The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

  ‘True enough. But–’

  ‘Let me finish. It’s reasonable to assume one or both the other dead Germans were spying, too.’

  ‘We didn’t find any evidence in their rooms,’ Baker objected.

  ‘We weren’t really looking, remember? And that first death looked like suicide. Reasonable enough at the time.’ He saw the older man nod. ‘Even the second one, that car crash, was plausible.’

  ‘What are you driving at?’

  ‘What if someone had turned these spies, got them working for our side and sending false information back to the Reds?’ Markham said. ‘They found out and started to eliminate the double agents.’

  When he was in Military Intelligence he’d done it himself with a Russian agent, managed to have him working for both sides. All very convoluted, but spying was like that. Yes, it was possible.

  ‘Who turned them, though?’ Baker asked. ‘It has to be someone local to keep an eye on them.’

  ‘I’d put my money on Tim Hill, that chap from Cokely’s. He’s in the perfect place.’

  ‘That would all fit,’ Baker admitted eventually. ‘It even makes sense.’

  ‘Did Harker ask Amanda about Hill?’

  ‘Yes. She’d talked to Hill a few times, that’s it. Doesn’t really know him.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now, anyway,’ Markham said. ‘We got her back. It’s over, we won.’

  ‘The question is, does Harker believe we’ve won, too?’

  Markham leaned back and closed his eyes.

  ‘We need to find him, don’t we?’

  ‘It looks that way.’ Baker sighed.

  ‘Did Amanda give you any hints?’

  ‘No. But we can talk to her again. Why don’t you come over for your tea? We can chat after.’

  ‘All right.’ He’d never been to Baker’s house, never met his wife. That could be interesting.

  ‘We eat at quarter to six on the dot. Just get yourself there by then or our Nancy won’t be happy.’ He rose from his seat. ‘I’m going out to talk to a few people. You never know what I’ll stir up.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Markham warned.

  ‘You too, Dan,’ Baker said seriously. ‘I’m not the one who was sent the bullet. Remember that.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As Markham left the office he could feel the weight of the pistol in his pocket. Baker’s words were ringing in his head. He’d spent half an hour sitting there, going through everything, trying to convince himself that Harker had gone, that the bullet was just a vicious farewell.

  But he hadn’t succeeded.

  The man was out there, biding his time. Watching. Waiting.

  The Riley purred sweetly to life. Markham drove out past the university, then through Headingley and along the Otley Road. There it was, the radio mast of the War Room, poking above the bare treetops. Real, and another reminder of how powerless they really were. All someone had to do was press a button and it would be over. Cold comfort on a winter’s day.

  Ilkley felt frigid, the wind off the Pennines bitter against his skin. It was a postcard village, close enough to Leeds for the rich to commute, yet distant enough to feel removed. The shops and restaurants all looked like money.

  He hadn’t been out here in three years, but he’d rung the man he wanted to see.

  Ted Smith had aged since his last visit. The lines were deeper on his face, his shoulders more stooped and his old clothes hung loose on his body now. But there was still plenty of vitality in his eyes and his voice was strong.

  ‘It was a pleasant surprise to hear from you, Dan,’ he said with a smile. ‘Come on in, it’s perishing out there.’

  The kitchen was warm enough to take off his coat as Smith fussed around the cooker, making a pot of tea. The man had made a fortune with aviation inventions. They’d met when Smith hired him to find evidence of his wife’s adultery. Then, later, he’d been helpful in a case Markham worked on. He felt guilty about not keeping in touch. But Smith had good contacts, and he needed help.

  A few minutes of small talk and the man stared at him.

  ‘You’re not here for chit-chat, and you’re not here for your health. So you must want something.’ But there was no rancour in his voice.

  Markham grinned.

  ‘I’m in a bit of a spot. Do you know anyone in MI5 or the War Office?’

  Smith frowned as he thought. The hands cupping his mug were covered in dark liver spots.

  ‘Not so many these days. The ones I knew are mostly pensioned off or dead. I can ask around.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘But,’ he said with a smile, ‘there’s a price. You’ve got to tell me what’s going on.’

  Cut to the nub, it made a short tale.

  ‘Blimey, Dan,’ Smith said when he’d finished, ‘you get yourself in some things, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not by choice.’ He winced at the idea.

  ‘Life likes its surprises.’ Smith pursed his lips. ‘Take me. I’m thinking of getting wed again.’

  ‘Who’s the lucky woman?’ It was the only response he could give. Smith was well into his seventies. But maybe you were never too old for love.

  ‘A widow in the next street. She moved here last year. From Watford, but you can’t have everything.’

  ‘I wish you luck.’

  ‘I’ve not popped the question yet. Holding my horses a bit, but …’

  He looked happy. Content. Ted Smith was a wealthy man, far more than his house and wardrobe showed. But he’d earned every penny.

  They talked for a while, Smith pouring another cup of tea and finding some digestive biscuits. Finally Markham stood.

  ‘I need to get going, Ted.’

  ‘I’ll have someone ring you this afternoon. How about that?’

  ‘Perfect. Thank you.’ If he could make that promise, Smith’s name still made people in London drop everything at his request. ‘And invite me to the wedding.’

  ‘If it happens. She might say no.’ He laughed. ‘Or maybe not.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Would you be escorting someone?’

  ‘Yes,’ Markham answered with pride.

  ‘Next time you’ll have to tell me all about her.’

  ‘I will,’ he promised.

  ***

  On the way back to Leeds he stopped at the Black Bull in Otley for a sandwich. As he ate he read a sign behind the bar: during the Civil War, Cromwell’s troops had drunk the pub dry before the Battle of Marston Moor.

  Three hundred years ago, and still fresh in the memory. An attraction.

  He cleaned the office, emptying the bins, wiping down the desks and the filing cabinets. Make work, his mother used to say. Something to keep busy while he waited for the telephone to ring.

  Finally, not long after half past three, the sound of the bell filled the office, jarring him out of a doze.

  ‘Is this Mr Markham?’ The clipped, condescending tones of Received Pronunciation.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name’s Turnbull. I believe you want to talk to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered slowly, ‘I do.’ He tried to imagine the man in his office on Curzon Street in London. He’d had to report there once while he was still in uniform. A maze of corridors and closed doors, and barely a working-class accent to be heard. ‘Does the name Simon Harker mean anything to you?’

  ‘Should it?’ Turnbull sounded amused.

  ‘How about Tim Hill?’

  ‘I assume you have a reason for your questions, Mr Markham.’

  ‘You’ve had enough time to have someone research me, and a couple of telephone calls will have told you what I’ve been working on and that a chap of yours named Warner has already asked me some questions. So yes, I have a reason.’

  ‘You were a chum of Ged Jones, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was.’ Ged, shot to death in this chair, his body quietly disappeared by the service. The past that could never quite lose its grip. ‘And I saw Mark Fox before he defected. But I’m su
re you know that already. I explained it all to your man.’

  ‘There’s a very limited amount I can tell you,’ Turnbull said after a long pause. ‘Most of it requires clearance you and your partner will never have.’

  Was that supposed to wound, he wondered?

  ‘Then tell me what you can.’

  ‘You mentioned a man called Hill. Who do you think he is?’

  Markham took a chance and hoped he was right.

  ‘One of yours.’

  ‘I can’t comment on that.’ Fine, he thought; it was as good as an admission.

  ‘Simon Harker.’

  ‘That’s not his real name. But I’m sure you’ve realised that. Let me ask, have you ever been to Leipzig, Mr Markham?’

  So he was originally from East Germany.

  ‘Is he still in the country?’

  He had the sense of a hand covering the receiver, cutting off all the background sounds. A few seconds later Turnbull was back.

  ‘We have no record of him leaving.’

  ‘Are you looking for him?’ The man had killed three people. A foreign assassin on the loose in England. They had to be searching.

  ‘Please, Mr Markham,’ Turnbull said patiently, ‘do you think I’d be willing to tell you that? Now, was there anything else?’

  ‘Amanda Fox.’

  ‘What about her?’ He sounded unruffled.

  ‘Is she one of yours?’

  ‘If she were, I couldn’t tell you. But I can categorically say she’s never worked for Her Majesty’s government.’

  ‘Or any other government?’

  ‘Indeed. And now I’ve said all I’m going to say. Goodbye, Mr Markham.’

  The line went dead.

  Had it been worth pulling in a favour to learn that? Yes. At least now he knew exactly where he stood.

  ***

  Baker’s house was a 1930s semi on a quiet street that lay between Burley, Kirkstall, and Headingley. The Wolseley was parked in the drive, next to a neat square of lawn surrounded by the bare branches of rose bushes.

  Markham had taken care that no one followed him, but as he knocked on the door he looked around anyway. Not a soul in sight, just the fleeting glimpse of a nosy neighbour behind the net curtains of a box room.

  Baker nodded as he stood aside and stared at the street for a moment. His hand was wrapped around a pint glass, still wearing a tie, the cardigan fully buttoned.

  ‘Come on in, lad.’ He checked his watch. ‘Five minutes to spare. You timed it well.’

  Nancy Baker was a short woman, as round as her husband, greeting him with a smile as she bustled between the kitchen and the table in the lounge.

  ‘Where’s Amanda?’ Markham asked.

  ‘Still upstairs.’ Baker nodded at the ceiling. ‘I’ll give her a shout when it’s ready.’

  ‘Did you find anything today?’

  They were standing by the window, gazing out at the back garden. Neat borders around a lawn, leading down to an old wartime Anderson shelter.

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t expect much, but it was worth a shot. How about you?’

  ‘I had a chat with someone from MI5.’

  He enjoyed the surprise on Baker’s face.

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  But before he could answer, Nancy appeared and placed a steaming dish of cottage pie on the table.

  ‘Get yourselves sat down,’ she told them, and it was an order, not a request.

  He studied Amanda Fox as she entered. The sleekness had gone from her appearance. Her hair was still glossy, her makeup still careful and understated, but she seemed to have shrunk into herself a little, as if she didn’t want to be noticed.

  She greeted him with a small, shy smile then settled down to her food, eyes down and looking at the plate as she ate.

  ‘How are you?’ Markham asked. Amanda glanced at him then looked away.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Her voice was soft, without the confidence it had held when they first met.

  The food was filling, enough left for a small second helping. Nancy Baker cleared away the dishes, then came back with jam roly-poly and a beaker of custard.

  He hadn’t eaten like this since his mother died; there never seemed to be a point in cooking big dishes for himself. It brought back memories, some good, a few bad.

  ‘That was lovely,’ he said as he pushed the empty dish away. And it was true. It had satisfied something within him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll bring in a pot of tea and leave you to talk.’ She stood and smoothed down the front of her apron.

  ‘That was grand, luv,’ Baker said.

  ‘All you care about is having your belly full,’ Nancy chided him, but she was smiling; there was love behind her words.

  ***

  ‘You’re safe here,’ Markham told Amanda. They were still sitting around the table. The cloth had gone. The smell of waxed wood filled the air. He offered her a cigarette, watching as she bent to the flame of the lighter.

  ‘I’m scared to go home,’ Amanda said in a small voice.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Baker assured her. ‘Not until it’s over.’

  She looked at his face. ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Soon,’ Markham said. ‘Soon. We know you weren’t involved in anything.’ He saw Baker shoot him a glance. ‘And Harker will be out of the way.’

  ‘How?’ She turned to him.

  ‘He’ll have to run very soon. He doesn’t have any choice.’

  ‘But he’s still here, isn’t he?’ She couldn’t hide her fear.

  ‘Probably. For now, anyway,’ he admitted. After a short pause, he continued, ‘I need to know, when he was questioning you, what names did he ask you about?’

  ‘Too many. I didn’t know them.’

  ‘Tim Hill?’

  ‘Yes.’ She raised her head. ‘We worked with him at Cokely’s.’

  ‘John Crews?

  Amanda nodded. ‘He’s with Farren’s in Hunslet. We worked with him, too.’

  ‘Who else?’ Markham asked. He needed to press her, but gently. ‘Who do you remember?’

  ‘Mike someone,’ she answered after a little thought.

  ‘What was his surname?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ There was an edge of panic in her voice. ‘Graham, something like that. And there was Teddy Post. I remember that, his name just seemed so odd.’ She stared at him hopefully. ‘Does that help?’

  ‘Yes,’ he told her. ‘It does.’

  ‘I really didn’t know what Mark was doing … for the other side. Do you believe that?’

  ‘I do.’ He’d seen her reaction after she’d received her husband’s letter detailing the truth.

  ‘Thank you. Harker, or whatever his name is, he didn’t. He didn’t think it was possible.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re telling the truth.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She took a breath. ‘I don’t have anything else to tell you. All I want to do is forget it. I’m sorry.’ She stood quickly. ‘Excuse me.’

  When she’d gone, Markham looked at Baker and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Has she been like that since you brought her here?’

  ‘More or less. She’s a bag of nerves. It’s going to take a while for that to go. And as long as Harker’s still on the loose …’

  ‘He is. And MI5 won’t say if they have someone looking for him.’

  ‘They must have,’ Baker snorted.

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘How did you end up getting anything from one of their muckety-mucks, anyway?’

  ‘With the help of a friend.’

  ‘What else did they say?’

  He recounted the conversation.

  ‘So you’re reading a lot into a bunch of non-committal answers?’ Baker asked doubtfully.

  ‘Because there was a lot in them.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘What about those names? Has she mentioned them before?’

  ‘Not to me. Mike Graham doesn’t mean owt
, but I’ve come across Teddy Post.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I can see his face in my mind, but nothing more than that.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll find out in the morning. Do you want to ask around about Graham?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Before he left, Markham ducked into the kitchen to thank Nancy Baker for the meal. The room was spotless, the back burner glistening with black lead, the lino mopped. She was standing and reading a copy of Woman’s Own while Billy Cotton’s dance band played quietly on the wireless.

  ‘I’m glad you could finally come,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ve been after Stephen to invite you. He’s always talking about you.’

  ‘Don’t believe half of it.’ He laughed.

  ‘Oh no. He sings your praises. Now you’ve been here you’d better not be a stranger in future.’

  Baker singing his praises, Markham wondered as he unlocked the car? The world was becoming a strange place.

  ***

  Mike Graham.

  He could start looking tomorrow or begin tonight. Why put it off?

  It was a little after eleven when he parked on Chapeltown Road. He’d pottered at home, reading a little, listening to music. There was no sense going to the Tempest Club before the pubs shut; no one would be there.

  This early in the week it was quiet. The real business came on the weekend, when people wanted to wring every drop of pleasure from the hours. There was no sign outside the place. If you didn’t know about it, you weren’t welcome.

  It was in the cellar of a house, the bar made of plywood, a few tables and chairs around, low-wattage bulbs casting shadows. There was a scattering of drinkers, one or two familiar faces.

  Markham thought about some of the people he’d known in clubs like this. Brian, who drank to forget all he’d seen in the war. He’d finally found release twelve months ago, throwing himself out of a third-storey window while going through the DTs. Others who’d faded away to nothingness.

  There was precious little joy in these shebeens, just a constant sense of desperation, of men holding on to life with their fingertips. He ordered a Scotch then carried it over to a table where a man sat, eyes half-closed. He wore an old army greatcoat, the Royal Signals insignia still on the sleeves. But there was nothing military about the rest of him. Hair long and greasy, hanging on his collar, face in need of a shave. A packet of tobacco and papers on the table in front of him. And an empty glass.