The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

  ‘You look like you could use that, Carl.’

  The man looked up and nodded his appreciation.

  ‘I won’t say no, Dan. It’d only go to waste with a teetotaller like you.’ He downed it in a single gulp. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’

  No one knew much about Carl’s past. He’d appeared from nowhere two years before, dressed much the same as he was now, without a surname to weight him down. But he was a listener, a man who remembered what he’d heard. Another lost soul.

  ‘I’ve been busy,’ Markham replied. ‘Does the name Mike Graham mean anything to you?’

  Carl pursed his lips. ‘Can’t say that it does.’

  ‘It might be something like Graham.’

  ‘There’s Mike Grant. But he’s in his sixties. Why?’

  ‘I’m just trying to track someone, that’s all. Can you ask around?’ He took out a half crown and his business card. ‘Let me know if you hear anything.’

  ‘I will,’ Carl promised, and he hoped he could believe the man.

  ***

  In the morning he started early, going around the cafes where men sat staring into their cups of stewed tea, trying to face the morning after a long night. Half of them still stank of booze as it came out of their pores.

  He paid for a round of toast or a chocolate wafer here and there, but no one had much to tell him. Shaking heads to match the shaking hands. Nobody seemed to know Mike Graham until he sat down with Harry Pearson in a cafe on New York Street.

  ‘Mike Grant, that’s who you mean,’ Pearson said as he stirred a third spoonful of sugar into his coffee. ‘It has to be. I’ve never heard of anyone called Mike Graham.’

  Pearson had a grizzled face split by a pale, jagged scar that extended down one cheek all the way to his jaw; the rumour was that he’d received it in a razor fight before the war. Whatever the truth, it made people keep their distance. He scuffled a living as a debt collector. Along with his big frame, his face was his fortune in the job. People paid up before the threat of a second visit.

  ‘Who is he?’ Markham lit a cigarette. The same name Carl had given him.

  ‘Did you ever hear of Pat Shea?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Before your time, maybe. He died back in ’48. Mike Grant started out working for him.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Nosying around, this and that.’ Pearson took a cigarette from Markham’s packet, lit it and blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘Then he found he had a talent for getting in and out of places. Keeps it very quiet, mind. The coppers have never had a sniff of him.’

  A burglar. That might fit with Harker.

  ‘What’s he up to now?’

  ‘I see him here and there. Mostly at the Hyde Park pub, he probably lives round there somewhere.’

  ‘Do you know how I can get hold of him?’

  Pearson shrugged and narrowed his eyes. ‘I can ask. What do you need him for?’

  ‘A couple of questions.’ He handed over another business card, two pound notes wrapped around it.

  ‘I’ll pass the word.’ It disappeared into Pearson’s pocket. ‘You’ll hear if he wants to be in touch.’

  ***

  Baker was already in the office, writing in a notebook. It was a police habit, keeping everything straight, everything documented. He looked up as Markham entered.

  ‘Did you find Graham?’

  ‘Mike Grant. That’s the name I’ve heard. A burglar.’

  Baker shook his head.

  ‘They’re pulling your leg. I’d have heard the name.’

  ‘The word is that the police don’t know about him. What about Teddy Post?’

  The big man leaned back in his chair and stretched.

  ‘Didn’t take long. He’s been inside for the last six months. Got caught breaking into a house.’

  ‘Another burglar?’

  ‘Yes. Nothing to do with Harker, though. Not unless he’s tunnelling out to help him. He’s not due for release until 1959.’

  Interesting, Markham thought. A pair of burglars. That didn’t sound like coincidence. The telephone rang. Without thinking, he picked up the receiver.

  ‘Mr Markham,’ a terrified voice said, ‘it’s Trevor Peel. You’ve got to help me.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘What is it?’ Markham asked urgently.

  ‘That man. He came back this morning.’

  ‘Harker?’ He saw Baker’s head jerk up.

  ‘Yes. He wants me to get him into one of those special rooms again. Steal the key for him.’ Peel was whispering the words. Straining, Markham could hear a dull babble of conversation in the background and the tinny sound of a radio. ‘If I don’t, he said he’d tell them what I’ve done.’

  ‘Where did he find you?’

  ‘Outside the house. I was just getting on the bike. What can I do, Mr Markham?’

  He was trying to think quickly.

  ‘Tell the management you’re poorly and you need to go home. Meet me in an hour.’

  ‘Where?’ Trevor sounded desperate.

  ‘The cafe at the market.’

  ‘OK.’ He rang off quickly.

  ‘Harker’s pressing Peel,’ Markham told Baker. ‘He’s scared.’

  ‘It must be something important if he’s still hanging around. I was sure he’d have skipped the country by now.’

  ‘I’ll get Trevor to leave Leeds for a while. That should keep him safe.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  Markham shook his head.

  ‘No. He knows me.’

  ‘All right.’ He paused. ‘I still don’t believe you about that Grant bloke. The coppers would be on to him.’

  ‘I only know what I was told.’ He shrugged. ‘If we’re lucky he might ring.’

  He did, a little later, as Markham was preparing to leave.

  ‘You’ve been looking for me.’ No hello, no preamble. Just his name and straight into it.

  ‘Yes, Mr Grant, I have.’ He settled back in his chair, keeping an eye on his watch. He didn’t want to be late to the cafe; Peel was frightened enough as it was. ‘What do you know about Simon Harker?’

  There was the slightest flicker of hesitation before Grant asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m looking for him.’

  ‘What for?’ Full of suspicion.

  ‘Do you know what he does?’

  ‘Don’t care.’ An abrupt, simple answer.

  ‘I need to get in touch with him,’ Markham said.

  ‘What’s in it for me?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Maybe some protection. He’s a Russian spy.’

  ‘Is that right?’ He sounded amused. ‘No one can connect me to him.’

  ‘Yet. If MI5 start looking …’ He let the idea hang.

  ‘I’ll have a think.’

  ‘Make it quick. There’s not too much time.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ***

  The cafe was full of people eating dinner. The clatter of knives and forks and the smell of gravy. Markham waited until a table came free and sat down, ordering a lamb casserole and tea.

  Exactly an hour since Peel had called. No sign of him yet. He ate, glancing around, looking at his watch every few seconds. Trevor still hadn’t arrived when he’d finished the food. He lit a cigarette, eking out the moments while he drank the tea. Twenty minutes past and he still hadn’t shown.

  Something had happened. Could Peel have run? Had Harker caught up with him first?

  Finally he had to admit it. Trevor wasn’t going to show. Out on Vicar Lane he stared around, hoping against hope that the lad was simply late. But there was no familiar face pushing through the crowd on the pavement.

  Markham trudged back to the office. Baker had gone somewhere. Alone, he sat and worried. Should he wait and hope that Trevor rang or arrived? Go to the lad’s house and see if his mother knew anything?

  He’d give it a few more minutes. He chain-smoked through the time. Finally he stubbed o
ut his fourth cigarette, picked up his hat and locked the door behind him. Driving out along Kirkstall Road he kept an eye on the mirror for any vehicle following him, holding his breath hopefully as a motorbike came up quickly. But it zipped past and vanished into the distance. Not Trevor.

  The lad’s mother knew nothing. Surprise filled her face when Markham asked if she’d heard from him.

  ‘Not since he left this morning, luv,’ she answered. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I was going to meet him at dinnertime and he never came.’

  ‘Wasn’t he at work?’ She frowned, wrapping a tea towel around her hand.

  ‘He wasn’t feeling too well when he rang me.’ It was a white lie but better than the truth.

  ‘Why didn’t he just come home if he was poorly?’ The worry was growing in her voice.

  ‘There was something he needed to tell me, he said.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She stared at him. ‘You’d better not be lying to me.’

  ‘Can you ask him to ring me when he comes back?’

  ‘After I’ve had a word with him myself.’ Mrs Peel straightened her back. ‘Whatever’s going on, I want to get to the bottom of it.’

  No you don’t, Markham thought, but he kept his mouth closed.

  ***

  Back to the office, stirring at the slightest noise on the stairs and willing the phone to ring.

  Nothing.

  Eventually Baker returned.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘He didn’t turn up.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too good.’

  ‘I went to his house, his mother doesn’t know anything. Where were you, anyway?’

  ‘This and that. I followed you down to the market and back.’

  Markham was startled.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In case Harker was setting a trap,’ Baker said flatly.

  ‘Any sign?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird. I did some checking on that Mike Grant afterwards. You’re right; the police don’t know him at all.’ He grinned. ‘They’ll be keeping an eye on him now, though.’

  ‘Not until I’ve heard from him, I hope.’

  ‘If he sets a foot wrong they’ll be all over him. You did a good service there.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better get going. We’re due at the brother-in-law’s tonight.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘It’s their anniversary.’

  ***

  By five there was still no word from Peel. And nothing they could do. Markham had no idea where to start looking. With a sigh he put on his overcoat and hat. As he took the office keys from his pocket the telephone bell shrilled and he lunged for it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I talked to our mutual friend.’ It was Grant, curt and to the point.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he’ll see you when he’s good and ready.’ Markham felt a chill move down his spine.

  ‘Anything else?’

  There was the sound of a match being struck and someone inhaling.

  ‘He said you should have a look off the Otley Road. Not far from the crematorium. There’s a radio mast. Take a hunt around.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What–’

  But Grant had gone.

  By the War Room bunker. That had to mean something. It wasn’t a spot chosen at random.

  He tried ringing Baker: no one answered.

  Markham saw his reflection in the window. Outside it was pitch dark. If he went there alone he’d just be blundering around, not even knowing what he was looking for. He’d have to wait until tomorrow. They’d go out there then. In the light.

  And Trevor? Maybe he’d go home tonight and save his mother all that pain, he thought. But inside Markham knew that wasn’t about to happen.

  ***

  By nine he knew he wasn’t going to settle easily. There was only one answer: Studio 20. But it was still quiet there, someone doodling on the piano as a bassist attempted to play along.

  Bob Barclay sat in his booth, adding up columns of figures as he worked on the books.

  ‘If you’re hoping for magic you’re probably out of luck tonight, Dan,’ he said wryly. ‘I’ll tell you what, though, we’ve sold quite a few tickets for Georgina’s show. It might be a winner.’

  ‘I hope it is. She deserves it.’

  ‘Shame you two are on the outs. That lass you were with the other night, she looked vaguely familiar.’

  ‘An old friend.’

  Barclay nodded. He wasn’t likely to ask more.

  Ten o’clock passed and the music didn’t improve. Probably some others would drift in later but he was too restless to stay. As he climbed the stairs to the cold of New Briggate, Markham wrapped his hand around the pistol in his overcoat pocket.

  But no one was waiting to take him by surprise. The drive home was uneventful, no one around on the November streets. He was still cautious as he parked. The bruises might have faded but the memory was strong.

  In the flat he rang Baker again. Still no one there. He put on a Nat King Cole album. It was light, a confection that was more pop music than jazz. But the voice was like silk, and when the man decided to play, his piano work had a delicate, easy beauty.

  By eleven he’d had enough. The locks were secure on the door and he was ready for bed. Yet Trevor Peel kept gnawing at his mind, the guilt chewing at him.

  What he needed was sleep, he thought. He stirred from the chair and the telephone bell filled the silence.

  ‘Hello?’ he answered tentatively, feeling his heart beating faster as he heard the coins drop in the slot.

  ‘I’m not ringing too late, am I, Dan?’ It was Carla, and her voice calmed his fears.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I just wanted to hear your voice, that’s all,’ she said softly. ‘Rather silly, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m glad you did.’ He lit a cigarette, ready to settle into the conversation.

  ‘It’s only quick, I don’t have much change. But I miss you.’

  He looked around, imagining he could see her shadow disappearing into the bedroom.

  ‘You’ll be living down here soon.’

  ‘I know … why don’t you come up this weekend?’

  ‘I’d enjoy that. It all depends on if this case is done, though.’

  ‘Of course,’ Carla answered quickly. ‘If you can, though … bugger, the pips are going.’

  ‘If I can, I will,’ he promised before the empty dial tone took over.

  ***

  Baker drove, guiding the Wolseley out through Headingley while Markham stared out of the window.

  ‘Out by the radio mast, he said?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The War Room’s been empty for a year or two now. They’ll probably knock it down soon.’

  ‘It could be a wild goose chase.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He yawned. ‘I didn’t get home while almost one last night. Bloody Terry likes nattering on and on.’

  ‘What did you do with Amanda?’

  ‘As far as I know she never even came out of the spare room.’

  ‘Is she any calmer?’

  ‘Just the same as when you saw her. The wife’s keeping a close eye on her.’ He shrugged inside his mackintosh. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s what she needs.’

  ‘While Harker’s around, at least.’

  Beyond Leeds Modern School and the ring road he slowed, searching for the spot, and turned on to a small paved road.

  ‘It’s back in here,’ Baker said. ‘Do you have the gun?’

  Markham pulled it from his pocket.

  ‘Right here.’

  The War Room was ugly concrete, hidden from the road by a stand of trees and surrounded by a wire fence. They walked around until they discovered a place where it had been cut. Off in the distance, tyres hummed softly along Otley Road. Back here, though, everything was quiet, only the cawing of crows as they moved from branch to branch or swooped down on something in the nearby field.

  Thick
steel doors, heavy air vents set deep in the walls. If the Russians had dropped the atomic bomb, all of Yorkshire would have been run from here, he thought. From this tiny place, no more than thirty feet by thirty. Christ.

  And now there was the threat of nuclear war always hanging like a sword. Somewhere another, better place had been built to withstand things and try to keep things functioning. Why? What would even be left?

  ‘Over here,’ Baker called.

  Out of sight, in a scrubby patch of gorse that had grown up behind the building. A motorbike, on its side, abandoned, half-hidden. Petrol had leaked from the tank and into the dirt.

  ‘Doesn’t your friend Peel ride a bike?’

  ‘Yes.’ He didn’t know what make, but this was a Norton, the familiar line of the name painted on the fuel tank. It could have been Trevor’s; he’d have come along Otley Road on his way home from Cokely’s. But it definitely wasn’t the same machine they’d seen outside Harker’s house; that had been an old BSA M20 motorcycle. ‘This must be what Harker wanted us to find. He has Trevor.’

  ‘Or he could have just nicked a bike somewhere and be pulling a fast one on us.’

  ‘You don’t believe that any more than I do,’ Markham told him. ‘Check the number plate with your police mates.’

  ‘I will once we’re back in town.’ Baker eyed the building. ‘We should have a look inside.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If he’s really taken Peel, this would be a good place to keep him. Safe enough.’

  ‘Can you get in?’ Markham asked doubtfully. ‘It looks secure.’

  ‘I’ll try. Can you get the torches from the car?’

  By the time he returned, the thick metal door was a few inches open. Markham flicked on the beam and entered.

  It was a dark, claustrophobic world of cramped rooms. Inside, everything had been stripped, just leaving a shell. Here and there the concrete had begun to crumble, leaving chips and powder on the floor. The air was old and thick, the stench of years gathered inside.

  They played the lights around, moving slowly from doorway to doorway. Finally, in a small space by the far wall they saw a camp bed, a blanket tossed on the top. Baker crouched and began to search around it as Markham explored more of the place.

  There was nothing else in there. Empty of everything. He made his way back to Baker, following the flashes of light through the doorways.