The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Hello?’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘Dan?’ A woman’s voice. For a fraction of a second he believed it was Carla. Then he recognised the tone – Mrs Fox.

  ‘What can I do for you, Amanda?’

  ‘Could you and your partner come over?’ There seemed to be an edge of desperation in her tone. ‘Please?’

  ‘He’s out, but I’m free. What is it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when you get here,’ she answered and then he heard the line go dead. What the hell was going on?

  Ten minutes later he was in Woodhouse Square. He pressed the doorbell, waiting for her to buzz him in. Nothing. Markham tried again, then a third time. Still no answer.

  Now he was worried.

  There was a telephone box on the other side of the square. He dug out some pennies and rang her number. Maybe the bell wasn’t working; the explanation could be as simple as that. But no one picked up.

  Thinking, he made his way back to Albion Place. Something had gone very wrong, he was certain of that.

  Baker was sitting at his card table, munching his way through a cheese and tomato sandwich.

  ‘Do you know how to pick locks?’ Markham asked.

  ‘Eh?’

  He explained quickly, Baker listening intently as he ate.

  ‘Happen we’d better go and see.’ He shook the crumbs from his lap, crumpled the greaseproof wrapping and threw it in the bin. ‘It doesn’t sound good, does it?’

  There was a crunch of gravel as they walked up the short drive to the building. Still no answer when he rang the bell. Baker reached into a pocket in his jacket and brought out a small, flat leather case. Then he leaned over, peering at the lock and selected two flat picks. He moved one around where a key would fit, then used the other, nodding when he felt it click. The door swung open.

  ‘I was joking when I asked if you knew that,’ Markham said.

  ‘You don’t spend so long in CID without learning a few things.’ He was smiling with satisfaction.

  He didn’t need to work his magic on the Foxes office. The handle turned in Markham’s fingers. He pushed the door open, hardly daring to move. But the room was empty.

  ‘And she just rang a short while ago?’ Baker asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Baker shook his head.

  ‘Very rum. Best not touch anything, just in case.’

  No coat, no handbag. But there was no sign of any struggle, nothing knocked out of place, just the normal jumble of work: folders scattered on the desk, a pen lying on the blotter, a mug with the cold dregs of tea at the bottom.

  ‘It’s like the Mary Celeste,’ Markham said.

  Baker was pacing around the room, hands bunched in the pockets of his raincoat.

  ‘It’s not normal to leave without locking the office,’ he said quietly. ‘You came straight over when she rang?’

  ‘Yes. Can’t be more than three quarters of an hour ago. Probably less than that.’

  ‘Do you know how to get hold of her husband?’

  Markham shook his head. ‘I don’t even know where they live.’

  ‘It’ll be in the directory. We might as well go, there’s nothing to see here. But I’ll tell you what, I don’t think she’s popped out to borrow a cup of sugar.’

  At the door he carefully wiped the knob with his handkerchief.

  They walked quickly, without talking. Baker turned and entered the public library, climbing the wide tiled stairs and leading the way into a hushed room. He searched along a shelf, taking down a bound telephone directory.

  ‘Here we are,’ he whispered when he found the entry. ‘King Lane. Alwoodley. Do you want to drive or shall I?’

  ‘I will.’

  ***

  The house was hidden away behind a low wall and a series of beech trees. It stood on its own, detached but not too grand, just enough to announce that the owners had money.

  ‘I’ll park down the road,’ Markham said. ‘We’ll walk back. Just in case.’

  He could see the hinges on the brick wall, but no wrought-iron gates; they’d probably vanished years before to help make Spitfires during the war, and never been replaced.

  ‘Do you see anyone moving inside?’ Baker asked.

  Markham checked, his gaze moving from window to window.

  ‘No,’ he replied finally.

  ‘Let’s see who’s at home, then.’

  Baker shambled along, head down, looking large and harmless. Markham stayed in his wake. The front door had a polished brass knocker in the shape of a wolf’s head. But the loud rap brought no answer. He tried again; still no reply.

  The garage was empty. The rear of the house had French doors that opened on to a small stone terrace, lawn and flowerbeds beyond. A few seconds with the lock picks and they were inside.

  ‘Remember,’ Baker hissed, ‘don’t touch anything. If you need to open a door, use your handkerchief.’

  Markham could feel his heart pounding as they moved from room to room. He hardly dared to breathe. A baby grand stood in the front room, lid raised, the music for a Beethoven sonata open on the stand.

  Upstairs, the bathroom, and two guest bedrooms that looked as if they hadn’t been used in months. They hesitated at the last door.

  ‘We’re going to look like a right pair of Charlies if she just came home for a kip,’ Baker whispered.

  But the room was empty. They already knew it would be.

  The bed was made, all the clothes neatly hung in the wardrobes or folded in a wide chest of drawers.

  ‘What do you make of it, Dan?’

  ‘I wouldn’t even like to guess.’ He sighed. ‘But she wouldn’t vanish of her own accord right after asking me to come over.’

  ‘Seems to me that we need to find her husband.’

  ‘Wherever he is.’

  ‘We can’t even really tell the force she’s missing yet. She’s been gone, what, two hours? They’d just laugh at us.’

  ‘Even you?’

  ‘Especially me. They’d say I should know better. I don’t suppose you still know anyone in the spy business?’

  ‘No.’ His only contact had died three years before.

  ‘Looks like it’s you and me, then.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want this,’ Markham told him. ‘But I don’t think we have much bloody choice.’ He looked around. ‘There’s nothing more we can do here.’

  They left the way they’d entered, making sure the French doors locked behind them.

  ‘We need to think who’d want her out of the way,’ Markham said as they returned to town.

  ‘We don’t even know if anyone does. We’ve no idea what else she and her husband were up to,’ Baker pointed out.

  ‘It’s this bringing people from East Germany thing. It has to be.’

  ‘All we really know is one little piece.’

  ‘Then we’d better find out more.’ He had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  ***

  He stopped at the garage on Buslingthorpe Lane to pick up the Anglia. Good for one more year, that was the verdict, and it definitely felt like a different car when he drove it. More responsive, faster. Exactly what he needed.

  There was no note from Amanda Fox pushed through the letterbox. The telephone wasn’t ringing with her apology and rushed explanation.

  ‘All we can do is wait and see if we hear from her,’ he said.

  Baker didn’t remove his mackintosh.

  ‘I’ll pop over to Millgarth and see what they know about her and that husband of hers.’ As Markham raised an eyebrow, he added, ‘Just some general things. There might be something.’

  And right now anything at all was better than the nothing they had.

  Time passed with aching slowness. Markham checked his watch, surprised that only two minutes had gone by. It must have been a half hour. He smoked one cigarette after another, cracking the window open to let in some fresh air. When he finally heard footsteps on the stair he dashed to the door. But the heavy tre
ad was definitely male.

  ‘No word from her yet?’ Baker asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t still be here if I’d heard anything. What did they say at the station?’

  ‘They know the Foxes right enough.’ He raised his eyebrows as he spoke. ‘Not much time for Mark, he comes across like too much of a toff. But that Amanda, you know what she’s like.’

  ‘Plenty of charm.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Baker agreed. ‘As to what they do …’ He shrugged. ‘Their paths don’t cross much. It’s another way of saying they’re in the spy game.’

  ‘I’ll go over to Woodhouse Square again later. Maybe she’ll be back.’

  ‘You don’t really believe that, do you, lad?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But do you have any better suggestions?’

  ***

  First, though, he went to the Post Office, carrying the parcel he’d wrapped the night before. Two LPs. Back Country Suite by Mose Allison and Miles Davis’ Cookin’. Addressed to Carla at the Art Department of Durham University. See what reaction that brought.

  There was no one in Woodhouse Square and no answer when he rang the bell. It had always been a vain hope. Slowly he trudged back past the Victorian richness of the infirmary and the Town Hall, then up the Headrow.

  His mind was roiling. Not about Amanda Fox: there was nothing he could do about that. The return of Carla. He’d gone over and over everything she said, seeking out the clues it held. Had she been dropping hints, or was it truly nothing more than passing an empty hour with someone she used to know?

  He still didn’t have any answers there, either.

  And what about Georgina? Yes, it was casual, no mention of romance or forever, but they did well enough together. At least he didn’t have to make any decision yet; perhaps he never would. But every time he looked at her he’d be thinking …

  Baker just shook his head as Markham entered, not even raising his head from the newspaper.

  ***

  By five they’d still heard nothing. The telephone hadn’t rung once. His head was aching, a pounding that even two aspirin couldn’t budge. Baker left with a weary, ‘See you in the morning, lad,’ and he was left on his own.

  He wanted to go home and close his eyes. But he already knew he wasn’t about to do that. He was going to try to find Mark Fox if he was still in Leeds.

  He started with the places around town – the Victoria on Great George Street where they’d met before, Yates’s Wine Lodge, the Horse and Trumpet and the Three Legs on the Headrow, Whitelock’s, the Ship, even the Angel Inn. No sign of the man.

  There’d be no crowd in the shebeens – the illegal drinking clubs – before closing time at half past ten. Finally he gave up and drove home, too weary to cook, walking round to Nash’s on Harrogate Road for fish and chips. Maybe Fox had gone back to Germany.

  It was an evening for the balm of silence, more aspirin and the Home Service at a low, soothing volume; a concert of chamber music.

  He must have fallen asleep with the lights on. The jarring ring of the telephone made him scramble up, blinking hard.

  ‘Hello?’ He rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. For a moment hope pumped through him. Maybe it was Carla. He heard the coins tumble in a phone box.

  ‘Dan?’ It was just a whisper. Not Carla. Not Georgina. Amanda Fox.

  ‘Where are you–’ he began but she cut him off.

  ‘Can you come and get me? Please.’ There was a tone he hadn’t heard before. Desperate. Begging. ‘Please.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Twenty minutes later Markham parked outside the Peacock, across from Elland Road football ground. The pub was dark, the car park empty. He did as he’d promised, flashing the headlamps twice and keeping the motor running.

  ‘If you do that, I’ll know it’s you,’ Amanda had said on the phone.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’ Markham asked urgently. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just be there as soon as you can. Please,’ she had added again, her voice still quiet and on the edge of tears.

  He had made good time into town, very little late night traffic on the roads, then moved haltingly through Beeston, unsure of his bearings until he found the spot. The air was damp, a heavy mist clamped low.

  Two cars passed, leaving a blurry trail of lights as they vanished into the distance. He looked at his watch, holding it to try and make out the time. He smoked a Craven A, almost finishing it when he heard the sharp click of heels and saw a vague shape emerge from the shadows.

  He could see her for a second as she opened the passenger door and climbed in. Her stockings were torn, knee bloody, dirt and bruises on her face.

  ‘Christ, what–?’

  ‘Drive,’ she said quickly. ‘Make sure no one’s behind us.’ She leaned back, moving down the seat to be out of sight.

  He kept checking his rear-view mirror. Nothing to be seen. But he still took a long, winding route. When he pulled another cigarette from the packet, he passed one to her, watching from the corner of his eye as she sucked down the smoke eagerly.

  ‘Where?’ he asked as he drove across Leeds Bridge and started up Briggate.

  ‘Can we go to yours?’ She was nervous, hands constantly in motion, pushing the hair back from her face.

  ‘Fine,’ he agreed after a moment.

  ***

  Amanda Fox looked around the flat but she wasn’t really paying attention. He took her coat and had a closer look at her. No handbag. Someone had hit her, marks on her cheeks and chin. Her hair was tangled, dirt on her hands and fear in her eyes. Her confident shell had been shattered. She looked terrified.

  ‘There’s a bathroom through there if you want to clean up a little.’ He pointed.

  ‘Thank you,’ she answered as if his words had dragged her back from somewhere inside herself.

  While she was gone he rummaged in the larder and found a bottle of brandy. She looked as if she needed it.

  By the time she reappeared he had a drink waiting for her. Amanda Fox looked a little fresher, but still stunned.

  ‘Sit down,’ Markham told her. ‘Sip that and tell me all about it. The last I know is when you rang me this morning asking me to come to your office.’

  She drank the brandy gratefully, breathing slowly. She’d brushed her hair and scrubbed off much of the dirt. The stockings had gone and the graze on her knee was clean.

  ‘After I talked to you the doorbell rang,’ she began hesitantly. ‘There were two men.’ She stared at him. ‘Police. They showed me their warrant cards. They said I needed to go with them.’

  ‘Did you recognise them at all?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I think they must have been Special Branch. They had that … look. You know, very menacing. They had a car outside and they took me over to a house in Beeston.’

  Markham stayed quiet for a moment, then asked, ‘Why did you ring me? What did you need to talk to me about so urgently?’

  ‘I received a letter from Mark in the second post.’ Amanda stared at him. ‘He flew over to Germany yesterday. That was what he told me. But in the letter he said he’d been working for the other side and he needed to get out. I didn’t know what to do. And you …’

  Those two bloody years in military intelligence. Would he ever be able to put them behind him? Still, there was no need to explain who the other side was. The Russians. But he hadn’t seen the letter when they searched the office.

  ‘Did the men take the letter?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied quietly.

  ‘Were they the ones who roughed you up?’

  ‘They seemed to think I had to know about Mark. That I was involved. They believed I had to be part of it.’

  ‘And did you know?’ he asked baldly.

  Amanda stared at him and shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she replied firmly. ‘I didn’t even have an inkling until I received the letter. When you gave me your report I wondered what the hell was going on, but I never imagined
Mark had anything to do with it. He’d always seemed so … upright. Loyal.’

  ‘How did you escape?’ Had they let her vanish, he wondered, simply to be able to trail her?’

  ‘I was on the ground floor. There was a bed and a bucket for, you know.’ She reddened slightly. ‘I heard them moving around upstairs. I managed to force the window and climbed out into the garden. After that I just ran. I didn’t know where I was.’

  ‘You didn’t have any money?’

  ‘They took my handbag.’

  ‘How did you ring me?’

  ‘I spent a lot of time hiding. After I found a place I was too scared to move. I saw one of them go by a few yards away. Once it got dark I moved again. I saw someone walking his dog and asked to borrow threepence from him. I don’t even remember what I told him.’ Her eyes were gazing into a distance he couldn’t see. ‘Something, I suppose. I saw Elland Road. I couldn’t think of anyone to ring. You were in the telephone book.’ She paused. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  She drained the glass and he poured another. Amanda had regained a little of her poise but he still saw her hands shaking as she took the cigarette he offered. There were plenty of questions to ask, but they could wait a little while. She needed to feel she was safe.

  ‘Do you want to spend the night here? You can have the bed, I’ll sleep out here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ The eagerness in her voice gave her away.

  ‘Yes.’

  Relief spread across her face.

  ‘I’m scared to go home in case they’re waiting for me.’

  ‘You’ll be safe enough,’ Markham said and hoped it was true. ‘We can take care of everything tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She leaned forwards and took hold of his wrist. A tight grip, as if she was clinging on for life.

  ***

  He found her an old, soft shirt at the back of a drawer. The faint hint of her perfume lingered in the bathroom when he washed and brushed his teeth.

  Markham settled in the chair and closed his eyes, although he knew sleep wouldn’t rush in.

  What could they do about Amanda Fox? They couldn’t just leave her to Special Branch; that was obvious. He was willing to believe she hadn’t known that her husband was working for the Russians – she wouldn’t have had them check on the Germans otherwise. But there was something about this affair that smelt wrong. Twisted. For the life of him he couldn’t make out what it was, though.