, your parents, your sister, her husband and children are still here. If you’re ever tempted, just remember that their lives–’ he held out his right hand, palm up ‘–are in my hand.’ Slowly, calmly, he closed his fingers to make a fist. ‘Always remember that, Dieter.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  Leeds, November 1957

  1957 had been a good year. Plenty of divorce business. The bloom had gone off too many marriages, it seemed; whole bouquets of them shedding their petals. It had kept him busy from January until the middle of October. Now, halfway through November, things were winding down. The petrol rationing that had been in force during the Suez Crisis was a memory. People were thinking ahead to 25 December. Families keeping the peace until Christmas was over. Holding a truce. And that was fine. It would pick up again in the New Year.

  Dan Markham sat reading the morning paper, going through every article to tease out the time until dinner. For the last four days no one had come into the office needing his services, and for once the emptiness felt welcome. After so many hectic months he was ready to relax.

  He lifted his head as he heard the clump of footsteps on the stairs. A familiar, heavy tread, the ominous, unmistakable sound of a copper. Markham waited as the door opened. Close, he thought when he saw the face; it was an ex-copper. Detective Sergeant Baker, just plain Mr Baker now. He’d retired from the force a year before. But he was dressed exactly the way he always had, an old mackintosh, belted and buttoned up, the trilby pushed down on his head, with a white shirt and striped tie. As portly as ever, maybe even rounder than before, a little more flesh to his jowls. He was carrying a large brown paper bag. Sighing, he settled on the empty chair.

  ‘This is a surprise,’ Markham said. They’d ended up working together on a case in 1954. Back then Baker made no secret of his contempt for enquiry agents. The man had been wounded by a bullet and never fully recovered. About the only useful thing to come from it was the uneasy truce the two of them had found. Not friends, but able to rub along together.

  ‘I thought I’d see if you were staying on the straight and narrow.’ Baker took off his hat and placed it on the edge of the desk.

  ‘I’m getting by. Enjoying your retirement?’

  The man frowned.

  ‘My missus kept going on at me to retire as soon as I could, what with that injury from the shooting, so I had myself invalided out. Now she’s on at me to do something and not be under her feet all the time.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Women. Never bloody satisfied.’

  ‘You could find something.’ He knew Baker had a sharp mind. He was still young enough. And
he was honest.

  ‘I daresay,’ he agreed. ‘It got me thinking, any road. You’re on your own here. People tell me you’re busy these days. You could use some help. I have plenty of experience.’

  Markham smiled. It was the damndest job application he’d ever heard.

  ‘I make enough to support myself. There’s not enough to pay two people.’

  ‘Ah, you might be wrong there, lad.’ Baker stared squarely at him. ‘I’ve had a quiet word round the stations. They all know me. They’d pass stuff on. Missing persons, little things they don’t have the time to deal with properly. Think on. It could more than double your business. Get you out of this divorce lark, too.’ He said the words with distaste.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Markham said warily.

  ‘I am. I’d not be here otherwise.’

  ‘You always said enquiry agents were parasites,’ he reminded the man.

  ‘I did,’ Baker admitted and scratched the back of his neck.

  ‘So why do you want to be one?’

  ‘Someone has to keep you honest. It might as well be me.’ Baker leaned forward and put the paper bag on the blotter. ‘Open it.’

  It was heavier than it seemed. Markham slid out a piece of polished brass and turned it over. Markham & Baker, Enquiry Agents in bold, solid script. He glanced at the man and raised his eyebrows. He had balls; had to give him that. He did have experience, years of it. Markham was only twenty-eight. And if he did bring in more business …

  ‘If we’re going to do it, it ought to look right,’ Baker said.

  Markham began to laugh.

  ‘We can give it a try. Until the end of the year.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Baker nodded.

  ‘And if it doesn’t work, go our separate ways.’

  ‘Can’t ask better than that.’ He extended his hand and they shook.

  ‘I don’t even know your Christian name,’ Markham said.

  ‘Stephen.’ He shot a warning glance. ‘Never Steve. You understand that? I know what you young ones are like. Shorten bloody everything.’

  ***

  The next day Baker showed up on the dot of nine, breathing hard from carrying a coat rack. He placed it inside the door, hung up his battered trilby and old mackintosh, taking the Daily Express and a screwdriver from the pocket. Then he picked up the brass sign, polished it lightly with a handkerchief and vanished back down the stairs. When Markham went out at eleven it was fixed to the wall by the entry door, proud and shining.

  ‘I tell you what, lad, we’re going to need another desk in here,’ Baker said later in the day. The next morning he brought in a card table, ugly, scarred wood topped with tatty green baize, followed by another trip carrying a folding chair.

  ‘It’s just for the moment,’ he said as he set them up. Two days into the partnership and already the office seemed crowded, claustrophobic.

  That afternoon they were sitting, listening as gusts of wind blew rain against the window, the drops spattering noisily.

  ‘I’ll get a proper desk soon,’ Baker promised. ‘So we look professional.’

  ‘God only knows where we’ll make room for it,’ Markham told him. ‘We’re already on top of each other.’

  ‘Get rid of some of those filing cabinets. I had a shufti. They’re mostly empty.’

  ‘If you like. And if you can find someone to haul a desk up here.’

  Baker smiled and just rubbed the fingers of one hand together.

  ‘A little bit of that is all it’ll take. I’ll go looking later. We don’t have anything on, do we?’

  ‘No. I have to be in court at three, but that’s all.’ A few minutes of short simple testimony in a divorce case. Markham has discovered the man in a hotel bed with another woman. It had all been set up in advance, of course. A prostitute earning a few easy quid without even having to part her legs.

  The telephone rang and he answered with the number, then listened for a moment.

  ‘They want to talk to you,’ he told Baker in surprise as he passed over the receiver. It was a short conversation. The man listened, asked a question or two, then finished by saying, ‘Why don’t you send her over? And thank you, George. I owe you a pint the next time I see you.’ He replaced the handset and rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, it looks like we have our first case, Dan. A missing person.’

  ***

  The woman looked dowdy. That was the only word for it. A grey wool coat that reached to mid-calf, the fur collar ratty and worn. Brogues on her feet, the laces double-knotted, and small, sensible heels. Greying hair in a tight set under a small black hat. No colour at all about her.

  She smelt of old powder and Parma violets, eyes blinking behind her glasses. There was no wedding ring. A spinster whose young man had never returned from the Great War, Markham suspected. One of a generation left on the shelf with not enough bachelors to go around. She certainly looked the right age for it.

  ‘How can we help you, Miss …?’

  ‘Harding,’ she replied. A careful, educated accent. ‘At the police station they told me you might be able to assist me.’ She looked from one of them to the other. ‘It’s my lodger. He hasn’t come home for three days now. That’s not like him.’

  Markham gave Baker the smallest hint of a nod. Let him take over, he’d probably dealt with cases like this before.

  ‘What’s his name, miss?’

  ‘Dieter. Dieter de Vries.’

  ‘De Vries?’ Baker asked. ‘Foreign, is he?’

  ‘Dutch,’ she said. ‘He’s been with me for two years. Very reliable.’ She sniffed and pulled a small handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘If he’s going somewhere, he always lets me know.’ She raised her head. ‘That’s why I’m worried about him. But the police said that there’s not much they can do yet, and they suggested I talk to you.’

  ‘We can look into it,’ Baker told her soothingly. Markham sat back to watch. He’d never had a chance to see this side of the man before, the one that gently teased information from someone. And he did it well.

  In less than five minutes he learned that de Vries had arrived in Leeds a little before Christmas 1955 from Holland. An engineer, he had a solid job with a company in Holbeck. Kept himself to himself, rarely went out in the evenings. Every few months he’d spend a weekend away, then a week each summer when he went back to Holland to see his family. Very quiet and respectful. Never played the wireless too loud and paid his rent on time every week. Miss Harding cooked his breakfast and tea and he took his dinner at work, she said.

  ‘How did he come to you?’ Baker asked when she’d finished. ‘Did someone recommend him?’

  ‘I had an advertisement at the newsagent’s,’ she replied primly. ‘But of course I asked for references.’

  ‘Do you remember who vouched for him?’

  ‘I do.’ She opened her handbag, brought out two pieces of paper and passed them across the card table. Baker read them quickly.

  ‘His employer and another Dutch gentleman, by the look of it?’

  ‘That’s correct. Normally I wouldn’t take the chance on someone foreign–’ she seemed to sniff again as she pronounced the word ‘–but he had everything in order.’

  ‘Do you have a photograph of him?’

  ‘No,’ she answered in surprise. ‘Why would I? He’s a lodger, not a friend.’

  ‘Could you describe him, please?’ Markham asked. A picture would have been much simpler.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Miss Harding closed her eyes for a moment. ‘He’s about five feet nine inches tall, and I’d say he probably weighs thirteen stone. His face is rather round, brown eyes with heavy bags under them.’ She rubbed her own face to illustrate what she meant. ‘Pale lips, quite full. And he’s bald. The only hair he has is on the sides and back of his head. There are some small scars on his face. He told me they were from the war.’

  ‘What would he have been wearing when he went missing?’ Baker had been taking notes.

  ‘A suit, white shirt, and tie, I
suppose. Black shoes, well-polished. He was very careful of that, cleaned his shoes every evening.’

  ‘Have you taken a look in his room at all?’

  The woman looked horrified.

  ‘Of course not. That’s his.’

  ‘It might help us to have a look in there,’ Baker said gently. ‘There might be some indication as to where he’s gone, or why.’ He smiled at her. ‘If you want us to look for him then we need to be able to do our job properly.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she agreed after a little hesitation. ‘If you feel it’s necessary.’

  ‘It would be helpful. Why don’t you go home and I’ll come around a bit later and see what I can find.’

  She nodded quickly, comforted by what he said. Baker was old enough for her to take seriously. He looked confident, as if he’d covered this ground before. And he probably had.

  ‘Is there something I need to do to employ you?’ she asked.

  ‘Just pay us a retaining fee,’ Markham told her with an easy smile.

  She delved in her handbag and came out with two crisp five-pound notes.

  ‘I trust this is enough.’

  ‘Of course. More than enough.’ He wrote out a receipt. She read and folded it methodically before putting it away. She seemed to be the type of woman who kept a lifetime of paper.

  ‘We’ll need to know where you live, too,’ Baker said. Miss Harding gave her address, a respectable street in Headingley, and they heard her solid footsteps going down the stairs.

  ‘Well, lad, what do you make of that?’

  Markham shrugged.

  ‘More your territory than mine.’

  ‘True enough,’ Baker agreed. ‘Odds are he’s met someone and gone off for a randy few days. That’s usually the way it goes. He’ll turn up when he’s had enough. But I’ll stop by on my way home and have a look-see. You never know.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’ He wasn’t giving it much thought, sorting through a folder, pulling out the items he’d need for the divorce hearing later.