Dark Briggate Blues (24 page)

‘I’m Detective Inspector Crowther.’ He leaned forward, hands on the desk, his face just a few inches from Markham’s. ‘So we understand each other, I’m not going to piss around. I want to know everything and you’re going to tell me. Right?’

‘Yes.’ His voice was nothing more than a croak. ‘How is he?’

‘They’ll ring us as soon as they know.’

He went through it all. Crowther flinched as Markham described the way Ged’s body had been taken by the service as if the shooting had never happened. Then the Reginald building, hearing the gun again and closing his eyes as he finished.

‘Whoever it was, he’d gone by the time we arrived,’ Crowther said.

‘Carter,’ Markham told him. ‘It has to be.’

The man nodded slowly.

‘So where is he?’

‘I don’t know.

‘He shot a police officer.’ Crowther’s voice was hard. ‘He might have killed him. That means we don’t stop until we find him.’ He stared at Markham. ‘It also means that you’re out of it.’

‘Yes.’ It was going to be a manhunt now. Everyone on the force would be looking for Carter. ‘What about Sergeant Graham?’

‘Nothing.’ Crowther snorted. ‘Can’t find hide nor hair. His wife doesn’t know. We’ve talked to her twice. He’s cleaned out their bank account.’

‘Long gone.’

‘We’ll catch up with him sooner or later.’ It was a grim promise.

Markham stood.

‘When you hear …’

Crowther nodded.

‘I’ll let you know.’

***

He walked back along Regent Street. The wind had kicked up, swirling empty cigarette packets and chocolate wrappers around the pavement. He tried not to think about Baker, but the sound of the shots filled his mind, so loud they drowned out everything else.

He liked the man. Respected him. If he believed in God he’d offer a prayer for the man’s recovery. He’d survived a war and years as a beat bobby during the Depression. He deserved better than a bullet from a madman.

And Carter had to be mad. It couldn’t be anything else. Something had turned in his mind.

Markham unlocked the Anglia and sat wearily. He reached under the seat and slipped the Colt into the pocket of his overcoat. There was one thing he knew about luck. It always ran out sometime.

Three police cars were still parked at the rear of the Reginald Building. The back door hung open. As he turned the Anglia he could see torch lights playing inside. It was their problem now. He was out of it, ordered away.

But this wasn’t the end of it; he knew that. Carter might be a hunted man now, but he was still a hunter. He checked the mirror as he drove, turning into side streets and taking a careful, twisted route to the safe house.

He parked and knocked on the door. Mrs Cornwall let him in with a serious face.

‘Is it true what they’re saying on the radio?’ she asked.

‘What’s that?’ Markham said, as if he didn’t know.

‘About that poor wounded policeman.’

‘I’m afraid it is.’

She took in his appearance, the dirt on his face, the marks on his clothes, and raised an eyebrow.

‘Were you there?’

He nodded. She bustled around the kitchen, filling the kettle and emptying the teapot.

‘Have yourself a good wash; get rid of all that muck. You’ll feel better.’

He went through the motions, lathering the soap, rubbing it on his cheeks and hands, then rinsing it off. Dark water ran down the drain but he didn’t feel any cleaner.

‘Is she upstairs?’ he asked.

‘In the bath. I had the immersion on for over an hour to heat it for her.’

He knocked on the bathroom door, hearing a slosh of water before her voice came with a muffle ‘Yes?’

‘It’s Dan Markham.’

‘I’ll be ten minutes.’

He drifted away again, looking around the house. On the surface, everything seemed so ordinary, all the furniture and decorations perfectly normal. But the glass on the window was thick enough to stop a bullet, and the outside doors were far heavier than they looked, three strong locks on each one.

Nets were hung inside the windows to stop people looking in, and the curtains were all lined so every room could be in complete darkness. He tried a desk drawer in the front room. Locked. Every drawer was locked. That was interesting.

There was only one room he couldn’t enter: Mrs Cornwall’s quarters, he assumed. Finally he heard a door open and the creak of footsteps on the stairs. Joanna Hart stood in a thick dressing gown, a towel wrapped like a turban around her hair.

‘Do you have a cigarette?’ she asked.

The living room was warm, autumn sun pouring through the windows. She curled up in a chair, smiling her thanks when Mrs Cornwall brought tea and left quietly.

‘How are you?’ Markham asked.

She blew out smoke.

‘All right, I suppose. Have you found him yet?’ She gave a small shudder. He noticed that she didn’t say the name.

‘No. That policeman …’

‘The fat one, you mean?’

‘He’s been shot.’

‘God!’ She put a hand over her mouth. ‘Is he …?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ Markham said softly. ‘It happened next door to your Ford agency.’

‘Where? In the Reg?’

‘Yes. It turns out that Carter owns the building.’

She frowned, suddenly more attentive.

‘He does? When did he buy it? Before he went after Freddie?’

He nodded. ‘A few months ago.’

‘That explains a lot, doesn’t it?’ Her voice was low and thoughtful.

‘I want you to stay here until Carter’s in jail. For your own safety.’

‘You think he’d come after me again?’

‘I don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to what he’s doing.’ Or maybe there was a method that only Carter saw.

‘Can you get some decent gin?’ Joanna Hart nodded towards the door. ‘She doesn’t approve of drinking.’

‘Next time,’ he promised.

***

‘Do you mind if I use your telephone?’ he asked. Joanna had gone upstairs to dress. Mrs Cornwall was in the kitchen, rolling out pastry.

‘In the hall.’ She smiled. ‘Help yourself, love.’

The desk sergeant at Millgarth answered on the first ring.

‘Detective Inspector Crowther, please.’

‘He’s out.’

‘My name’s Markham–’

‘I know who you are.’ The tone was abrasive.

‘Is there any word on Sergeant Baker?’

‘He’s still in surgery. That’s the last we’ve heard.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Pity the bugger didn’t hit you instead,’ the sergeant said before slamming down the receiver.

***

Climbing the stairs to the flat Markham kept his right hand wrapped around the gun. He locked and bolted the door behind him and turned on the two-bar electric fire to heat up the room.

He wanted music, anything to swallow up the silence. The sweet, formal tinkle of Scarlatti sonatas came from the speaker. He changed into clean clothes, wiping dried blood from the sleeve of his suit, made tea and stood by the window to look down on the road.

After a long time, he picked up the phone and dialled the Infirmary.

The patient was out of surgery and in a stable condition, a dispassionate voice told him. Markham gave a slow sigh of relief. Baker would survive. He lit a Craven A, watching smoke curl up to the ceiling. Now they just had to find Carter.

At six o’clock it was the first item on the Home Service news. He listened, trying to relate the words to what he’d experienced. The sharp ring of two shots, the echo round the big room. Baker’s stillness. The faint hint of the pulse in the man’s wrist.

Maybe it had been like that in the war.

***

By eleven, he knew that he wouldn’t sleep. Everything was churning in his mind. He grabbed his overcoat and drove into town, parking outside Studio
20
. The streets were empty, just a few souls wandering lost and lonely.

The musicians were already building the heat. The pianist usually worked at City Varieties, but he had jazz leaping in his soul. Head down in fierce concentration, he was creating magic around ‘I Got Rhythm’. All the bass and drums could do was follow, and the alto player was sitting out, listening and nodding his head to the beat, smiling as the lines took another flight of fancy. It lasted a full ten minutes before the melody returned and the man glanced up, nodding an ending to the others, back to the theme and wrap it up.

It was one of those times that made Markham understand why he loved jazz so much. It existed in the moment. Any performance could be explosive if the mood was right. There was no score to follow, no conductor in charge, nothing exact. Each time it was as good as the imagination of the people playing it.

A trombone joined the line-up, a man from the pit orchestra at the Grand, and they felt their way through a couple of Basie and Ellington tunes. Competent enough, but the real spark had already passed. He closed his eyes, not sleeping but not quite there, roused when someone tapped his shoulder. Bob Barclay was holding out an envelope.

‘Someone pushed this through the letter box for you the other day,’ he whispered. ‘You haven’t been in since.’

Markham nodded his thanks and left the room. On the stairs he ripped open the envelope. Inside, there was a single piece of paper with two words written on them in black ink: DEAD MAN.

What was it supposed to do, he wondered. Terrify him? That morning he’d been shot at and seen the man next to him almost die from a bullet. He’d seen the terror on the face of a woman who’d been kidnapped. He’d discovered an old friend, dead. Words didn’t have any power after those things. He crumpled the note and dropped it on the floor.

He’d seen the best of the music for the night. The truth was that he couldn’t settle. His mind wouldn’t slow down. The music followed him out on to the street until the door swung shut.

***

The International Club was quiet. A few men sat talking. He scanned the room, looking for a particular face. Finally he spotted Brian Harding in a quiet corner, staring at the empty glass in front of him.

Markham ordered a whisky and carried it over, placing it on the table. Harding looked up with a start, his eyes glazed.

‘Hello, Brian.’

‘Dan Markham. You’re a sight for sore eyes.’ His voice was steady as his hand snaked out for the drink.

‘How are you, Brian?’

‘So-so. You know.’ He shrugged. ‘You were asking about Jo Hart a while ago, weren’t you?’ He frowned as he tried to remember. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘They’re all saying she’s disappeared. Did you know?’

‘Who’s saying it?’

‘People. You know.’ He thought. ‘You know,’ he repeated.

‘She’s gone away for a few days. Mourning,’ he lied.

‘Ah.’ Harding downed the whisky then looked wistfully at the glass.

‘Want another?’

‘I wouldn’t say no, old man.’

Markham brought a double and Harding smiled.

‘I’m looking for someone else who’s vanished.’

‘Oh? Who’s that?’

‘David Carter.’

Harding shook his head.

‘I don’t know him. Should I?’

‘Probably not. He’s dangerous.’

‘Can’t be more dangerous than some I met in the war.’ He opened his mouth to say more then closed it again.

‘If you hear anything about him I’d like to know.’

‘Of course, old man.’ He sipped the whisky and smiled. ‘David, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘If the name comes up I’ll be on the blower.’

Markham knew it was a lie. Another five minutes and Brian would probably have forgotten the conversation. Tomorrow morning, none of this would ever have happened in his mind. But it was impossible not to like him.

‘Thank you.’

He stood. Outside, he paused on the small porch, eyes moving around for movement or silhouettes. Nothing, but he kept his hand on the gun, out of sight in his pocket as he walked to the car.

***

It was sheer habit that took Markham to the office the next morning. Maybe someone would come in needing a divorce, pictures of a spouse caught with someone else. He could use the money.

He’d been sitting there for fifteen minutes, reading the
Yorkshire Post
, when the telephone rang. As he answered he heard the rattle of coins in the slot of a phone box.

‘Dan?’ Carla’s voice sounded half a world away.

‘Hello.’ He sat upright and she flooded back into him. Her scent, the feel of her, the texture of her hair as he stroked it. ‘How are you?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Fine,’ she answered. ‘I’ve been wanting to call for days …’ He understood. She’d been hurt to her core, everything she’d created destroyed because of him. She was hiding.

‘I’ve missed you.’

‘Have they caught him yet?’ It was the question she needed to ask.

‘No. Not yet.’ She didn’t need the details, only the answer. ‘Where are you?’

‘I came to stay with a friend in Whitby.’

‘Have you been painting?’

There was a pause as she pushed in more coins.

‘Yes.’ He waited. ‘I want to come back to Leeds, Dan.’

‘I know.’ Her life was here. But she wouldn’t return until Carter was caught. That was understood. ‘Soon,’ he promised. Soon, he hoped.

She stayed quiet. This was how it had to be for now, a conversation full of silences and hesitations. Things half-said, where the spaces spoke louder than the words.

‘How are you?’ she asked finally.

‘Fair to middling.’ He tried to smile.

‘Safe?’

He thought about the gun in his coat pocket. ‘Yes.’

‘I don’t have any more change. I’ll ring soon, all right?’

‘I have a telephone at home now,’ he began, but the pips had sounded and she was gone. He sat holding the receiver for a while then dialled Millgarth station.

‘Crowther,’ the man answered eventually. Markham didn’t expect the inspector to tell him much.

‘It’s Dan Markham.’

‘Mr Markham.’ There was no friendliness in his voice.

‘I wondered if you’d heard more about Sergeant Baker.’

‘He’s going to be fine,’ Crowther said grudgingly. ‘It’ll be a while before he’s back to work, though.’

‘But he will be back?’

‘In time.’