The New Eastgate Swing
Page 23
‘They’ll come and ask us questions.’
‘Let them.’ He turned his head. ‘We don’t know a damned thing about it. And we’ll keep saying that.’
‘And my leg?’ Markham asked. ‘They’re not stupid.’
‘They won’t be able to prove it.’ He kept his gaze steady. ‘You hurt yourself on some sheet metal. Understand?’
Markham held his stare for a moment.
‘Yes,’ he answered finally.
‘At least this way they’ll find Trevor Peel.’
‘He didn’t deserve what happened.’
‘He was in it, Dan. He made his choice in the first place, remember that. I’ve known a lot of people who didn’t deserve what happened to them.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘That’s life. Go on, get yourself in there and seen to. I’ll be out here when you’re done.’
Markham didn’t move.
‘What Harker said about Amanda Fox. Did you believe him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Baker sighed. ‘I hope he was lying. After I call 999 I’ll ring the wife and make sure she’s still there.’
***
That had been half an hour before. He kept glancing at his watch, seeing the time pass slowly. Finally a nurse appeared, cutting his trousers with a pair of scissors.
‘My my, what have you done to yourself?’ she asked as she peeled the fabric away.
‘Scrap metal,’ Markham replied. ‘I slipped and it sliced me open.’
Just like Baker said, she didn’t even question the fact, simply took a ball of cotton wool and poured iodine on to it.
‘This is going to sting but it’ll clean everything up for doctor.’ Another quick, professional smile. He half-expected her to tell him to be brave.
Another five minutes and the man bustled in, white coat flapping around his body. He looked younger than Markham, with a fresh, baby face behind a pair of NHS glasses. He poked painfully at the wound, nodding to himself and saying nothing.
‘No real damage,’ he announced finally. ‘You were lucky, Mr …’ He smiled and glanced at the chart. ‘Wilson. It missed the artery and the muscle. I’ll stitch you up. It’ll take a week or two to heal properly, but you’ll be fine. There’ll be a scar, but nothing too bad.’
‘Thank you,’ he said stupidly.
An injection to numb his leg, then he lay back, not wanting to watch the man work with his needle and thread. Another jab for tetanus.
‘I’ll give you some painkillers to last a day or two. Go to your GP in a week and have him take out the stiches and give you a follow-up on the tetanus,’ the doctor told him mechanically.
They lent him a walking stick and he hobbled out on to North Street, trousers flapping wildly where they’d been cut. Baker’s Wolseley was in the car park, the engine running.
Awkwardly, Markham climbed in.
‘Did they fix you up?’ he asked as he pulled out into traffic.
‘No real damage.’
‘You’ll be running the hundred yards in no time.’ He was heading away from town.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Alwoodley. Your Mrs Fox decided she was ready to go out for a walk this morning and never came back.’
‘So Harker was right.’
‘It looks that way. She’s probably flown the nest but …’ He shrugged. ‘My fault. Last night I told her we were close to nabbing him.’
The car rushed along King Lane, all the way to the house.
The doors were locked. A few seconds with the picks and they were inside. The place felt empty, as if the life had been sucked out of it. In the bedroom clothes were tossed on the bed, the jewellery gone. Amanda Fox had made her run.
‘What time did she leave your house?’ Markham asked. He’d hobbled slowly around the place.
‘About nine, Nancy said.’
He looked at his watch. It was after four. Plenty of time. She could be on a ferry to the Continent by now.
They drove back slowly.
‘I believed her,’ Markham said bleakly. As they searched he’d gone back over his conversations with her, to see if there was any clue he’d missed. Not a thing.
‘You’re not the only one. She had me convinced, too. And our Nancy. Played us all for fools. Had herself in the perfect place to know what we were doing and what was going on.’ He slammed his palm against the dash. ‘Bloody woman. She’d have had us dead without a care.’
‘She was smarter than us.’
‘Aye, she was,’ Baker agreed. ‘I wonder why she didn’t run before, though. It’s not as if she didn’t have a chance.’
‘Staying with you she knew what we were up to,’ Markham said. ‘How close we were getting. If we hadn’t been able to find Harker it would probably have been safe for her to stay in England. Maybe she’d have headed up a new operation or something, I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps. She was good, I’ll give her that. Took guts to hang on that long. But it doesn’t make me feel less of a bloody idiot.’ He drove in silence for a little while. ‘Do you want me to drop you at home?’
‘If you don’t mind.’ He didn’t think he’d be able to drive for a few days.
‘I wonder why Harker went back to the tunnel.’
‘Maybe she didn’t have the chance to tell him we were close. He did say he was expendable.’ Or perhaps it was for the photograph of the young woman he’d hidden in his bedding.
‘Maybe.’ Baker grunted. ‘Too late to worry now.’ He parked behind the flats. ‘They’ll be out to see us tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be at home.’
‘Just stick to the story. We know sod all about it.’
‘I will.’
The stairs took effort, using the stick and balancing himself against the wall. Finally he was inside, home. Safe. It was all over.
Markham picked up the phone and asked for a number. It took a while until he was connected. He hung on, letting it ring. Even after someone answered, they still had to go and find her.
‘Hello?’ As soon as he heard Carla’s voice he began to smile.
‘I don’t suppose you fancy Leeds this weekend, do you?’
‘Why, Dan? Has something happened?’ An edge of fear in her voice.
‘Nothing too bad. I’m a bit banged up. I don’t think I can drive up there, though. I’ve hurt my leg.’
‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘Of course.’
‘It’s nothing too bad, honestly. I’ll give you the full story when you’re here. But it’s over. Really over.’
‘Good,’ Carla said warily.
‘It is,’ he promised. ‘I’m sorry, though, you’ll have to take the bus from the station.’
She laughed.
‘How do you think I usually get around, Dan?’
They talked for a few more minutes. By the time he put down the receiver he felt pleasantly warm, the ache gone from his body for a while.
He crumpled the old army trousers and threw them in the bin. Not even fit for rags now.
An evening of Thelonious Monk on the record player. Awkward, beautifully disjointed melodies to match his thoughts. The painkillers left him floating, but they couldn’t block out the images of Trevor Peel. Or the memory of Harker.
***
‘They’ve been here.’ Baker’s voice on the telephone was gruff. ‘They’re on their way to your flat. Remember what we agreed.’
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Markham told him. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not too bad.’ His leg was stiff; it hurt when he tried to put weight on it. The stitches looked red, angry and ugly. But he could limp around with help from the stick.
‘I’ll bring your car out later.’
‘Thanks.’
***
Davidson and Molloy. Neither of them so pleasant this time, but they still couldn’t shake off being gentlemen. However much they insisted, Markham denied knowing anything. There was a tunnel under Bridge Street? He didn’t know that. No, they’d never f
ound Harker. Or Mrs Fox.
‘What happened to your leg?’ Molloy asked.
‘I cut it on some scrap metal.’
‘That must have been nasty.’ He didn’t believe a word.
‘I had some stitches. It’ll heal.’
They went at him for an hour, changing tack every few minutes. One friendly, the other aggressive. All the techniques he’d learned back in military intelligence. He’d also been taught how to counter them. He didn’t give them an inch. They had no proof and they knew it.
‘One last thing,’ Davidson said as they were preparing to leave. ‘I believe you were looking for someone called Trevor Peel.’
‘Yes, we’d arranged to meet but he never showed up. Why?’
The man stared at him. Markham returned his gaze.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘We might want to talk to you again,’ Molloy told him as they left, but he knew they’d never return. They’d had their chance and found nothing.
***
An hour later and it was Baker at his door, wheezing from the stairs and handing over the car keys.
‘Did they get anything from you?’
‘Of course not,’ Markham told him.
‘Good lad.’ He paused. ‘I’d better tell you, we’ve had another missing person case come in.’
‘From your mates on the force again?’
Baker laughed.
‘I’m just pulling your leg. There’s been nothing at all. Get yourself well and I’ll see you on Monday. We’ll hash it all out then.’
The second post arrived as the big man was leaving. Inside an envelope, a small poster advertising Georgina’s appearance at Studio 20. Written in pen, Tickets going fast! Book now!
He’d send her a good luck note. She didn’t want him there, but he wished her well. Maybe this would be the start of good things for her.
***
Markham whiled away the rest of the day reading and dozing in the chair. Like an old man, he thought. He pottered around the flat, eventually turning on the lights against the darkness outside, looking out of the window, anticipation rising every time the bus stopped.
Finally she was there on the other side of the road, glancing up and waving as she saw him. Her red coat and beret were bright against the evening gloom. He smiled. There was hope yet.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHRIS NICKSON is the author of the Richard Nottingham and Tom Harper series (Severn House). He is also the author of two historical crime fiction series for The Mystery Press: The Crooked Spire and The Saltergate Psalter, medieval mysteries set in fourteenth-century Chesterfield, and the Dan Markham series set in 1950s Leeds. Chris lives in Leeds.
Original cover photograph © iStockphoto.com
COPYRIGHT
First published in 2016
The Mystery Press is an imprint of The History Press
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© Chris Nickson, 2016
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